Jenna studies me for a long moment. Then she says something that completely knocks the ground out from under me. "You're not a bad person for wanting more."
I blink. "I'm married," I say.
"Youweremarried," she corrects.
She's right, but people don't move on that quickly. They don't. Not even when they didn't really love their husbands.
"So was I." She looks far off for a moment. "Did I take shit for all that? You bet I did. Did it hurt?" She shrugs, "Sometimes. But once you find the right man, once you know, nothing else matters. Not the public crucifixion, not the whispered words behind your back, not the stares from other people. All that matters is what you know in your heart is true."
"My story is different from yours. First, all I felt for Carter was hate. Second, Massimo and I had been in love ten years ago, before…" She shakes her head, "Doesn't matter. What I'm trying to tell you is that everyone's story is different and that there is no such thing as wrong or right. Not in this world and not in the way people think.
"Cater wasn't who people thought he was," she continues. "And I stayed for reasons that had nothing to do with love." She huffs, "At least not for him. You don't owe anyone your entire life just because they were safe once."
My breath catches.
"I loved him," I insist quietly.
"I believe you."
"But not in the way I was supposed to, not anymore," I whisper.
Jenna steps closer and puts her cup down, "You grew. That's not a crime."
"It feels like one," I admit. Because it does. Because I wove a lie, and I couldn't live it any longer; that wasn't on Pete, that was on me.
The next morning…
I wake up with my heart racing. Like something is still chasing me. For a few seconds, I don't know where I am. The dream lingers, sticky and wrong. I woke up twice during the night. Once, convinced I heard a motorcycle outside. The second time, Pete was standing at the foot of the bed, covered in blood, pointing at me with his bloody stumps of hands, accusing me with eyes that didn't belong to him anymore. Looking at me like I should have done something differently. Like I should have saved him.
Every night, it's the same thing. That's why I left the blackout curtains open in the center before going to sleep. Just enough for a sliver of light to sneak through. Complete darkness has never been my friend. Not after Razor. Not after the years I spent jumping at shadows and engine noises.
The first rays of morning sun now cut through the gap and paint a pale stripe across the room. It helps. Still, the feeling of being chased doesn't fade. It clings. I press my palm against my chest to try to steady my breathing. Razor's face is the last thing I remember. Not how he looked back then, but how he would look now if he ever found me.
I squeeze my eyes shut. No. I'm not doing this. Not today.
I force myself upright, swinging my legs over the side of the bed, and my bare feet hit the cold floor, grounding me to the here and now. But the remnants of the dream are hard to shake, because now, like then, I'm hiding. I hate that. It explains the dream, too.
I decide a shower will do me good. After, I apply my makeup carefully. It's been days since I paid any attention to my appearance. '
'I stare at my reflection in the mirror, narrow my eyes, and try to figure out if I recognize the person staring back at me.
After I'm dressed, I enter the main penthouse area to find not only Gabe, but Mom sitting around the counter, eating breakfast. She never gets up this early.
"Good morning." I greet, going straight for the coffee maker.
"Come, sit," Gabe invites, padding the chair next to him.
"I'm good," I decline, blowing on the coffee.
The last thing I need is to be close to him again. I understand all too well what that man does to my body and mind. I've only ever slept with two men, Razor and Pete, but I have a feeling that Gabe would…
I cut the thought off before it can finish. Before it can take shape. Before it can become something real. Because I already know. That's the problem. I don't need to imagine it, Ifeelit. Every time he gets too close. Every time his hand brushes mine. Every time his voice drops just a fraction lower than necessary. My body reacts. Immediate. Instinctive. Like it recognizessomething before my mind has a chance to catch up. And I hate that. Or at least I tell myself I do. I grip the mug harder, focusing on something solid. Something real. Because this—this pull toward him—it's not safe. Even though talking with Jenna yesterday helped, I'm not sure if Gabe is a man I should be getting close to. It's too soon. I don't think I'm in the right frame of mind right now to make any kind of decisions.
Because… Pete.
The name alone tightens something in my chest. Not sharp. Not like before. But still there. Still present. Stillmine.I loved him. He was safe and steady and good. Everything Gabe isn't. Everything Razor never was. And somehow… that makes this worse. Because what does it say about me that I can stand here, with my mother a few feet away, andwantanother man? Not just want. It's turning into quite an ache. A quiet, persistent pull that sits low in my stomach and refuses to be ignored.
I exhale slowly, trying to steady myself. It would be so easy. That's the most dangerous part. Not the man. Not the situation. How easy it would be to give in. To let myself forget. Just for a little while. Just long enough to not feel the grief. To not see Pete every time I close my eyes. To not remember that warehouse. But I would remember after.
