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A small part of me can admit that when Jeremy and I were together, we were young. Still kids, really. Inexperienced and fumbling, still learning what the other liked. Whatever awkwardness we had was always made up for by the love we bore for each other.
Comparing the two men is absolutely pointless and serves no one. But unfortunately, my heart doesn’t give a shit what my logic center knows, preferring instead to burn with guilt for enjoying last night so much.
“It’s not stupid,” Zoey says gently. “You didn’t choose to be a widow so young, Celeste. And it was sudden. There was no closure, no preparation or a slow goodbye—not that those scenarios are any less painful, but they’re different. Be gentle with yourself. And please remember that falling in love with Jeremy, marrying him, being happy with him… it didn’t erase the bond you had with Lucas.”
I stiffen. “I hope you’re not suggesting?—”
“I’m not,” she says quickly. “I know you were madly in love with Jeremy. It was obvious to everyone, even in high school. But Jeremy and Lucas are very different men, and the history you have with Lucas didn’t magically go away when you fell in love with Jeremy. All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t beat yourself up.”
My breath sounds harsh in my ears. “I hear you,” I finally say. “But I don’t know… I can’t?—”
Damien fills the doorway. “Mom, I’m heading out.” His eyes narrow. “Eat the sandwich I left you.”
I smile faintly. “When did you get so bossy?”
He smirks. “You made me this way. I’ll be home in a few hours.”
He disappears, and I hear the front door open and close.
“Celeste?” asks Zoey.
“Yeah?”
“Letting go of the past isn’t something that happens overnight. It’s a long process of rewiring the brain with new—and oftentimes uncomfortable—thoughts.”
“Whoa, am I talking to Zoey or Alana?” I quip, referring to her psychologist mother.
She doesn’t laugh, though. “Do something for me.”
“What?” I ask warily.
“The next time your thoughts go to a dark place, I want you to tell yourself what everyone has been saying for years. That you deserve to be happy. That you deserve love.”
I scoff even as my heart squeezes. “I don’t think?—”
“This isn’t about Lucas,” she says sternly, correctly guessing where my head went. “This is about you. I’m not saying jump into a fling with Lucas. I wouldn’t even blame you if you wanted to quit working at Wild Lake just to get space from him. But I’m your best friend, so I’m not going to bullshit you. You deserve love. Chemistry. Happiness. And mind-blowing sex.”
I take a deep breath. What feels like the first one in hours. “Thanks, Zoey.”
“Always.” Then her voice drops. “I’m sorry, I know I said I didn’t need details, but I have to at least ask—how was it?”
I laugh through a squeeze of pain. “Mind-blowing.”
29
The water of the lake is cold on my toes, the sun warm on my back as I sit on my folded sweatshirt on the rocky shore of the beach.
I’ve been in the same spot since just before eight this morning. It’s nearing ten now. Past the trees behind me, there are sounds of saws and hammers as the porch outside the dining hall is replaced. Truck engines growl, beeping as they reverse. I think Billy’s team is also clearing and leveling the ground for the new volleyball and basketball courts today, but I can’t remember. Maybe it’s the additional bathrooms? Or possibly both.
I haven’t checked my phone calendar. Or my laptop, which sits untouched in my bag by the tree line. Frankly, I don’t even know what I’m doing here. I should be working from home, filling the final interview slots for this week. It’s too loud and distracting on the property for phone calls.
But I drove here anyway, right after dropping Damien off for his first day of soccer camp at the high school. I think some part of me longed for the old magic of the lake that made things clearer when I was near it. Magic that used to settle and soothe.
Magic that died a long time ago, if my current state is anything to judge by. My thoughts haven’t been soothed, and they certainly aren’t pleasant.
Well, most of them aren’t. There are a few that shimmer with light. Sparkles of brightness in a knotted mess of dark memory yarn—like the unguarded happiness on my son’s face when Daphne answered the door last night to welcome him in.
I didn’t stay at Rose House after dropping him off, and I didn’t go over to Lucas’s, even though his car was in the driveway and my traitorous body screamed for him.
