Page 128 of Promise

Dart would always hold a special space inside me. He’d broken me and put me back together, patching up the cracks he initially made, then made me even stronger.

I could do this for him. I could let him go.

Once upon a time, I had given up on a dream—motherhood—until a miracle placed a baby at my door.

But Dart has struggled to find something that drives him, stumbling upon it because of our repeated tragedies.

I couldn’t take that away from him.

When I finally reach my house, I stumble inside, finding my legs almost too weak to carry me. My pulse is slow, sluggish even. I move like I’m forcing myself through deep snow. I shiver in the imaginary cold, despite the mid-August temperature.

Inside the house, I pause, staring at the poster in my front hallway. The giant pussy. The gorgeous flower.

This is my happy place. My home, once remodeled by Dart, additionally decorated with love because of Mirabelle.

Most recently, Dart replaced the roof, fixed the shower, and added a back deck. He’d been telling me about his plans to build Mirabelle a playhouse and rehab the detached garage. He’d been excited to continue his found projects . . . or so I thought.

The joy of a new garage or a fun playhouse had to pale against the allure of racing.

I cared for Dart. And I refused to hold him back.

I hang his hat on my coatrack, wondering if he’ll leave it behind for me. A painful yet bright reminder of the reconciliation we had. The new love we shared recently.

As I slog up the staircase, I hold the railing to balance my efforts. Once inside my room, I try to ignore the large bed. The space where Dart and I have reconnected. His scent lingers in the bathroom. Pine and asphalt forever burned into my senses.

I tug off my boots and peel myself out of my dress.

I stare at myself in the mirror. In only my underwear and bra, I study my subtle curves. The swell of my breasts. The flatness of my belly.

Once upon a time, I cried that I’d never earn stretch marks. My stomach wouldn’t swell. I wouldn’t bear a child from my body.

But now I have Mirabelle.

She is my purpose.

Tears fall, fast and furious, and I slip out of my bra, pulling on a comfy pair of loose sweats and a T-shirt that was draped at the end of the bed, realizing too late that it belongs to Dart. I’m engulfed in fresh pine and another hint of asphalt when I bring the collar to my nose and then wipe my tears with the edge of the shirt.

My feet clomp, feeling too heavy to lift, as I traipse back down the stairs in need of an oversize glass of wine. I pass the living room without a glance and head directly for the kitchen.

But my feet suddenly stall, trapped by the wood underneath them. My heart bangs against my ribcage. I blink like that will help me process what I think I saw.

I spin, racing the short distance back to the archway between the living room and the hallway.

Dart stands beside the pink couch. The same one he laid on after breaking into the house months ago. The same one where I kissed him with hurt in my heart while confusingly still attracted to him. The same one where he’s cuddled Mirabelle and held me countless times.

“How?” My breath escapes me like a cloud. “What?” I thunder, low and restless. “Why?”

Dart rushes toward me, stopping short of reaching me, and tugging a ballcap off his head.

“Because I fucking love you.”

“But racing . . .”

“Fuck racing,” he practically shouts, setting his hands on my upper arms. “I love you more, Trin. So much more.”

“But the keys?” I whisper, my throat burning. “You took those keys from Max.”

Dart chuckles, and I’m startled by the sound, struggling to pull out of his grasp.