in our hands

in our hands LARISSA C. MOYER contents disclaimer Prologue 1. evelyn 2. otis 3. evelyn 4. otis 5. evelyn 6. otis 7. evelyn 8. otis 9. otis 10. evelyn 11. otis 12. evelyn 13. evelyn 14. otis 15. evelyn 16. otis 17. evelyn 18. otis 19. evelyn 20. otis 21. evelyn 22. otis 23. evelyn 24. otis 25. evelyn 26. otis 27. evelyn 28. otis 29. evelyn 30. otis 31. evelyn 32. otis 33. evelyn 34. otis 35. evelyn 36. otis 37. evelyn 38. otis 39. evelyn 40. otis 41. evelyn 42. otis 43. evelyn 44. otis 45. evelyn 46. otis 47. evelyn 48. otis 49. evelyn 50. otis 51. evelyn 52. otis 53. evelyn 54. otis 55. evelyn Epilogue Author’s note Acknowledgments In Our Hands Copyright © 2023 by Larissa C. Moyer All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. All references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are all products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. ISBN: 978-1-6653-0635-5 – Paperback eISBN: 978-1-6653-0636-2 – eBook These ISBNs are the property of BookLogix for the express purpose of sales and distribution of this title. The content of this book is the property of the copyright holder only. BookLogix does not hold any ownership of the content of this book and is not liable in any way for the materials contained within. The views and opinions expressed in this book are the property of the Author/Copyright holder, and do not necessarily reflect those of BookLogix. Cover Designer: okaycreations First printing edition 2023 disclaimer Otis is a Deaf character, but the rest of the cast are hearing. The dialogue in his scenes uses American Sign Language but it is not a direct translation of the language, as it has no written form because it is a visual language. Sometimes the signing is indicated in the dialogue and sometimes it is not. But for an immersive reading experience, please assume that the characters are signing while conversing with Otis, unless otherwise indicated. And while I have you: go learn ASL and thank me later! When we love, we strive to become better than we are. When we strive to be better than we are, everything around us becomes better too. —Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist prologue EVELYN My feet carry me right past him and I don’t look back. It’s like I’m in a trance. No, not a trance; it’s like I’m possessed by a ghost who’s in so much pain they wish they were more dead. Buried deeper underground, breathing less than no air, like a person who never existed at fucking all. Somehow, I end up on the Southbound L train. Reality starts to return to me slowly as I look around at all the people on the train and I’m in such a hopeless place that I truly wish I was any one of them. That woman probably hasn’t been slowly dying inside for the last three months. That man probably has a best friend; one who didn’t lie and betray him. I see a couple sitting next to each other. They each have an earbud in one of their ears and the girl’s chin is resting peacefully on the guy’s shoulder as they watch the city from above out the window. Ugh, we get it. You’re in love. They’re probably on their way to dinner or a museum or maybe just back to one of their apartments for a cozy night of togetherness. Must be fucking nice. My mind has been cycling through its own stages of grief since this morning when my already fragile world got knocked out of orbit completely. Agony. Denial. Numb. Repeat. I’m lingering between numb and agony as I reach the Granville stop. I step off the train even though this isn’t where I live because I can’t keep watching the high and mighty train people. Standing there on the platform like a lost toddler. Someone tell me what to do, someone tell me where to go. But I’m not a toddler. I’m a twenty-three-year-old college graduate and no one is going to help me. I walk down the steps and out onto the busy Chicago sidewalk and wander aimlessly around Edgewater. I walk toward the lake, passing by an Italian restaurant. As the door opens, the divine smells of oregano and garlic waft into the air. If I felt like I could eat anything, I’d go in. The building is kind of cool. It looks old, but it’s made with black brick and there’s ivy twining up the wall, and the smells lead me to believe it’s the real deal, full of old family recipes. But I trudge on toward Lake Shore Drive, hoping Lake Michigan will give me some peace. She doesn’t. The vast sight of the lake feels taunting; telling me that this torment is never ending. It’s like the opposite of Mufasa telling Simba that “Everything the light touches will be yours” in The Lion King. Lake Michigan is telling me, “Your pain has no end in sight.” We used to be friends, Lake Michigan. I wander a few blocks down and away from the water when I suddenly realize I know where I am. I see the old dive bar I used to go to with . . . Fuck. Him. I step through the door and the familiar smell hits me like a concrete wall. This place always smells like a toilet that was rolled around in a litter box. Denial takes over. I avert my eyes from the booth I used to sit at with him and slump