Page 44 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth

Forty

Emily

Three months later

T he fairy lights strung along the eaves that overhang the farmhouse porch cast a warm glow.

Hundreds more of the tiny twinkling white lights wind through the verdant, blooming trees.

The summer air is redolent with the scent of flowers and buzzes with the tinkle of glasses and the low hum of conversation.

The sun hangs low in the sky, but hasn’t yet dipped behind the purple mountain.

I planned my book release party for the summer solstice for this very reason—the day will be long, and so will the celebration. I lean against the railing and survey the gathering spilling out from under the white tent to the wide lawn.

Sam and Jillian cross the yard to join me on the porch. Jillian’s long tiered maxi skirt swirls around her ankles. My agent hands me a flute of prosecco as he mounts the stairs.

“Here’s where you’ve been hiding,” Sam says.

“Not hiding. Just taking it all in,” I promise.

He raises his glass in an impromptu toast. “To breaking out of towers—and hitting the bestseller list.”

Jillian squeezes my arm. “And to think you almost missed your deadline,” she teases gently.

We had a long, boozy lunch on Sam’s dime after I turned in my book.

And whether from the wine or her easy manner, I poured out the whole story about why I struggled to write this book—and why it’s the most necessary piece I’ve ever written.

She understood, as writers do, and confided that she started writing romance after becoming a widow at twenty-two, awash in a sea of grief.

It turns out opening up to someone, letting them know me and knowing them in return, doesn’t make me vulnerable.

It makes me powerful. Whole. I owe this realization, and so much more, to Alex.

My gaze drifts over the lawn and I spot a familiar figure hovering on the edge of the celebration in the tent. I excuse myself and head down the stairs, pausing to smile at the late evening sun lighting up the cabin windows.

My writing studio is set up in the cabin, although some days I work in the farmhouse kitchen.

I feel close to Alex when I’m there—in between her pithy emails and our infrequent phone calls.

A beautiful arrangement of orange roses and white lilies sits on the porch—a congratulatory bouquet from her and Robert, sent from somewhere in Southeast Asia.

By the time I reach my inherited herb garden, Tristan’s broken free from the party. He stands alone, looking down at the overabundance of riotous basil. I come to a stop beside him and hesitate for an awkward moment, trying to decide how to start this conversation.

He turns toward me, one hand in the pocket of his linen pants and the other clutching a fluted glass.

“Nice turnout,” he says.

As I study my estranged husband, I silently thank him for breaking the ice for both of us.

He looks tired. But not haggard, not like he did in the aftermath of all that happened.

He has the lazy smile I know so well and the same warm eyes.

The light tan is new, and I wonder if he’s started running again.

“I’m glad you came,” I tell him.

It’s true, I realize with a start.

“I wouldn’t miss it.” He clicks his glass against mine. “I read the book. It’s your best work, Em.”

My smile is so wide my cheeks ache. “Thanks. I’m surprised you found the time. I thought you were working overtime on … the case.”

“I was. But we’ve officially closed the investigation,” he says quietly. “Dr. Wilde’s notes helped us connect everything. All the attacks, going back to Alex. Wilde documented everything.”

My smile slips away. “Everything? Even the way Tate pulled him into his world, ensnaring him?”

Tristan and I understand our psychotherapist was a damaged person, but we also agree that he was, in a way, one of Tate’s victims.

“Especially that. He was studying himself by the end. Taking notes on his state of mind in the barn where he hid to watch you and Alex. When he ran out of space in his notebook, he dictated detailed records on the satellite phone they found on him.”

“How’s the townhouse?” I ask. It’s an obvious subject change, but I don’t want to dwell on Dr. Wilde.

“Empty,” he answers simply. “I miss you. So do Ty and Lashina.” He hurries to add, “But I understand why you need time.”

He does, I know. “Tell them I say hi.”

“I will. You working on anything? Or just basking in the glow of all the effusive reviews of The Tower ?”

I point my chin toward my writing studio. “I’m starting a new book. A thriller this time.”

His eyes widen. “About what happened?”

“About women who save themselves. And each other.” I meet his eyes. “About how protection can become its own kind of prison.”

He flinches but holds my gaze. “Emily, I?—”

“I know why you did it,” I cut him off gently. “I know you love me. I know everything you did was an effort to keep me safe.” I pause, choosing my words with care. “But you kept me in the dark. In my own tower. And I need to know who I am when I’m standing in the light on my own.”

“Do you think you’ll ever be able to forgive me?”

That’s the question, isn’t it? Can I forgive him?

I don’t know. What I do know is forgiveness isn’t a binary event, but a winding path.

There are days when I ache from missing him, and I’m sure I’ll find my way back to him.

And there are days when the betrayal cuts as raw and deep as any physical wound, and I don’t know how I’ll ever trust him again.

More than any of this, though, I know I need to forgive myself before I can move forward—with or without Tristan.

I look out over the property Alex has entrusted to me—my fresh start.

I’m changing it from a fortress to a sanctuary alive with creation and possibility.

And I’m listening for the heart of the house, eating the blackberries that burst with flavor.

I’ve even brought her pollinator garden back to life.

I have so much here. But not everything.

Then again, I never had everything. I thought I did. But I didn’t. I had a caretaker, but not a partner; a lover, but not a friend; a relationship, but not a union.

After an eternity, I turn back to my husband.

“I still love you, Tristan. That hasn’t changed.

But there were so many secrets between us, walls we never broke down.

I need to figure out who I am and what I want when those walls aren’t there anymore.

I need to see myself clearly before I can see us clearly. ”

He nods, his expression pained but not surprised. “I understand,” he says roughly. “I want that for you, too, Em. Even if it means I have to let you go for a while—or forever.”

“Thank you.”

I need to walk this winding path alone for now. I need to tend to my own healing before I can begin to mend what’s broken between us. Tristan and I have both spent so long trying to protect each other and save each other. It’s time we learn to save ourselves.

He leans in close and for a moment, I’m transported back to a thousand other summer nights we’ve shared.

“But I hope it’s not forever,” he breathes.

The spicy scent of his cologne, the glint in his eyes as he murmurs in my ear, the electric thrill that pulses through me at his proximity. It would be so easy—too easy—to fall back into his arms, find solace in his strength like I have so many times before.

I remind myself I have my own strength. Leaning on Tristan was a habit, but not a healthy one. If we have any chance at a real future together, we need to break free of our old patterns. We both need to learn to stand on our own.

I force myself to take a small step back, putting a whisper of distance between us. A shadow crosses his face, but he doesn’t push.

“I’ll give you as much time and space as you need,” he vows. “I’m not going anywhere. When you’re ready, if you’re ever ready, I’ll be here.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak around the lump gathering in my throat.

I let my fingers rest on his arm briefly, a silent recognition of the story we’ve shared and everything still unwritten.

Then I turn away and head toward the tent where my guests are gathered to hear me to read a passage from The Tower.

As I walk, I breathe in the honeysuckle-scented air and soak in the warmth of the breeze that caresses my arms. I begin to hum softly along with the buzz of the bees hovering in the purple sage and raise my face to the glow and twinkle of the fairy lights that drip from the trees.

When I step under the white canopy, my mind is still, my heartbeat is steady, and my footing is sure.

I’m ready to tell my story, even though it has no ending.