The Echo of Old Books(102)

Ethan was watching her closely now, steeling himself for whatever might be coming. “Last straw . . . meaning?”

Ashlyn moved to the fireplace, her back to him as she stared into the fire. “He started to make a scene, so I got up and left. I had already crossed the street by the time he came out of the bar. I heard my name and turned. He was standing on the curb, looking straight at me with this weird expression. There was a van coming down the street, the kind that carries those big sheets of glass. He watched it come closer . . . and then he stepped off the curb.”

She heard Ethan’s ragged intake of breath, his long, slow exhale. “My god . . .”

His expression when she turned to face him was one of genuine horror. She squared her shoulders, bracing herself to say the rest. “Just before he stepped into the road, there was a split second . . . He looked up at me and smiled; then he called out, Say hello to Dr. Sullivan.”

“Who is Dr.—”

“Dr. Sullivan was my therapist. The one I used to see every other Thursday after my father shot himself.”

Ethan’s face went slack. “You’re saying . . .”

“I’m saying he knew exactly what he was doing—and he knew I knew it. He knew what it would do to me, that I’d . . . come apart.”

“This is what you meant in the car,” he said softly. “When you talked about someone you love hurting you intentionally.”

“Yes.”

“I’m so sorry, Ashlyn. But at least the bastard didn’t succeed. I mean, here you are.”

“He did, actually. Or nearly did.” It was an uncomfortable thing to share, to admit that Daniel’s attempt to unravel her had nearly worked. But she needed him to know it all, to understand why they were a bad idea. Why she was a bad idea. “Three people,” she said thickly. “Three people who were supposed to love me, and they all left—on purpose. With a track record like that, it’s hard not to think it’s you—that something about you isn’t . . . enough. I ended up on another therapist’s couch. Tuesdays this time instead of Thursdays. For more than a year.”

Ethan was silent for what felt like a long time. Finally, he dragged a hand through his hair. “I get it now,” he said quietly. “I get it and I have no idea what to say, except that I’m sorry. For him to do . . . that. Knowing what you’d been through. It’s inconceivable.”

“For a while, I tried to convince myself I’d imagined it.”

“You didn’t, though.”

“No.” Ethan’s face became a watery blur as she met his gaze, the tears she’d been fighting suddenly spilling free. “It wasn’t an accident and it wasn’t an act of despair. It was about having the last word.”

“Damn it,” Ethan whispered, brushing at her tears with the back of his hand. “Damn the bastard. And damn me, too, for pushing you to talk about it.”

Ashlyn shook her head, sending another pair of tears sliding down her cheeks. “It’s okay.” She meant it too. It felt as if a weight had been lifted from her chest, as if trusting herself to say the words aloud, not to a therapist but to someone she cared for, someone who cared for her in return, had robbed them of their power.

The rest came spilling out then, things she’d never told anyone, dark things that brought a fresh round of tears. But these new tears were tears of relief, of liberation and clarity. Suddenly, in that moment, she realized she could forgive Daniel, not only for his final act of brutality but for all of it. The manipulation, the infidelity, the hundreds of tiny cruelties that had made up their marriage. But perhaps even more astonishing, she realized she could forgive herself. For giving him power over her, for seeing too late who he really was—and for staying long after she knew.

Ethan held both her hands as she spoke, remaining silent when she ran out of words. The quiet stretched, leaving only the crackle of flames between them. She looked up at him, managing a shaky smile. “You said you were a good listener and you are. Thank you.”

“I’m glad you felt you could trust me.”

“You asked me once if there really hadn’t been anyone since Daniel. Now you know why. Because I swore I’d never trust anyone again.”

“But you can trust me, Ashlyn . . . if you want me.”

Did she? Want him?

She touched her palm to his cheek. On some level, she already knew the answer, had known it for weeks. As always, it was a matter of trust. Not of Ethan but of herself.

“I think I might,” she said softly, as much to herself as to him. She waited a beat before pressing her mouth to his. A moment to savor the dizzying thrum of her pulse. A moment to be sure. And she was.

His breath caught as she touched her lips to his, a swift, sharp inhalation that seemed to draw her closer, deeper. She heard his startled groan as his arms tightened around her, his mouth soft and shockingly warm as it opened to hers. She had surprised him, surprised herself, too, and the knowledge sent something primal and delicious spiraling through her.

There was a brief pang of alarm as the kiss began to deepen, a slim window of uncertainty when it might still have been possible to pull away. They were careening toward something irrevocable, a step that would make extrication both messy and painful. But she wanted this—wanted him—and whatever came next.

Ethan seemed to sense her decision in that moment. He pulled away and looked down at her, his breathing heavy. “At the risk of blowing the moment, I need to know what this means. I don’t want to get it wrong—for either of us.”