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“It’s normal for you to miss what you’ve always known.”
“It was more than that. It was more than the Stockholm Syndrome the therapist mentioned.” I take another deep breath to drum up the courage to finally tell the entire truth. “I fantasized about you and me back in the schoolhouse. I missed our chain around our ankles. I missed the time it was just you and me… connected. I liked that we shared the same air as we took each breath. I liked that I had to walk with you in cadence as the metal jangled around our feet. I missed the warmth I felt from your body at all times because there was never any space. I missed our captivity. I missed you,” I confess, unconsciously reaching out a hand, beckoning his touch.
He stares at my hand and then at my tear-filled eyes. His expression is firm, unbreakable, then softly it melts. He turns so he faces me fully, his body taking up the entire space of the doorway.
I stand still, barely breathing, my hand still outstretched. “I do want you. I want it more than anything. I just don’t know how to want all that comes with you.”
“Do you really feel we can’t fix this? Do you think we can’t be together simply because of New York? Because I’m here to tell you that we can fix anything.”
The weight of my past feels like a hundred-pound brick rests on each shoulder. “I don’t know how to be normal. I tried. I hope you saw how much I truly tried. I wore the clothes. The shoes. I tried to go to the parties.”
He simply nods.
“When I was growing up, reading every romance book I could get my hands on, I would dream of the day I’d find my own Prince Charming and go to the fancy parties and live in the large house with lavish furniture and chandeliers in every room. And then all of a sudden, I had it. I had it all. But what it really became was a deep, deep hole that I sank into.”
“So, we don’t go back to the house. I should have found our own place right at the beginning,” he says. “And if you hate New York, then we’ll move someplace else. Maybe a small town with less noise and action.”
“And what about you? That’s your home. That’s who you are. I can’t pull you away from everything you’ve ever known any more than you can pull me away from what I have grown up with. We are who we are.”
“And you think we need to do that apart? Be who we are?”
I tense, fighting the devastation that threatens to consume me. I search his face, his posture, for some clue as to what he feels. “Yes,” I barely whisper.
“You’re wrong.” Christopher takes the few steps that separates us and grabs my hand. “You and I have one thing that is stronger than all else. Love.”
Tears well in my eyes; pain wells in my heart. “We are the demented love story. Remember?”
He pulls me into his arms, burying my face against his chest. “But a love story, nonetheless. I love you, Ember. I know that with every inch of my being. I also know I can’t live without you. So, yes, if we both have to start over so we can begin anew, then so be it. The question is if you are willing to.”
I nod against his warmth. “I want to. I want to so badly. I’m just scared. And I love you. I love you so much that it actually hurts when I think about it. My chest tightens to the point of pain.”
“Then we fight,” he murmurs against my hair. “We fight against every single person getting in our way. No one will block us any longer. No one and nothing. You are my bride, and I’m taking you back.”
“How? There’s still a storm outside, and based on what Holly says, it could keep going for days,” I counter, clutching tighter to him. “And I know you said we’d call the police on Richard and Scarecrow. But then where does that leave Holly and Violet?”
“We’ll figure it all out.” He looks out the door at the snow falling and then closes it behind him. I realize the door has remained open the entire time. Maybe giving us both the option to flee. A choice we’ve both decided against.
He then tips my face up to meet his, his eyes filled with a blend of love and passion. “I love you.”
“I love you.”
I turn to walk away and put some logs on the fire, knowing Holly and Violet will be back with a fresh pile of firewood soon. Christopher grabs hold of my wrist and pulls me close to him. He leads us to my private corner with nothing but a tattered sheet, concealing what I know is coming next.
