I sigh and loop my arm through his, getting us moving again. “How many women have you dated since we split up?”
He scoffs. “None. You know I’m shit at dating.”
I smile. He obviously hasn’t improved since our first date. He was so nervous, and the nerves made him clumsy. It was endearing and hilarious all at once. And aside from his fine build and handsomeness, it was one of the things that attracted me to Ollie. How together he was as a cop, and how utterly disastrous he was as a date. The two sides of him were contrasting and lovable. “How many women have you slept with?” I ask, wincing at the mere thought, wondering why the fucking hell I’m asking such stupid questions.
He stops us and turns into me, his expression irritated. “Don’t try and do that thing women do. When they try to be your friend as a consolation prize.”
“I’m not a consolation for you, Ollie. I’m a lucky escape.”
His hand drags through his hair roughly. “You’re so fucking self-destructive, Beau. Resentment is eating you up inside.”
“I’m getting better,” I say, unable to get angry with him. Anger is exhausting, like hate. I’m too tired right now to feel either. “I really am.”
He sighs, and I see something in him settle. Defeat. “I just need you to have peace again,” he says. “There are no questions to be answered, Beau. It was a freak fucking accident, and you need to move on.”
Move on. I hate those words. Only people who have never lost someone they love use those two insensitive words. “Something doesn’t feel right,” I mumble, swallowing, and he exhales, pulling me in for a hug. I sink into his hard chest, my eyes closing. “I need you to stop believing you can give me peace,” I say, letting my arms hold him. This hug feels so final. Does he sense that? “Let me go, Ollie,” I order gently, opening my eyes. He doesn’t ease up, and I don’t reinforce my request. Because something has captured my attention across the parking lot in the distance.
James.
He’s standing by a silver Range Rover, watching me. Watching us.
What the hell? I pull away from Ollie and step back. Not because James is watching, but because Ollie is hoping. “It’s time for you to move on too,” I whisper, reaching for his arm and giving it a squeeze.
He nods slowly, beaten, handing me my wine and dipping to kiss my cheek. “Take care, Beau.” He turns and walks to his car, and the moment he’s pulled away, I seek James out again. He hasn’t moved.
I wander over, feeling resolute and calm, but when I make it to him, just a few feet away, I can’t seem to find the right words.
“Who was that?” he asks. They’re not the right words from him, either, and definitely not a question I’m interested in answering.
“Why are you here?” I must change my hiding places. Two men have found me in twenty minutes.
“Who was it?”
“You think you can show up here and demand answers to questions you have no right to ask?” I sound calm. I feel anything but.
He has the decency to look mildly ashamed. “I didn’t like it.”
“What?”
“You with that man,” he more or less snarls. “I didn’t like it.”
Unbelievable. “You’re jealous?” Is he serious? One night of madness, and he’s jealous?
“I didn’t like it,” he grates.
“I don’t like the code language you use.”
He opens the door of his car. “Get in.”
I gawk at him. “Excuse me?”
“Get in the car,” he hisses.
“I have my own car.”
“That’s not a car, Beau. It’s a fucking death trap.”
God help me before I slap his obstinate face. “Tell me what you meant,” I snap, squaring up to him. “Your other name, what I’m getting myself into. Tell me.”
“No.”
“Then why the hell say it?”
His jaw twitches dangerously. I’m with him. “Because I can’t seem to control my fucking mouth when you’re around.”
“Tell me!”
“No.”
“Then I’m leaving.” I back away. “And you’re going to let me.”
He inhales, gathering patience. “I don’t have much choice, do I?” He shuts the door of his car, regarding me for a short time. “You don’t want it again?”
I take another step away from him, trying to escape the range of his magnet. “No,” I answer, not nearly quickly enough.
His nostrils flare. “You’ll come back,” he says surely, drilling into me with his penetrative eyes before he gets in and pulls away speedily, drawing the attention of a few shoppers leaving the store.
I breathe out, deflating, my head spinning. I don’t even know what the fucking hell just happened. He came, we yelled, and he left before I had a chance to. But he left apparently certain that we’re not done.
I don’t want him to be right. But I fear he is.
I slowly walk to my car, looking at the bottle of wine. Drink it all. Every last drop.
I’m interrupted from my recklessness by my cell. I don’t have the heart to ignore Lawrence’s call. So I answer, getting in Dolly and turning the heaters up. “I was with a man,” I say when I answer. I’m a grown woman. I shouldn’t feel like I have to hide this. Lawrence doesn’t need the details, and he doesn’t need to get excited about any future prospects, but he does need to know I was doing something relatively normal. Like having sex. The sordid details beyond that aren’t necessary. He’s seen them on my wrist, anyway. “That’s where I was last night. With a man.” Lawrence remains silent, and I frown at the windscreen. “It’s the man I am . . . was working for. It just happened, and I didn’t try to stop it. It felt good.” He should love that. He should relish the thought of me feeling good, even if it was brief. “There’s nothing to read into it past that. It was a one-off.” His lack of a reaction is starting to annoy me. “Don’t you have anything to say?”
“A letter’s arrived.”
My cell becomes heavy in my hand. My heart heavy in my chest. “Open it.”
“Come home, Beau.”
“Open it,” I repeat, turning off the heaters, suddenly roasting hot. Nervous. Hopeful. “Please.”
“Not until you come home. We’ll open it together.” He hangs up, taking away my options.
“Damn you, Lawrence.” I smack the steering wheel and pull out of the parking lot as fast as Dolly’s capable, and I drive home in a haze of panic and fear, my body racked with shakes.
Jumping out of my car and racing up the path, I ignore the scratches from the overgrowth, not bothering to knock them out of my way.
Bursting through the door, I hear Lawrence and Dexter in the kitchen, and I make my way to them, my heart pounding dangerously. They’re at the table, and they fall silent when I walk into the room.
The letter sits between them, a harmless piece of paper waiting to ruin me or cure me. Lawrence jumps up and comes to me, taking my arms just above my wrists. “Promise me this is the end of it,” he begs, stroking up to my shoulders and gripping hard. “Whatever is in that letter, it’s the end. We put it to bed.”