Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“Okay, Maren.” Her voice was quieter. “I’m sorry if I upset you. I thought I was doing the right thing.”
I took a breath and softened my tone, too. “I’m sorry, too. I’m not upset with you. I’m upset with myself. I’m having a really hard time getting past this.”
Silence. And then, “Do you still love him?”
I closed my eyes, felt my chest tighten. Of course I do. “It doesn’t matter.”
“If it makes a difference, Mare, when I talked to him, I felt like he was being sincere.”
“I did too, Emme—that’s the problem! He’s a master at sincere. He can make you trust him so easily it’s criminal.” I started to cry. “But it’s not real. And it doesn’t last. He always leaves.”
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you. This is all my fault.”
“No, it isn’t.” I sniffed and wiped my eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m being bitchy and you’re trying to help. How are you feeling?”
“Great. I saw the doctor yesterday and everything is perfect so far. I’ll have an ultrasound at ten weeks to confirm the due date.”
“Has Nate recovered from the shock?”
Emme giggled. “Almost. I’ve only seen him faint one other time in his life, and that was the night he found out about Paisley.”
“So he’s consistent at least.”
“Yeah.” A pause. “Are you going to be all right?”
I swallowed. “Eventually. I hope.”
“Home tomorrow, right?”
“Right.”
“Travel safe. Love you.”
“Love you, too.” I ended the call and buried my phone in my suitcase again.
Hours later, I was still tossing and turning in the dark. It was almost worse than the nightmare. Sleep absolutely refused to come, and the thought of my phone in my suitcase was killing me.
Should I do what Emme said? Should I listen to his messages? Should I risk whatever healing I’d done this week, put what little peace I’d found with myself in jeopardy? Did I want to trade that in for another apology? Because I didn’t believe for one second that he actually loved me. He couldn’t.
But something in me would not rest. As if I were compelled by an outside force, I got out of bed and dug out my phone again.
Just the texts, I told myself as I plugged it in. I’d read his texts and then put my phone away.
There were two, both from late Tuesday night.
Maren, can we talk?
And then:
I don’t blame you for ignoring me. But if you have it in your heart to give me a few minutes, I’d really love to talk to you. Call me when you can.
I frowned at the screen. That did not sound like a man in love. That sounded like someone who wanted a favor. Or a man who was selling something.
Well, I wasn’t buying any insincerity today, thank you very much.
Then I noticed he’d left me a voice message on Wednesday morning. Convinced it could only reinforce my belief that Emme had been fooled just as I had been, I listened to it.
“Maren, it’s me. You’ve probably seen my messages by now. You haven’t called, which means you’re either too upset with me to talk or you need more time to think about it. I get that. I’ll be on a plane to Boston most of today, but you could reach me in the next couple hours or later tonight. I’ll be on your time zone by then. I don’t know if Finn told you or not, but I decided to have the surgery. It will be on Friday. I’d really like to talk to you before then, if possible. I … hope you’re well. I miss you.”
The sound of his voice sent chills up my spine and blanketed my arms with goose bumps, but I still hadn’t heard anything that suggested he’d changed his mind about us. To me, it sounded like he just wanted to apologize again, and he wanted me to offer my forgiveness before he went into surgery.
If that was the case, a text back would suffice. A simple I forgive you, good luck tomorrow. There was no way I could call him, like he’d requested—I’d break down and cry, and I was so tired of tears.
I typed out the message and hit send. A few seconds later, I got a Failed to Send text. I tried again, but it failed a second time. Sighing, I gave up on the text and decided to send an email to Finn. Dallas would probably hate that, but I had no other option. It was either Finn passing the message along or nothing. I didn’t have an email address for Dallas.
I opened my inbox. And there it was—a message from Dallas.
Subject: Those who understand us enslave something in us.
I recognized the words right away—they were from his tattoo, the first one I’d asked him about—and my breath caught in my lungs.
Before I could stop myself, I read through the email, my heart pounding faster with every word. I covered my mouth with my hand.