She studied me for a beat, then jerked her head toward Eleanor’s house. “Coffee. Now.”
Inside, Eleanor was already at the stove when we walked in. She took one look at me and didn't ask questions. She just set another mug on the counter. Bless her.
We sat at the kitchen table like we had a hundred times before. Only this time, I felt like something was cracked open.
“Okay,” Mel said bluntly. “Start talking.”
So I did. I didn't dramatize it, I didn’t soften it either.
When I finished, the kitchen was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator.
Mel was the first to speak. “No.” That was it. Just no. “You don’t get to roar at someone because they opened a door,” she continued. “That’s not trauma. That's a tantrum.”
“It wasn’t like that,” I said automatically.
“It sounds exactly like that,” Mel bit back.
Eleanor raised a hand gently. “Mel. She’s been living there. Sleeping with him. Filling his shelves. And he explodes because she didn’t magically know his secret grief room exists?”
Mel shook her head. “Absolutely not.”
I wrapped my hands around my mug, staring into the coffee.
“It wasn’t just anger,” I said quietly. “It was . . . something else.”
“Rage,” Mel supplied.
“Pain,” Eleanor countered softly.
We all fell silent for a moment.
“He had a wife,” I said. “A child.”
That still felt surreal to say out loud.
“I saw the wedding photo,” I added. “He looked so young. So . . . open.”
Eleanor’s expression shifted. “And you think he never processed it.”
“I think he locked it up and threw away the key.”
Mel exhaled sharply. “That’s not your job to unlock.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you defending him?”
Because I love him. The thought sat heavy in my chest.
Because when he looked at me, I felt chosen.
Because when he held me, I felt safe.
Because when he told me I would never live like that again, I wanted to believe him more than I’ve wanted anything in years.
“I have feelings for him,” I admitted quietly.
Mel closed her eyes briefly. “Oh, Belle.”
