Footsteps sounded above me, soft and quick.
“Chapman!”
Hope appeared at the top of the stairs, her face pale in the dim light. She rushed down to me, her hands hovering over my shoulders like she was afraid to touch me.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“You’re not fine. You’re bleeding.” She grabbed my hand and pulled it away from my mouth. Blood dripped from my knuckles where my teeth had broken the skin. “Jesus, Chapman.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“No, you won’t.” She slipped her arm around my waist, careful to avoid my ribs. “Come on. Let’s get you back upstairs.”
“Hope.”
“Don’t argue with me.” Her voice was firm, brooking no argument. “You’re hurt, and you’re not sleeping on that couch. You’re staying in my room where I can keep an eye on you.”
“I can’t.”
“You can, and you will.” She helped me to my feet, supporting most of my weight as we climbed back up the stairs. “We’ll figure out the rest in the morning. But right now, you need to rest.”
I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell her I didn’t deserve her kindness after what I had just put her through. But I was too tired. Too hurt. Too fucking broken. So I let her lead me back to her room, let her help me onto the bed, let her pull the blankets over me with gentle hands.
“Sleep,” she whispered, sitting beside me in the darkness. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
I closed my eyes, feeling the warmth of her presence beside me, the scent of jasmine filling my lungs as I let pain wash over me.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Hope
The greenhouse was warm when I stepped inside, the morning sun streaming through the glass panels and casting everything in golden light. The air was thick with the scent of soil and growing things: lavender and rosemary, mint and basil, the jasmine plants that lined the back wall in neat rows.
Faith was at the potting bench, her hands deep in dark earth as she transplanted seedlings into larger containers. She didn’t look up when I entered, but I saw her shoulders tense slightly, like she’d been expecting me.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked quietly.
I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, suddenly exhausted despite having spent most of the night lying awake beside Chapman. “No.”
“How is he?”
“Sleeping. Finally.” I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling the chill despite the greenhouse warmth. “Faith, I need to talk to you.”
She set down the seedling she’d been holding and wiped her hands on her apron, turning to face me fully. Her expression was gentle, patient. “I’m listening.”
The words stuck in my throat. I didn’t know where to start. I didn’t know how to explain the tangled mess of emotions that had been building since that night at the pond. But Faith just waited, her hands resting on the potting bench, her eyes steady on mine.
“That night,” I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper.
Faith’s expression didn’t change, but I saw something flicker in her eyes. Understanding, maybe. Or sympathy.
“He was drunk,” I continued, the words coming faster now. “Grieving. He’d been locked in that room for two weeks, and when he saw me in my white nightgown with my hair down, he thought—” My voice broke. “I let him believe the lie.”
“Hope.”
“He called me Julie the entire time.” The confession tore out of me, raw and painful. “Every kiss, every touch, every whispered word, he thought he was with her. And I knew. God, Faith, I knew, and I let it happen anyway because I wanted him so badly, I didn’t care that he was seeing someone else when he looked at me.”
Faith moved toward me, but I held up a hand, stopping her. If she touched me now, I’d fall apart completely, and I needed to get this out.
