I was grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge when my grandfather came in to start breakfast.
When he started talking about Lily, I couldn’t escape quickly enough. I want to keep moving forward, not back. He adores Beck—he told me so—and I know he’s only trying to make sure my head is in the right place.
I’m glad I didn’t tell him about my panic attack when Beck was sick with a cold. It passed quickly, but it’s something I will have to continue working through. I’ve avoided commitment for almost two decades, and he knows why. But that doesn’t mean I’m stuck there anymore. I appreciate his concern—really, I do—but I’m fine. More than that, I’m happy.
I can’t believe I called her Lily. What the hell was that about? I feel like such an asshole. Her feelings must be hurt. I’ll need to apologize again when she wakes up.
I glance over to where she has been curled up, sleeping against the passenger-side door for the past hour. She closed her eyes before we turned onto the main road, and she’s been asleep ever since. Maybe she really isn’t feeling well.
Reaching over the console, I run my hand up and down her leg. “Beck,” I call softly. “We are almost home. Do you want to stop at Maggie’s or go right to the yellow house?”
Yawning, she slowly opens her eyes, sits up, and stretches her arms above her head.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” She yawns again, covering her mouth.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, running the back of my hand over her cheek. She doesn’t feel warm, but her complexion is pale.
“I’m okay. Tired,” she says, slipping her hands inside her sleeves and wrapping her arms around her body.
Adjusting the thermostat, I ask, “Did you want to stop at Maggie’s? You haven’t eaten anything today. You fell asleep before you had your toast.”
“I’m sorry we missed breakfast with William.” Her lips turn down. “We could have stayed a while longer,” she mumbles.
“No need to apologize.” I slip my hand under her braid, cupping the back of her neck, and gently squeeze. “We will visit him again. Remember, we have a cooking lesson.”
“Okay.” She nods, then asks, “Do you mind stopping by the trailer? I have a client coming in for a consult tomorrow, and I have a collection of sketches in one of my books that I would like her to see,” she says as she watches the trees rush by.
“Do you want to grab them all while we are here? You wouldn’t be able to fit them in Nana Cathy’s car.”
“True. That would be great. Thank you.”
“Afterwards, we can stop and get you some food. I bet there are cupcakes.”
“I could eat a cupcake,” she agrees, “and I’m sure you want more coffee.” She turns to me and lifts the corner of her mouth.
Holding up the extra-large insulated cup Granddad sent me home with, I say, “Don’t worry about me. I’ve been adequately caffeinated.”
When she says nothing, I ask, “Are you sure you’re okay? You can talk to me.”
“I know,” she whispers, running the tips of her fingers back and forth over her lips.
Slowing, I signal and turn up Maggie’s long driveway. Pulling up in front of the trailer, I barely have the truck in park before she jumps out without a word. I walk around the back, open the liftgate, and move our overnight bags out of the way so we can load her boxes as she enters the trailer.
Her bloodcurdling scream sends me sprinting up the stairs, the door slamming against the outside wall as I fling it open. My heart hammers in my chest, dread twisting tight as I brace myself for what I might find inside.
Beck has collapsed in the middle of the floor, surrounded by what’s left of her sketchbooks, journals, and photos. Lowering myself to sit beside her, I pull her onto my lap and rock her as she sobs.
Every piece of paper that she has poured her heart and soul into has been dumped on the floor and kicked around. Pages are torn, bindings split open, photos ripped into jagged pieces. Her sketches are scattered everywhere. Some are in shreds, while others are crumpled into balls. The red velvet drapes that divided the room have been yanked down and lie in a heap. The devastation surrounds us.
“It’s all gone. Everything,” she cries, clenching my sweater in her fists. “My thoughts. Sketches. Dreams. He’s taken it all from me.” I rub her back in circles as her tears soak through my shirt.
“Why does he hate me so much? I tried so hard to make it work between us. I swear I did. Nothing was ever good enough. I’m never good enough.”
“Oh, Baby, you are good enough.” I pull her closer and stroke the back of her head. “He’s punishing you because he assumed you would always forgive him and give him another chance. He thought you would never truly walk away, and he was wrong. It’s not because you aren’t good enough.”
“I’m so tired. I can’t keep doing this,” she whimpers into my chest.
“I know. What can I do? How can I help?” I’m trying to remain calm for her, but I’m feeling murderous. How dare that motherfucker come into her space and destroy everything important to her?
