In the recessed bookshelves, there were the jade figurines that had been one of my initial prompts at realizing Nicholas was the one behind the journals. My lips curved at the sight of the antiquities that he had lovingly wrapped as he brought them here, to the home we made together, away from all the misery we left behind in the city.
The mother who had never gone through with my ultimatum and who I’d never heard from to this day.
The parents who preferred to believe the miserable ex over their son, and who couldn’t see anything good in me after their private investigator revealed I was from Brownsville and not some swank part of Manhattan.
After I’d graduated, when I’d looked into starting on my teaching degree and had conceded defeat by looking into hiring a nanny, Nicholas had found me sobbing in our bedroom.
I didn’t want someone else to raise Scottie.
Didn’t want someone else to be the one who kissed his boo-boos, and I didn’t want to go out into a workplace that truly wasn’t where my heart was anyway.
My job would only have covered the nanny’s pay and a little more, so what was the point?
When I’d told him that, he’d merely said, “I wondered when you’d come to that realization.”
My robot was also my hero but he was slowly getting better, and he had a lifetime to soften up.
But, without any ties to work, after he’d proposed with his mother grumbling in the background and a fat lady hollering at us in German, we’d come over here to get married, and we’d stayed. We hadn’t gone back to the States since. And I had zero regrets about that.
Zero.
From the library-cum-study, Scottie dragged me through the foyer of the house that was way too big for just the three of us—even twins wouldn’t fill up all these rooms—and took me out the front door and into what I called the backyard but what was, essentially, farmland.
When we passed the huge oak tree where I’d spread Mrs. Linden’s ashes, I smiled inwardly as I always did—she’d never have imagined me in France, married and pregnant at this age, but I knew she’d be happy for me. Knew it like I could hear her whisper those words to me in the flesh.
Ten feet on, and I came face to face with a paddock that, until now, had been empty.
The horse was huge. Stocky. And old. Its brown hair was twisted with gray, and its muzzle was as well.
One thing I hated about France? Something Nicholas did too? That they ate horsemeat.
On the regular.
I cut Nicholas a look, well aware that he was right behind me, and he shrugged. Knowing that I was correct, that he’d spared this horse from the butcher, I sighed.
How could I be mad at that?
This crazy, impossible man who stalked me to keep me safe, saved horses from the butcher, with whom I co-wrote bestselling psychological thrillers, and who was the father to my three children.
When I blew out a breath, I turned back and saw that Scottie had taken off without me, and was running around the paddock, with Barbie barking at his side as they followed the poor horse as it trundled around its new home.
I didn’t have to turn around to know the exact moment he moved behind me. I felt his warmth, felt it in my bones.
“We’re going to turn into a horse sanctuary, aren’t we?” I predicted glumly. It wasn’t that I was averse to the idea, but I didn’t even like horses. They scared me, and I sure as hell didn’t want Scottie riding them. Or Nicholas.
I’d seen him on the back of one of them when, at his mother’s request, he’d played a game of polo on a trip to the Hamptons one time.
It had scared the hell out of me.
Horses were so volatile. What if he fell? What if he got hurt? Injured, or worse?
Nicholas was my rock. My everything. I couldn’t deal with him getting hurt, not without it spearing me in turn.
“Maybe,” he admitted, mumbling the words sheepishly. “It depends. If I turn hermit, then I’ll—”
I snorted. “You’d find a way.”
“True, but I couldn’t just let—”
I knew that, and I loved him for it. “Of course.” I patted the hand that slipped around my belly. As I leaned into him, rested against my professor, I released a sigh when, deep inside, the buzz of the vibrator he’d triggered burst to life.
Even as good as it felt, I had to smile.
He always synced it to the same two songs.
Songs that fit us perfectly.
‘Tainted Love.’
We’d started that way.
Tainted. Dark. Stained.
But now?
The song merged into a new one.
One that he’d added to the toy’s playlist.
‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.’
As my body enjoyed the low throb that rumbled along my nerve endings, more than anything, I felt the meaning of those songs deep in my core.
“I love you,” he breathed into my ear.
And my smile was big and beatific as I watched my son and his dog play with a horse who really didn’t feel like playing, as one of his babies slept in my belly while the other danced on my bladder, as his arms wrapped around me as though I was the center of the world.
Because I knew he loved me.
Heart and soul.
Tainted, but pure for us because to him, I was the universe.
There was no other in his line of sight. No one else in his worldview.
With that in mind, I snuggled deeper into him, and whispered back, “I love you too.”
And those words barely scratched the surface of what we felt for one another, but they’d do.
Until I could show him properly later on tonight.
A few things…
Okay, guys, how are we feeling?
I know, intense, right?
But I have a few things to explain.
Firstly, the Yayoi Kasuma print that reminded Nicholas of his relationship with Phoebe can be found here:
Secondly, did you know there are four major categories of OCD out there? It falls between contamination and washing, symmetry with arranging and counting, taboo thoughts and mental rituals, and finally, the one that Nicholas suffers with: doubts about accidental harm and checking.
In this instance, his doubts and constant fears for Phoebe’s safety. And, subsequently, Scottie, and, yes, his unborn twins when they eventually show up.
Yes, Nicholas was a stalker, and yes, he was messed up. But I wanted to clarify something: Nicholas is both of those things, and being married to Phoebe doesn’t/didn’t cure him. OCD isn’t like that. It’s pervasive and involves intense rituals that are the only things that will take the anxiety away. Phoebe is many things for Nicholas, but Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and Exposure and Response Prevention Treatment she is not.
Nicholas is who he is, and she loves him for it. His drive to keep her safe shielded her from more than she ever knew, so, when you’re thinking about whether or not he’s a bad man, just keep those thoughts in mind. ;)
SONGS THAT WERE IMPORTANT IN THE MAKING OF THIS BOOK
Without Me - Halsey
Pray - Sam Smith
Ain’t No Mountain High Enough - Tammy Terrell and Marvin Gaye
Tainted Love - Marilyn Manson