Page 146 of Ballrooms & Blackmail

He tells me how she eventually trusted him and what it meant to him.

He tells me about their plans to leave it all behind and the fear he felt when it all went wrong.

He tells me how it felt to lose her.

And eventually, I wipe his tears away.

Then I look around the apartment.

At my books on the table and his laptop on the counter.

At the boxes stacked all around and his jackets hanging next to mine on the hooks.

At my baking supplies in the kitchen and his coffee mug in the sink.

At Violet, asleep in a patch of sunlight atop the blanket for her we picked out together.

There are no shadows waiting in the corners.

No ex-husband.

No Lyons.

No secrets.

Just us.

Just…home.

“So,” I say gently, “where should she go?”

His eyes come to mine, and then he smiles. “God, I love you, little hen.” He kisses me, long and sweet, then carefully takes the photograph and uses a magnet to secure it to the fridge. “The first of many photos of our lives,” he says—or rather, promises, running his finger lightly along the edge.

It’s front and center.

It’s out in the open.

It’s…perfect.

Because once upon a time, Thorn hid everything connected to his past.

Now he’s living in the light.

And Claudette’s smile is brilliant in the late afternoon sunshine, as though she approves.

Thorn exhales, slides his arm around my waist, and I lean into him automatically. For several quiet minutes neither of us says anything. Then, as though we’re one being, one heart, one soul, we break apart.

I go back to the cookies.

He picks up the box.

We keep building our home.

And, for the first time in a very long time, for the first time in maybe ever, neither of us is looking over our shoulders.

The past has lost its hold on us.

Because we’re finally looking forward.