I stood, shaking my head slightly to dispel the traces of the world I’d been living in: a land of both ruby-laden castles and bridges built from thorns. The world I’d been crafting from the rubble of my shattered heart. Piece by piece by piece. And it wasn’t nearly done. I still had so much work to do.
I pulled the door open and Dawson’s mouth fell open, his gaze raking down my body and back up again. “Jesus Christ, Karys. Are you okay? The police said you were in here but I almost didn’t believe them. What the hell happened? My mother is beside herself.”
It took me a minute to digest his words. “I’m okay,” I said. “I’m . . . working.”
“Working? What the fuck? You disappeared from our engagement party, Karys. You haven’t shown up to work. What the hell is going on?”
I stepped back into my apartment, my shoulders dropping as I bit my lip. “I can’t go to my office right now. I . . . I need some time, Dawson.”
“Some time? Some time for what? What happened to you?”
What happened to you.
I was abandoned, then stolen. I was sex trafficked. Used. Then I was betrayed. Abandoned again.
And somewhere in there I fell in love, I smiled, I felt joy and satisfaction.
I hated myself. I loved myself. I was miserable and grateful and desperately confused.
I was blinded by the pain, and my eyes had been opened to the truth in all its tragic glory.
And I was grieving. I was grieving the loss of the other half of my soul.
And it was too much to grapple with. Too big to sort through without some kind of filter. And that’s what the writing was doing. It was helping me look at my life with objectivity. It was keeping me sane.
I pulled at the button on the shirt I’d changed into and then I looked at Dawson. Really looked at him. “I don’t love you enough,” I breathed. I don’t love myself enough either. “And I’m so sorry about that.”
His brows knitted and then he became very still. “What? Where is this coming from? You look ill, Karys. Something’s wrong.” A huff of breath gusted from him. “Is it because of the coke? I told you, I’m stressed, okay? And frankly, this shit”—he gestured toward me and presumably my appearance—“isn’t helping at all. We had to tell the guests you’d gotten sick. Maybe it wasn’t a lie.”
“No, it wasn’t a lie. Something is wrong. And I am ill. I’ll get better. But, Dawson . . . I can’t marry you.” The last word emerged as a whisper. So little was clear. I was swimming in a turbulent sea of misery and confusion. But that, that was as clear as the glass mountains my heroine had recently scaled. I couldn’t marry a man I had lukewarm feelings for. I couldn’t do that to him, and I couldn’t do that to me. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Dawson’s expression hardened. “You’re having some sort of breakdown, Karys. I’ll give you some time to get through it and then we’ll talk.”
I shook my head. “I don’t need time for that. You deserve better.” I’d thought maybe the lie I was punishing myself for was that I had ever fully moved on from Zakai. But that wasn’t it. I had been punishing myself because I didn’t love Dawson, and yet I’d been telling myself I did. Shame rattled within me. I had been so deeply unfair. I reached into my pocket and brought out the ring I’d taken off and put it in Dawson’s hand. He stared down at it for a moment, his expression tightening even more.
“Jesus!” He raked a hand through his hair. “Are you that fucked up that you’re going to throw our relationship away? Embarrass me in front of half of New York City’s elite? Are you really going to let some madman in the desert rule your head for the rest of your fucking life?”
Maybe. I’m not sure yet. “Tell your mother I’m very sorry,” I said, moving toward the door that still stood open so I could close it behind him. “Someday you’ll both see that . . . I wasn’t right for you.”
His features contorted in anger. “That day is today,” he gritted. “I understand why you’re a headcase, but for the love of Christ, get yourself some help.” And then he turned on his heel and walked through my door. I closed it softly behind him, and then I returned to my computer, and to the new world I was constructing, brick by brick by brick.
**********
The first draft of my manuscript was finished twenty-seven days later. In that time, I’d called my workplace and formally given my notice. My boss seemed perplexed and disappointed by my behavior, yet she wasn’t unkind. “I’ve . . . had my own battles, Karys. You’ve always been a diligent and conscientious employee. You get yourself well and if you’re interested in coming back, give me a call.” I thanked her profusely, but my priorities—at least for the time being—had shifted.
Next I’d called Carly and Ayana whose messages had filled my voicemail, ranging from teary words of support, to strict demands that I call them immediately. When I finally did, I reassured them I was okay and asked Ayana if I could come back to the café on a part-time basis, earning enough—in addition to my savings—to keep myself housed and fed as I dove into the second part in my series.
“Of course you can, dollface,” she’d said. “As long as you promise never to scare me like that again.”
I immersed myself back into my fictional world, writing at night and all day when I wasn’t scheduled at the café. I showered. I ate regular meals. I smiled and chatted with customers at my job.
Three months after the day I’d staggered home in the rain, devastated and broken—and likely half insane—I called my former boss at the publishing company, not because I wanted to return as an employee, but because I hoped to be taken on as an author. My boss seemed hesitant, but finally agreed—with absolutely no promises—that she’d take a look at my manuscript. I understood that I’d put her in an awkward position, and I was eternally grateful for her generosity. I was unsure of its merit, or if it was even good timing as far as the market went. But I was confident she’d be honest—for better or worse—and that’s all I could hope for.
I dug into the fourth and final book with the gusto of an artist, not creating art for any specific outcome, but because the project felt like my lifeblood.
I was no longer constantly teary. I was no longer emotionally sick.
What I was, I discovered, when I finally visited the doctor due to what I thought was the stomach flu, was pregnant.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Present day
The Golden Quill Book Awards, New York City
I turned my head, Zakai’s lips sliding away from mine as I stepped back. Away. “No,” I said. “We’ve been here before. It doesn’t work.” I drew my shoulders back, gathering my strength.
He let out a slow, controlled breath, glancing away momentarily. “No,” he said after a moment. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Karys. I didn’t come here to hurt you.” He chuckled softly but it ended in a grimace. “Truthfully, I didn’t come here to kiss you either. It seems we always end up . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence but I knew what he meant all the same. We always end up in each other’s arms.