“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.”
“It means I want to be here when you wake up tomorrow. And maybe the day after that. If it’s what you still want. Me with all my baggage.”
His mouth curved, slow, delicious. “I guess that means we’re an item.”
“I guess it does.”
She pulled his mouth down to hers then, both a promise and a plea. She still couldn’t say how far she was willing to leap, but she had forced herself to look down and at least judge the distance of the fall. It was a start. And maybe, this time she wouldn’t fall alone.
EIGHTEEN
ASHLYN
Maintain a safe distance from known threats.
—Ashlyn Greer, The Care & Feeding of Old Books
October 28, 1984
Rye, New Hampshire
Ashlyn opened her eyes to an achingly blue sky and sunlight streaming through unfamiliar blinds. It took a moment to get her bearings, to remember where she was—and why.
Ethan.
The space beside her was empty now, but the sheets were still warm. He hadn’t been up long. She lingered beneath the sheets, savoring the moment. It had been years since she’d awakened in a bed that wasn’t hers, years since she had allowed herself to be touched, held, loved. Now the memory of Ethan’s lovemaking was seared into both her memory and her flesh. Like the echoes of a book, never to be erased.
She waited for the inevitable wave of regret, the realization that it had been a mistake to let him into her life—and into her heart, because he was there too—but none came. Instead, she felt a dreamy and delicious languor, the whole-body tenderness of muscles newly awakened.
When she finally threw back the covers, she was startled to find her clothes scattered across the carpet, hastily shed last night along with Ethan’s. She left them, opting for the thick terry-cloth robe draped over the foot of the bed. She slipped it on, inhaling the scent of him as she wandered to the sliding glass doors overlooking a small terrace and the harbor beyond. Was the view always this stunning, or was it the events of last night that made the world look so fresh and bright?
Following the scent of brewing coffee, she padded downstairs to the kitchen. Ethan was at the stove, wielding a spatula. He turned when he heard her enter, flashing a sheepish smile.
“Coffee?”
“Yes please.”
He filled a mug and handed it to her, along with a spoon, then pointed to the cream and sugar. She doctored her mug, then sipped. “This is good,” she said, not meeting his gaze. She wasn’t well versed in morning-after conversation.
“Thanks.” He sipped from his own mug, eyeing her over the rim. “Everything okay? With us, I mean. With . . . last night?”
She grinned, charmed by his awkwardness. Apparently, he was no more versed in morning-after conversation than she. “Everything’s very okay.”
“No buyer’s remorse?”
“None.”
His shoulders relaxed as he turned back to the stove. “You might want to revise your opinion after breakfast. I’m making pancakes—or attempting to—and the jury’s still out. Want to grab us some silverware?”
Ashlyn laid out the place settings while Ethan churned out a stack of pancakes and a plate of perfectly browned sausage links. In eight years of marriage, Daniel had never made her so much as a piece of toast. On impulse, she slipped behind Ethan and pressed a kiss to his shoulder.
He turned, surprised but smiling. “What was that for?”
“Pick something.”
“What would you like to do today?” he asked as they settled down to breakfast. “Assuming you don’t have to work, that is.”
The question caught her off guard. She hadn’t thought beyond breakfast. “I don’t, actually. It’s Sunday. But shouldn’t you try to get some writing done now that we’ve wrapped up the Belle and Hemi mystery? Your publisher awaits.”
“I probably should, but I’d rather spend the day with you. And I’ve finally started making some progress, so I’ve earned a break. We could hit Hillcrest Farm for cider doughnuts and music. Maybe see a movie?”
“Or . . . we could go to a bookstore.”