Page 89 of Sin of Love
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Life is about choices, isn’t it? That’s not a question—not really. If you believe in free will, you believe in choice. AKA cause and effect. Science. Etc.
My point is… Eh, I don’t have one. Life is a fucking magic carpet and we’re standing beneath it. All we see is broken threads and horrendous knots. Weirdness. Darkness. Chaos. But that’s because we can’t see the top. The pattern.
And it’s beautiful up there, I’m sure of it.
My father donated all his money to charity and left me nothing but a key to the attic in his house where Deirdre and I found boxes and boxes and more boxes of memorabilia from my mother’s life and their life together. And my life, too, from infancy to just last year. All the flotsam I didn’t know existed or that he cared enough about to store. Articles, stubs, postcards…
Broken threads and those damn knots.
Life.
Ah, yes. I remember my point now. Why I took up the pen and this journal tonight while Deirdre’s out having dinner with Nate and London. I’m so grateful she has them. Every time she comes home from a visit, she seems lighter. Less burdened.
My point—right! Life is about choices, and I’ve made mine. The big one, the one that matters most. Something simple, the truest of the true.
Forgiveness over hate.
Love over fear.
And her. Always her.
I’ve asked Deirdre exactly seventeen times to marry me, but that was before. Now is our time. To fill our own boxes, to build and bloom and glow.
Eighteen is my number. I can feel it.
Fuck, it’s been a long day. Even though Deirdre told me not to, I couldn’t help micromanaging the setup of the Seven Sins paintings at the Voigt Gallery. Round two! This time the curator—bless her soul—made me sign a contract.
The paintings will sell. I’m fine with it. Really. Besides, I have the flesh-and-blood muse in my bed.
Speaking of my muse, she just walked in the door, a smile on her face and a gleam in her eye and I—
Journal of Gideon Masters
* * *
Snatchingthe pen from Gideon’s hand, I toss it onto the coffee table. “No more writing tonight.”
An inquisitive eyebrow lifts, golden-brown eyes flaring with humor as he closes his battered journal and sets it on the table.
“I was done, anyway. Come sit with me. Tell me about dinner.”
Rounding the couch, I crawl into the space under his lifted arm. It’s one of my favorite places to be—I can rest my face against his neck and breathe him in.
“Dinner was fine,” I mumble into his warm skin.
It wasn’t, actually. It was a new kind of torture. I was vulnerable, uncomfortable, and borderline hostile toward London and Nate, who ganged up on me when I admitted I was still struggling with truly letting go during sex.
Fun times.
In the end, my friends wove some persuasive magic, and I found myself agreeing to a drastic plan. From anyone else, I would’ve dismissed it as insanity. And I’m still not confident it will work, or is even a good idea. The opposite, in fact.
I’m scared.
“What are you thinking so hard about?” murmurs Gideon.
“Nothing.”
