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“That’s what I was coming to talk to you about that day,” I add.
“When did you realize?” she asks, her voice dipping lower than normal.
“When you kept showing up.”
She looks confused.
“Every time you showed up at the center,” I explain. “When you spoke with Henry. When you helped my mom in her garden. When you took care of the people who mean so much to me. It was everything.”
I was so stubborn, I didn’t want to admit it.
I couldn’t see past my own pain, my own ego, myself.
I continue, “That’s when it started to happen, but I refused to see past my own anger. There were little things along the way, but then I finally realized I wasn’t angry with you. I was angry with myself.”
Her hand settles on mine, comforting me.
I squeeze and press forward. “I was angry I had put so much hope in the idea that my father would change and do better. I wanted to believe that even after what he did to Ivy. Even after all of that, I still held hope things would change. That he would change.” I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter.”
Her hand picks up mine, interlocking our fingers. “Did you think if you hurt me, you’d be hurting him?”
I nod. “But the truth is, you have nothing to do with that. Nothing to do with any of it. My father purposely did this. He purposely left the money to you, knowing I would be in charge because he wanted to torture me. He had no shame.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes—”
She gives a dry, bitter laugh. “It’s funny how he was such a different person for you than he was for me.”
“It’s sick, actually.” I stare at the ground, wondering if there’s an afterlife and if Dad’s there right now. “Sometimes I talk to him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I stare at the ground, and I talk to him. I taunt him. Because I’m alive, and he isn’t. Because he isn’t here to fight back.”
She plays with my fingers, taking her time to explore each one with her fingertips. “Does it help?”
“No.” I close my eyes, enjoying her touch. “It never does.” I repeat my words, knowing it’s better this way, knowing he’s evil and hating that part of me is still that same kid holding on to a piece of his father in hopes he’ll change. “Because I’m alive, and he isn’t. Because he isn’t here to fight back.”
Payton’s hands still, and she moves them to my face, brushing over my eyelids so gently, I barely feel them. “Did you ever read the letter he gave you . . . ?”
“No.”
“I understand.”
And I know she does.
Because Payton Hart sees me.
All of me.
41
Payton
* * *
We remain in a state of limbo.
The days pass and turn into weeks. He never kisses me again.
I find that I dream about it.
Think about it.
Fantasize about it.
It’s all that occupies my brain.
Sure, I’m plenty busy.
Between the appointments with the pricy in-house physical therapist he hired, Trent helps me do exercises to strengthen my ribs and foot. I’m always exhausted. Pushing my body to recover.
My concussion is gone, which is good, and I’m healing nicely.
I’ll probably even be able to stop wrapping my ankle soon. I’m lucky it isn’t a break, just a sprain.
The truth is, I don’t need to work with a physical therapist, but Trent wants to make sure I’m strong, and I humor him.
Although he’s made no attempt to be physically intimate with me again, he spends a lot of time with me. Whether we’re eating, reading, or watching TV together, he’s by my side often. He works in his home office instead of driving to his company’s building. If I need him, I know he’ll be at my side within seconds.
Reading to me is one of those things that he started to do after the concussion, but I’ve grown so accustomed to it now. Every night, as I settle into bed, he sits by my side, and I curl in close to his body, and he reads in that gravelly, deep voice of his.
It’s sheer perfection.
The only thing that would be more perfect is if, after this chapter is done, he made a move. But I think he’s trying to prove his self-restraint first—I’m just not sure if he’s trying to prove it to me or himself.
Tonight, I wait for him to finish before I pounce, ripping the book from his hands and throwing it across the bed.
I am tired of waiting.
The kiss is slow at first.
His lips on mine, my mouth parting his.
Then we start to move together. It reminds me of a very slow dance. One you spend months preparing for, and as you finally start to move, your heart beats faster, and you feel like your eyes are closed, and you are left spinning.
It’s exhilarating.
