Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
He stalked me for six months, until I told him to stop.
Today marks six months since the last time I saw him.
Something should’ve happened. I searched my surroundings from dawn to dusk, trying to pick him out in a crowd, scanning streets for his truck, fully expecting him to show, as if he knows the significance of the date.
But he’s not here. It’s eleven at night, and I’m just as alone as I was yesterday.
I’ve known Jarret for two years now, exceeding the longest relationship I’ve ever had with anyone besides my mom. Not that I’m in a relationship with him. But my heart is. I left the battered, bleeding thing at Julep Ranch a year and a half ago, knowing I would never get it back.
Conor and I stopped texting shortly after Jarret walked away. It was too painful to respond to her questions with assurances I didn’t feel.
The good news is I finally figured myself out. The bad news?
I’m a miserable fucking wreck.
I’ve given a lot of thought to the guilt I’ve been carrying. I shouldn’t have married Rogan without getting to know him first. I should’ve reported him missing. I shouldn’t have fallen in love with one man while married to another. Clinging to all these should have’s and shouldn’t have’s was just a way for me to feel sorry for myself.
Rather than continuing down that self-destructive path, I’ve decided to treat it as a gift. It’s taken me eighteen months to come to one crucial conclusion.
I can’t and won’t regret what happened.
If I hadn’t made all those mistakes, I wouldn’t have met Jarret. I wouldn’t have experienced what it is to truly love someone and feel that love reciprocated. The best six months of my life were on that ranch, working side by side with a man who refused to walk away from me.
That’s the detrimental part. In the end, I forced him to leave. I used my safe word like a brandished weapon, cut him at his knees, and removed his power. He left because I gave him no choice.
He loved me, and he risked that love to tell me he killed Rogan. He could’ve easily lied and prevented me from running. But he didn’t. He did the honorable thing and told me the truth. In return, I hurt him.
After eighteen months of searching, self-analyzing, and introspection, I now realize what I experienced in my relationships before Jarret wasn’t love. I replaced each lover with a new lover, but true love can’t be replaced.
True love is finding my soulmate when I wasn’t searching for him. It was the depth of my smile when I worked beside him. It was putting his happiness over mine.
True love isn’t about being inseparable. It’s being separated for over a year, and feeling even stronger, deeper in love.
I love him.
Distance didn’t erase it. Time didn’t expunge it. Losing him didn’t make it go away.
I love him. I miss him, and I’m a wretched, disgusting mess without him. I make myself sick wondering how he’s doing, what he’s thinking, and if he’s happy. But I can’t go back. Not after the way I ended things.
He’s strong enough to have healed himself by now. It’s been six months since I’ve seen him. Six months is plenty of time for him to move on and find someone else. I won’t sabotage his happiness in any way.
But what if he’s not happy?
If he’s still alone, if he’s suffering even a fraction of the misery I am, I want to know.
I need to know.
Anyone can say, I love you. But if he didn’t move on, if he waited all this time, that’s more proof than words can ever express.
Lying on the mattress in a studio apartment I’ve never furnished, I roll to my side and reach for my phone on the floor.
Radio silence with Conor means I’m in the dark with regard to the entire family. She should be finished with school now, and Lorne is coming up on eight years served in prison. He could be up for parole any time.
I clutch the phone tightly and stare at the screen. I miss them so much and want to know everything that’s going on with them.
I’ll just send a short text to Conor, a friendly greeting, and go from there.
As I pull up the messaging screen, the phone buzzes with an incoming call, making me jump.
Private Number
Who would be ringing this late? Probably a misdial or drunken attempt to call someone else.
I accept the call. “Hello?”
“Maybe Quinn?” A woman whispers.
“Who’s calling?”
“It’s Raina Benally. I’m…” Her voice rasps through the phone. “We met at John Holsten’s house.”
“Yes, I remember.” My pulse speeds up. “I gave you my number. Is everything okay?”
Silence.
It lasts so long I check the screen. We’re still connected.
“Raina? Are you there?”
“I need help.” Her words are strained, as if she’s forcing them out.