AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Hey, Mom. I just wanted to check in.”
“How’s your writing coming along?”
“Great,” I admit. I haven’t written so much or so quickly in years. Not even during my MFA program. I’ve been too busy with work to throw myself into my writing like this since summer breaks from school. I forgot how much I loved writing, convincing myself somewhere along the line that my dream job was becoming a professor to teach other people how to write because that career at least offered financial stability and paid days off.
But what this retreat has taught me is that my true passion lies in books. Devouring them and creating them. While I do still enjoy teaching and I love seeing the progress my students make, nothing else fills me with this level of passion.
Except maybe Saint de Haas. The reason I’m here in the first place. The reason I’m having this self-revelation.
Not that I will ever, ever admit that to him.
“I’m so glad, sweetheart,” Mom enthuses. “You needed to take some time for yourself. That Saint certainly seems to know what’s best for you.”
Panic pricks up my neck. “What does this have to do with Saint?” I told her I came on this writing retreat alone.
“Saint let me know he suggested the retreat. He wanted to make sure I knew you were staying somewhere safe. These gifts he’s been sending me are so thoughtful!”
“What gifts?”
“Oh, they’re so sweet! You know those chocolate chip blossoms we always make for your birthday? He sent me a batch of those. Then he sent me those dark chocolates and a bouquet of yellow carnations that you get me every year for Mother’s Day. And he sent me this beautiful scarf! You know how I love scarves. I’ll have to send you a picture.”
“No, Mom?—”
But she’s already removed the phone from her ear, fumbling with the various buttons and options on her screen to figure out how to take a photo and send it to me. When she bought her phone, I dedicated at least three hours to teaching her how to use it before giving up.
I check the battery percentage on mine. Five percent. “Mom, my phone’s about to die?—”
“There! I sent it,” she shouts, victorious.
She actually managed to take a photo—albeit, a blurry one—of a white scarf dangling around the collar of her coat. It’s not a scarf I would wear, but it’s exactly to her taste.
Saint sent her all these gifts to remind her of me in my absence. Small, thoughtful gifts to make my mother happy. And he never breathed a word about them to me.
No matter how many times I try to convince myself that I should hate this man, that I should be repulsed by his obsessive and possessive behaviors, repulsed by the unhinged violence he can unleash on a whim, he makes it impossible.
In all their years of marriage, my father never once got my mother a single gift outside of the obligatory birthdays and holidays, seldom celebrating the occasion with more than a bland card that contained nothing personal written on the inside other than his name.
Saint has set a standard that no other man can possibly reach. A standard I never would’ve thought possible until I met him.
“Does this mean you and Saint are finally a couple?” my mother asks. I don’t have to see her to know she’s grinning with her fingers crossed.
“We’re not a couple,” I blurt. “But . . . I don’t know. Maybe . . . we could be. Someday.”
The words are more difficult to extract from my mouth than a tooth. Saint and I are certainly acting like a couple on this retreat. Spending every day together, writing side-by-side, and fucking morning, noon, and night. As much as I hate to admit it to myself, I’m falling for him.
And it’s terrifying. Not because he’s a stalker or a serial killer, but because I know if I let down the walls guarding my heart, he could take it.
“You have no idea how happy that makes me, honey. Honestly, Saint seems to treat you better than your father ever treated me, even in our good days.”
Their good days. It’s weird to think that my mother and father ever had good days. What if these are simply my and Saint’s good days? Maybe this is nothing more than a honeymoon phase. Him on his best behavior, doing everything he can to woo me, and once I let him in, once I’m in too deep, he’ll show his true colors. His feelings for me will diminish and he’ll no longer shower me with lavish gifts and gestures because he’s not chasing me anymore. He’ll get bored of me and find another woman to chase. Just like my father always did. He didn’t chase women—he chased a prize. And once he got his hands on it, he left it on his trophy shelf with all the others to collect dust, forgotten.
I won’t be some forgotten, neglected trophy.
“Did my father RSVP to the wedding?”
Mom sighs. “Yes, Julia let me know he’d be there. But don’t worry about me. I’ll have no problem avoiding your father with two hundred guests in attendance.”
My phone’s battery drops to one percent.
