By the time Troy gets to Eugene, maybe even before that, he’ll see I was right in ending things with him. He deserves the happily ever after I can’t give him. My life—all that I touch—is a mess, and I can’t risk it tangling anyone else in my web of devastation.
Bailey whimpers. I crouch next to her, hug her, and let my silent tears soak into her fur. I’ve screwed up everything for the man I love. I wish I hadn’t moved to Maple Ridge. Then his business wouldn’t be in trouble because he’d hired me, and the festival wouldn’t be dealing with the possible fallout from me being involved with it.
I heave my ass off the floor and retreat upstairs to the guest room. If I’m going to drown in sorrow and grief, I might as well pour my feelings into Angelique’s own pain and keep writing.
I sit in the window seat with my laptop and get lost in the words. Tears wet my cheeks, but I can’t tell if they’re for Angelique’s pain or for my own or both.
The sky is dark by the time I finally glance at the clock. 1:50 a.m.Oh. Wow.I hadn’t realized it was so late. I’d stopped to eat dinner several hours ago but went back to writing afterward. Guess whatever had kept my words from flowing is gone.
Careful not to accidentally kick Bailey, I put the laptop to the side and move off the window seat, my muscles stiff. She fell asleep a couple of hours ago, her body squeezed between my legs and the ledge.
I take a moment to stretch my muscles. I should feel tired, but I’m not. I’m not sure I could even fall asleep. I’m too wound up. About the festival. About Angelique’s story. About what happened with Troy.
I don’t know what I’m going to do now. I’m unemployed again, which for now isn’t too big of a worry since I have the money the State of California paid me for the wrongful imprisonment. But that won’t last forever. I’ll need to begin planning for the long term now that I’m no longer working for Troy.
I go into the bathroom and flick on the light. Troy performed miracles with the small space, like he did with the rest of the house. It’s beautiful and functional. Not an inch of space goes to waste.
He knows how to fix up things that are falling apart and need a fresh start. Too bad his talent wasn’t enough to put me back together. Put me back together so I’m a new and improved model.
I pull the elastic from my hair and let the long strands fall past my shoulders. The dark roots are a stark contrast to the blond. Until the fallout of Cora’s article hit Maple Ridge, I’d been meticulous with my roots. Now, they’re one more reminder of how messed up my life has become. How my dream of starting over has met roadblock after roadblock.
I go to the toilet, wash my hands, and return to the guest bedroom. Bailey is no longer sleeping. She’s standing on the window seat and looking outside at the night sky. The street is quiet. No one is walking or driving past.
“You want to go for a walk?” I ask her. She barks and jumps down.
In the foyer, I attach Bailey’s leash to herService Dog in Trainingvest and peek through the gap in the living-room curtains to make sure no one is watching the house. No one is, and we step outside.
I inhale the fresh scent of freedom and pine and walk along my path to the sidewalk.
Bailey sniffs the ground and pulls me toward the small patch of neatly mowed grass that makes up my front lawn. She does her business and I survey the front yard. I have a plan for what I want to do to it over the next few years, but now I might not be able to see it come to fruition. If I can’t find a job in Maple Ridge or a way to make a steady income from home, I might have to eventually sell my beloved house and move elsewhere.
I’ll have to start my life over once again.
How many times will I have to move because people think I’m a bad person due to my unfortunate past? Will pitchforks be the welcoming committee no matter where I end up?
Living in a city might be my sole option for starting over. I’m not the only former inmate who’s released and needs a job. There are places that will hire me regardless of where I lived prior to Maple Ridge. Jobs that are no one’s idea of a dream occupation, but I might not have a choice.
The person who killed my husband took so many of my choices away from me—choices that would have given me the happily ever after I so desperately want.
If it weren’t for the restitution payment, I would have to face the reality of moving sooner rather than later. Hopefully by the time I have to move—if it comes to that—my past will be less of an issue than it is now. People will have moved on and no longer think the worst of me.
Bailey and I wander along the sidewalk, and I think about my options of where I could move to. Hawaii? Caribbean? Iceland? I snicker, exhaustion beginning to wiggle its way through my body. While they sound like marvelous places to move to, they’re probably not feasible choices.
Realistically, I’ll have to pick someplace in the U.S. The only place I won’t move to is Seattle, where Amelia lives. Knowing she’s so close but I’m not allowed to see her would be too painful.
My thoughts drift back to Troy, and a throbbing pain grows in my chest. Angelique’s words come to mind from when she lost Johann:Just one breath at a time, and one day I won’t have to keep reminding myself of that.
I try to do as she suggested, but it’s not easy. The memory of those final minutes between Troy and me—the argument, Olivia phoning him so he could say good night to Nova, of he and I severing what we had between us—suffocates me. I can barely draw in a lungful of air.
* * *
The next morning,I help Bailey into her trailer and cycle to the grocery store. After I finally went to bed around three, I tossed and turned most of the night. My legs feel like I’m cycling through quicksand. It’s a miracle I’m actually moving. My body’s sluggish as hell.
I arrive as the store is opening. A teenage employee near the shopping carts gives me a once-over. His gaze lands on the scar by my mouth, and he grimaces, his disgust unmistakable.
I ignore it. It’s not like I care what he thinks of my appearance. Or maybe it’s my past he’s shaming me for.
Bailey and I walk through the store, picking up the items I’ll need for the next couple of days. My last destination is the haircare aisle. I reach for a box of the blond color I’ve been using.
