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“I got a job,” I say carefully. “And they offered me a room on the premises.”
His nose wrinkles slightly in confusion. “What sort of job?”
“I’m an assistant. In the hospitality field.”
I stab at my salad with my fork. I know that’s not going to cut it with Ian, and sure enough, he remains silent, waiting for me to go on.
“You have to promise not to judge me,” I say. “I needed to do this.”
He nods, but I don’t miss the lines of concern around his eyes. I can only imagine what he thinks I’ve been up to.
“I’m working at Huntington Manor,” I say softly. “That’s what they’re calling my family’s estate now.”
I look down at my plate, waiting for his response, but I’m met only with silence. When I dare to look up again, I can see he’s still trying to process what I’ve told him.
“They’re opening it to the public soon, aren’t they?” he says finally.
I nod. “In less than a month.”
“And you’re… what? Giving tours? Telling tourists about your childhood there?” His face darkens in confusion. “You said you were an assistant.”
“I am an assistant. To the General Manager. I help him with office tasks and that sort of thing.”
“I don’t understand. Why would they hire you as a secretary? You’re Louisa Cunningham.”
I glance around, but no one’s heard him say my name.
“The thing is,” I say softly, “they don’t know who I am.”
He stares at me. “What do you mean? Don’t they recogn—” He blinks. “Your hair. That’s why you dyed it.”
I nod.
“And… what? You’re using a different name?”
I nod again. “I had some old friends help me with that one.” I don’t go into detail about the fake ID and other paperwork they got me. I’m perfectly aware of how illegal all of this is, but I’m a little ashamed to admit it to Ian. Ian, who’s looking at me like I’ve gone completely bonkers.
“What are you doing, Lou?” he says quietly.
“What I need to.” I force myself to meet his eyes. “You promised you wouldn’t judge me.”
“I—I just don’t understand.” He leans over and grabs my hand again. “Why? Why are you doing this?”
“I needed to see it. I needed to see what they were doing to my family’s house.”
“You could have done that without taking a job there. This just sounds like you’re purposefully torturing yourself. What can you possibly hope to accomplish by putting yourself in that position?”
And that’s the crux of it: I don’t know. I don’t know what I hope to accomplish, other than some vague idea of “letting go.” Getting all of this madness out of my system. Some days I think that watching them turn my old home into something unrecognizable is helping, that it’s allowing me to separate myself mentally from the estate. Other days I just get angry and want to watch the entire thing burn down around their ears.
“I need closure,” I say finally.
Ian squeezes my fingers and brushes his thumb along the back of my palm. His touch promises all the things it did back in Chiang Mai—a distraction from the dark places in my head.
“There are other ways to get closure,” he says gently. “Ways that don’t require you to do something illegal or to torture yourself meaninglessly.”
“Meaninglessly?” I tear my hand out of his, breaking the spell. “You’re the one who told me I can’t run away from things. You’re the one who told me I needed to grow up and face my problems like an adult.”
And there it is—that old argument of ours. I still remember everything he said to me on that final night in Thailand. God knows I’ve been thinking about his words ever since.
I shouldn’t have brought it up. He leans back, looking like I’ve smacked him across the face. Guilt floods his eyes.
And now I feel like a jerk, too.
“I just… I need to figure things out,” I say. “And forcing myself to be at the estate, forcing myself to take part in that ridiculousness…”
“Is it helping? Is it actually helping?”
Some days I might say yes, but honestly I’m not so sure. Especially considering how many times I’ve thrown myself at Ward, looking for that next distraction. That next rush of heat and pleasure. Memories of that last intense encounter with Mr. Casanova swim to the front of my mind, and even now, my heartbeat quickens. Even now, my body wants to abandon everything in favor of a few passionate moments of escape.
I shake my head, trying to bring myself back to the present.
“I need to do this,” I say.
“You keep saying that. But I’m not sure you believe it. And you haven’t given me one real reason as to why it’s a good idea.” His voice is calm, but it’s clear that despite his best efforts, he doesn’t understand.
“Maybe I need to torture myself,” I say. “Maybe I need to bury myself in the pain and anger in order to work through it.”
He takes my hand again, gently wrapping my fingers in his own, but he doesn’t look me in the eye. His normally soft mouth is a hard line.
“I’m not going to keep you from doing what you think you need to do,” he says. “But I’m also not going to sit by if I think you’re hurting yourself.”
I don’t respond. I don’t know if he’s agreeing to accept my decision or warning me that he’s not about to let this go. He signals to the waitress for the checks, and we pay for our food in silence.
I feel cold and empty as we walk back out to my car. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Deep down, I thought Ian would know exactly what to say, exactly how to make me feel better. Now I’m only more convinced that I’m a complete and utter mess.
“Is there a motel near here?” he asks as we climb into the car.
We hadn’t discussed where he was going to stay. But it’s probably not a good idea to invite him back to my room at Huntington Manor.
“There’s one near the highway,” I say. Neither of us says another word as I drive us over to the rundown little Barberville Inn just off the main interstate. Fortunately, Ian’s able to get a room without any trouble. I stand next to the driver’s side of my car while he pulls his suitcase from the trunk. I feel like I should apologize again—for letting him come here, for being awkward all evening. For everything in Thailand, too, because I can’t say it enough. But I’m tongue-tied. Or just scared, as usual.
