Page 18 of Rich Little Liars

‘Eventually. With time, help, and a little patience.’ Richard looks at me. ‘You need to be patient with yourself, Kelly. You’ve been through something terrible. You’re allowed to not be okay.’

‘What if I’m never okay again?’

‘Then we work with that. We find a version of okay that fits who you are now.’

The ‘we’ in that sentence does something to me. Implies a future in which he’s planning still to be around. I look down at our joined hands. His are larger than mine, solid and capable. Doctor’s hands. Hands that have held people through pain, guided them through recovery. Hands that feel safe.

‘I’m so tired,’ I whisper. ‘I’m so tired of being afraid all the time.’

‘Then stop. Just for tonight. Let yourself rest.’

He shifts on the couch again, moving back to lean against the armrest, and pulls me gently towards him. I resist for only a second before letting myself fold into him, my head against his chest, his arm around my shoulders. I can hear his heartbeat, steady and calm. Can feel the rise and fall of his breathing.

This is dangerous. Letting him this close. But I’m too exhausted to maintain my walls any more, and his warmth feels like something I’ve been missing without knowing it.

‘Is this okay?’ he asks quietly.

‘Yes.’

We stay like that, my body curled against his, his hand moving slowly up and down my arm in a rhythm that’s almost hypnotic. The tension I’ve been carrying for days starts to ease. Not disappearing – it never disappears – but softening to let me breathe properly.

‘You’re safe here,’ Richard murmurs. ‘Whatever you’re afraid of, whatever’s chasing you, you’re safe right now.’

I want to tell him he’s wrong. That I’ll never be safe. That safety is an illusion I lost the night of the fire. But his certainty is seductive, and I let myself believe it, just for this moment.

I tilt my head back to look at him and find him already watching me. His expression is soft, vulnerable, mirroring how I feel. Without thinking, without planning, I reach up and touch his face. His stubble is rough under my fingertips. His skin is warm.

He doesn’t move. Just watches me, letting me lead, letting me decide.

Then I kiss him.

It’s tentative at first, testing, my lips barely brushing his. He responds carefully, matching my hesitation, not pushing. But then something shifts – in me, in him, in the space between us – and the kiss deepens. His hand comes up to cup my head, fingers tangling in my hair. My hand slides to his shoulder, gripping, pulling him closer.

The kiss is everything I didn’t know I needed. It’s comfort and desire and distraction all tangled together. It’s the first time in months I’ve felt something other than fear or guilt. It’s permission to be someone other than Kelly Reynolds, Tragic Widow. Just Kelly. Just a woman kissing a man who makes her feel safe.

When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. Richard’s eyes are dark, his expression dazed.

‘Sorry,’ I say automatically.

‘Don’t be sorry. Don’t ever be sorry for that.’

He kisses me again, softer this time, and I sink into him. Into this temporary escape from everything waiting outside this room. We kiss until my lips feel bruised and my body feels warm and liquid. Until the fear recedes to background noise, and I can almost forget why I came to East Hampton.

Eventually, we settle back into our previous position, my head on his chest, his arms around me. But now there’s a new awareness between us. A shift in whatever this is becoming.

‘Stay,’ I whisper. ‘Just for a bit longer.’

‘As long as you want.’

Somehow, his heartbeat is still steady under my ear. His warmth surrounds me. And despite everything – the note, the brunch incident, Caroline’s questions, the secret I’m keeping – I feel something close to peace.

My eyes are getting heavy, the exhaustion of the past few days catching up with me all at once. I should tell Richard to go home. Should move to my own bed and maintain some semblance of boundaries.

But his arms feel safe, and just for tonight I want to pretend I deserve this comfort.

‘Thank you,’ I murmur, already half-asleep.

‘For what?’