It wasn’t until I was already off the porch that he stopped me. “We know Savannah helps with your anger. Chases it away, or whatever your parents said. You can’t cling to our daughter for that reason.”
“I’m not—”
“At some point, you need to stand on your own and face whatever you’ve got going on inside. Your anger isn’t our daughter’s problem to worry about and fix and get mixed up in. It’s time you learned that. Time you stopped relying on others—relying on her.”
My body slowly locked up until it felt like I might shatter. “I don’t.”
The words were nothing more than a rumbled warning, and from the way Mr. Riley raised his hand and listed his head as if he was about to reprimand me, he heard it.
The actions didn’t help. My jaw clenched impossibly tighter in response. My knuckles ached in protest. Every muscle in my arms twitched as if preparing for something I couldn’t let happen.
It felt like something inside me was screaming. Clawing at me. Trying to force its way out.
Every part of me knew it would be so easy to let go. To give in. That standing there, holding myself so damn still, was physically draining. But I’d lived with this feeling for as long as I could remember. I’d fought against it daily—until I couldn’t. And after years of these demeaning conversations with the Rileys, I knew when to get out.
The other night, I’d lingered too long.
Right then, I was dangerously close to that line again.
“Same as you have your reasons for clinging to Savannah,” he went on as I took that first, rigid step back, “she’s only clung so hard to you because we’ve told her to stay away from you all these years. And one of these days, that rebellion will end for her. You will end for her.”
I managed to dip my head as I forced myself to back away. “You’re wrong.”
I stepped back that evening, hands raised as my stare darted over the kitchen. Making sure everything was ready and it all looked exactly the way I wanted it. Decaf coffee was ready to start brewing, the kettle had water ready to heat for tea, and the lemon pound cake honestly looked perfect.
“Plates, forks, napkins . . .” I murmured, face creasing as I looked at the island where the dessert rested. “What am I forgetting?”
I didn’t normally have dessert and drinks ready for guests who stayed at Blossom. I made breakfast and I set out a treat sometime mid-afternoon if they were around and not out exploring Amber or spending time with whoever they were visiting. But this weekend was different. Everyone in the house was there for Philip Rowe’s wedding, which meant I’d grown up with those people. A second family of sorts.
I turned at the sound of ceramic clinking together, my heart stopping painfully before racing toward the man who was pulling down mugs.
“I forgot those,” I mumbled lamely.
He set out enough for the guests, leaving them on the edge of the island because he knew I would rearrange them anyway, then turned to look at me. Expression tense and arms folded tightly over his chest.
Once the mugs were set up how I wanted them, he said, “Levi said Quinn’s name.”
“I know.”
Frustration and pain flashed through his eyes before they shifted away, his head shaking subtly. “Were you gonna tell me?”
“It happened right before you came over today.”
His chest pitched but his stare remained on the floor when he said, “In the five hours I’ve been here, you couldn’t find a second to tell me?”
“You’re just telling me,” I shot back, tone all kinds of defensive and sharp. “What if I hadn’t known?”
At that, his hardened stare drifted back to me, but there was a deep sadness lingering in his eyes and weaving through his words. “It just happened when I was putting him down.”
“Oh, well . . .” I swallowed, trying to push back the lump forming in my throat, and jerked up one of my shoulders. Feigning indifference so I wouldn’t turn into an emotional mess again. “That happened today. Thank you for the phone. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Savannah—”
“No, I need you to go,” I said, trying desperately to channel the harsh tone that came so naturally to Beau. “I have a full house, and the guests—”
“We have a full house,” he said firmly.
“No, right now, I do,” I argued and tried not to react to the way my words had a physical effect on him.
Arms falling to his sides and his body seeming to sag even though he was still standing so tall. The absolute fear and panic that played out on his face before every emotion slipped away.
“My guests will be back any minute,” I said, struggling to maintain the same callousness. “I don’t have time for you or this.”
“You don’t have time for your husband,” he said gravely. “You don’t have time to fix our marriage.”
“Not right now, no.”
A huff left him, all pain and defeat. “Savannah, we are more important than the guests, than this house—”
“No. No,” I bit out, head shaking furiously. “If we were more important, you wouldn’t have fucked my best friend. You wouldn’t have helped her leave. You wouldn’t have watched me grieve her and pretended to know nothing about it. You wouldn’t have built our entire life together on a lie.”
By the time I finished, I was screaming at him.
By the time I finished, he looked like he was dying under the grief he was carrying. Gripping at his chest that was roughly pitching and falling. Face creased like he was in agony.
It was a terrible feeling, looking at him and wanting to continue screaming. Wanting to throw something and rage at him for everything he’d done—every hurt and humiliation he’d caused. Yet, at the same time, my chest felt like it was on fire and encased in ice because the man I loved was in pain, and it made me ache for him. Made me want to comfort him.
But we were in this pain because of what he’d done, and I needed to remember that. Needed to remember that if I gave in, if I fell into his arms so we could try to forget for a little while, my own hurts and betrayals would still be there in the morning.
“That isn’t—”
“I don’t care,” I said over him, stopping him. “I don’t care. Right now, I want you to go. I need you to go,” I repeated, knowing deep down, Beau would always give me what I needed.
“We have to talk,” he said, voice pleading.
“We really don’t.”
Irritation bled from him. “What, but you’ll talk to my brothers? You’ll talk to Peter Rowe? Someone you haven’t seen in—God, I don’t fucking know.”
“Peter’s like family. Of course I’m gonna talk to him.”
“About us?” he ground out meaningfully. “I’m your husband. You need to be talking to me so we can start working through this. So we can fix this.”
“I’m not ready, you need to be okay with that.”
“Savannah, I’m losing my fucking wife. How am I supposed to be okay with that?”
“No, this is losing your wife,” I said as I closed the distance between us, pulling my rings off my finger and putting them and my shattered heart in one of his hands.