“I’m pretty sure nobody would notice if you kept it.” He grabs a glass from a cabinet and fills it with ice. “Can I feed you anything?”
“Danni and Emma fed me. I had a good time.”
“I figured you would. Even if I did want to keep you for myself.” He pours some lemonade into the glass of ice and hands it to me, then studies my face. “You were crying.”
“I read a couple letters from the shoebox. I think each letter is written by a woman who stayed in Cottage 15. For the rest of us—the other women that were going to stay after them.”
He nods at the table, and we sit. I stare down at the table, trying to make sense of what I want to say. “The letters… they’re sad but full of hope as well. They make me realize how fortunate I am, even if I feel so very broken at times. I was only in a bad relationship for a short time. I’m also fortunate because I have the money and the opportunity to start over. If I wanted to move to France or Alaska or… anywhere, I could do that. Starting over for many people is not financially possible. But also, I’m fortunate because I experienced real, true, deep love, and I know what real love looks like. Even if my ex made me forget for a short while.” I look up at him.
He nods solemnly. “What does it look like—real, true, deep love?”
I bite my lip, thinking of Cain. Cain and me. Who we were together. “Patience. A whole lot of patience. Selflessness sometimes, but sometimes letting each other take turns being a little selfish also? Kindness even when you’re annoyed as heck. Grumbling and grumping once in a while but knowing that the other person can take it and that they’re okay with you being human and will help you rather than…”—I meet John’s eyes—“rather than shove you into the wall and yell at you.”
His gaze is steady on mine. “I wish I could take the bad away and leave you with the good.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly. I wrap my cardigan around me to ward off a chill that’s only in my heart. “The first time my ex hit me, it happened so quickly that for a few seconds, I thought I had misunderstood what had happened. Like he had tried to hit something else but got me instead. I was simply in the way. It was…” I stare down at my lemonade then push it away, my stomach churning. “It was surreal. I called the relationship off after he hit me. I went home, and we didn’t see each other for weeks until he showed up on my doorstep and begged me to forgive him. He told me he had made a mistake and had never done anything like that in his life. All the excuses he gave me, I took them because I wanted them to be true. I didn’t want to be a woman who had been hit. And I didn’t want him to be a man who hit me. And then I felt stuck. Glued in place.” I rub my hands over my face. “It seems impossible to describe how that can happen. I needed my Aunt Birdie to help me get away from my ex. He beat me down so quickly, I didn’t knowhowto walk away.”
“If you don’t want to talk about this, you don’t have to.”
“I want to. I need to.” I meet his eyes. “Is it too much?”
“Never.”
I put my hand to his cheek, and he takes it and kisses it.
“My husband was a writer,” I tell him. “He wrote thrillers and mysteries. His imagination was dark. Only his imagination, though. We used to do this thing when he was writing a new book, and he wanted to brainstorm. I’d pull out my notebook, and we’d make a list. A hundred ways to kill someone. He only hurt people on paper.” I pause, meet John’s eye. “When it got so bad with Trey, my ex, that I wasn’t able to untangle myself from him, I made a list. One hundred ways to kill Trey. It seemed easier to kill him than to escape our relationship.”
He smiles wryly. “I guess I should pay attention if you start scribbling something in a notebook and shooting me dirty looks.”
I cover my face and half-laugh, half-sob. “I was never like this—the kind of person who can’t figure things out on her own. The kind of woman that lets herself be bullied and abused. I wanted to… I still want to stand up for myself and the other women my ex treated horribly.” I glare at the table, anger pulsing through me again.
“Then let me help you stand up for yourself! Let’s go to the police, Wren. Let’s figure this out.”
I look away from John’s determined, penetrating gaze. He wants to fix this, but it’s unfixable. “When I chose the second option, death, when Trey was driving, he didn’t drive off the cliff. But he did total his car—that stupidly, ridiculously expensive car he’d been waiting for. He drove us through the safety fence and into the rock wall. I passed out, and when I came to, a police car was pulling up, the sirens on. My ex told me to keep my mouth shut or he would tell everyone I was the one at the wheel,andI was drinking and driving. Even though I wasn’t.”
John stands and paces, his fists clenched and jaw rigid. “The police could have quickly ascertained that you weren’t driving. He couldn’t have gotten away with lying. You could have asked for a blood alcohol test. And they would have established that your bruising and the injuries you sustained weren’t consistent with being in the driver’s seat.”
I shake my head. “It wouldn’t have mattered. My ex has a lot of influence… and money. And by that point, I had already found out all the things that had happened with other women he had been with. They weredemolishedby his lies. He looks impeccable from a distance, and he keeps everyone just distant enough.”
John pounds a fist against the cabinet.
I stand and gently take his arms and wrap them around me, so he can hold me instead. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “Please don’t get mad.”
His kisses are gentle and warm at first. Comforting. Until he pulls me closer, and they become harder, searching, but still so achingly tender. He pulls away, his eyes hard. “Each time I kiss you, you’ll forget more and more until he won’t be up here anymore.” He kisses my forehead. “A thousand ways to kill Trey.” I press into him, return his kisses, and he drags me in even closer. “I’m going to erase what he’s done to you.” His eyes burn into mine with determination.
“What about the rule?” I ask. “That could be dangerous.”
He traces the line of my collarbone with his lips then looks at me. “Did you say something?” he says hoarsely. It’s hard for me to focus when your lips are so close.”
I lean into him, laughing.
“Let’s sit on the front porch,” he says. “The rules don’t apply out there.”
“I have a better idea.” I look at him tentatively, wondering if he’ll be angry. “Let’s finish that puzzle.”
He groans then lifts me up and kisses me while he fumbles his way to the sunroom, with me in his arms. When he sets me down, he tilts my chin up. “That’s it for now. You have to stop kissing me. I know I’m irresistible but try to keep your hands off me. I’m finishing this damn puzzle now, come hell or high water.”
In the morning, John brings me a tray packed with food before I’ve even had a chance to open my eyes.
