Why should she blame herself for the careless selfishness of a man who’d promised to love and honor her for an entire lifetime? Unlike Rob, she’d operated in good faith, always, and she’d already given him the fruits of almost two decades of her labor. Why the hell was she giving up her self-respect to him too, like the cherry atop a shit sundae?
Fuck that.
No, really.Fuckthat. It was past time to stop flagellating herself.
She was Molly goddamn Dearborn. No asshole narcissist in scrubs could make her small, scared, shamed, or powerless.
And then, for the first time in a long, long while, she wasn’t simply feigning calm. Shewascalm. And maybe the effects of this exercise wouldn’t last longer than the day’s waning sunlight, but the respite from turmoil felt really,reallygood.
At some point, she’d closed her eyes in thought. Now she opened them. Smiled at Karl. Continued listening to his rant-in-progress.
“—but if my heart’s a Cadbury Egg, Dearborn, yours is a chocolate lava cake surrounded by lots of ice cream.” Karl was standing now. Pacing. Blustering, pointing accusingly at her, and occasionally glowering at wildlife. “Cool on the outside. Warm and gooey inside, where no one can see. And that goo’s not a fault or stupidity or whatever the hell you think it is. It’s a fuckingmiracle.”
She contemplated that claim while he paused for breath, then shook her head in disagreement.
“I appreciate the compliment, Karl. Back in the nineties, though, basically every chain restaurant had a chocolate lava cake,” she pointed out. “If each one constituted a miracle, there’d be a lot more Applebee’s cooks up for sainthood.”
He halted. “Ever heard of hyperbole, Dearborn?”
“Never.” Her brow crinkled in feigned confusion. “Is that an energy drink?”
He eyed her balefully. “Haha-fucking-ha. You done being a wiseass?”
“Probably not. It’s one of my greatest talents.” Since he’d abandoned his spot against the trunk, she claimed it for herself. “But go ahead and tell me your story for the exercise, so I can channel my artistry in a new direction.”
Thank goodness for back support, the savior of the newly middle-aged. Pleased and much more comfortable, she sat cross-legged against the tree and admired how the pink-gold glow of the late afternoon light coaxed fiery glints from Karl’s hair.
Slowly, his scowl faded, and his head tipped as he studied her closely. “You sound different, Dearborn. Less goddamn brittle. Look different too.”
“Ifeeldifferent,” she told him honestly. “I can’t say how long it’ll last, but... yeah.”
His lips curved in a pleased, irritatingly smug smile. “Shit I said got through to you?”
“At least for the moment.”
“Good,” he declared with feeling, and thumped back onto his butt. “Then let’s get my part of this sharing crap over with. Grab your notebook and pay attention.”
“You may recall my telling you this before, but...” She raisedan eyebrow at him. “I don’t take orders from you, Dean. Never have, never will.”
Still, she readied her notebook and pen, because she’d always been an excellent—if occasionally disobedient—student.
“Probably be better off if you did,” he grumbled, then launched into his own tale of woe.
17
Turned out, Matthew and Athena knew their shit when it came to communication. Or maybe it was the picnic–intrusive questions combo that worked, and Karl could take part of the credit too. Either way—speaking of miracles—Molly Dearborn had actuallyopened the hell up.
Sure, what she’d told him was beyond infuriating. Her bastard of an ex-husband should have his balls pureed in an industrial blender and poured down his throat like goddamn soup. And how Dearborn had managed to turn the entire situation around and blame it on herself, Karl would never understand. His head had nearly blown off his shoulders when he’d heard that absolute bullcrap.
But it was still progress. Halle-fucking-lujah.
He knew more of her history now. Understood her better. Best of all: voluntarily sharing a painful story like that? Requiredtrust.
Too bad he’d have to do the same thing. No way Dearborn would let him get away with prodding her for an upsetting, incredibly personal story, then refusing to pony up a tale of intimate fucking woe himself.
He cleared his throat. Dragged one hand roughly through his hair. And then, before he could lose his nerve, he started talking.
“Loved Becky. Not the way I should’ve, but I did.” Much as a dumb teenage kid could, with his dumb teenage heart already captured by another girl. “Told her. She never said it back.”
