Page 18

Chapter 18

Fleur

Four Months Ago

T raffic in Grand Rapids is disgustingly congested at times. After spending the afternoon with my mother shopping, my feet are tired, and I want to curl up with a cup of coffee. Snow still dusts the roads, and despite the glaring sun and blue skies, the temperature barely made it past forty degrees today.

The plan was to meet my father for dinner downtown, but both my mother and I were over the day.

While driving out of the city, I call our favorite pizza place in Rockford, planning to surprise Chris for dinner. He’s been working from home today even though it’s a Saturday. He won’t admit it, but he’s throwing as many extra hours as possible into his schedule. I think he’s saving for a ring. At least I hope he is.

My heart flutters at the thought, and I glance down at my left hand that grips the steering wheel. Nine years. We celebrated nine years over a month ago, and while I thought we’d be married by now, I’m content with our life.

The house we purchased sits on a busy road in a small community. Both Chris and I have talked about moving before having kids. Unfortunately, the housing market where we live is awful and interest rates are too high right now to consider purchasing another house.

It’s hard, though. Our friends from high school, the group we always surround ourselves with, are slowly getting married and settling down. Logically, I know it’s not a competition to see who can end up in a secure marriage and pop out babies the fastest but …

I pull into the pizza shop, noting it’s busier than normal. Probably with others who have been running errands all day, not wanting to cook either.

The owner, Rob, pins me with a judgy look when I pay for the two pepperoni pies. Pretty sure he remembers we picked up pizza only five nights ago. I flash him a grin and shrug my shoulder.

Raising my hand to open the door, I head back out to the parking lot. The pizza in the car makes my mouth water so I slide open the top of the box to pick a greasy pepperoni off the top. It’s official. I eat too much pizza.

Most of the time, I can get away with bringing leftovers into work. However, Chris’s mom often makes snide comments about our takeout. I believe she’s looking for me to make homemade meals for her son.

It wasn’t my plan to forgo a four-year college after high school, but Chris bought his house right after graduation, and we didn’t want to start our life in too much debt. When the opportunity to work for Chris’s parents presented itself, I jumped in with both feet. I enjoy my job, though. Mostly, I deal with customer service for them, but I feel like part of the family.

This job is something I can do with my high school diploma and still have time to devote to learning photography. Chris gave me my dream camera last Christmas, and I melted at his thoughtfulness.

Our little community sits off a four-lane road, but the kids are still outside, playing as if in their own little world while their parents sit in the driveways, sipping drinks. I smile at them as I round the corner to our home.

The plants I have in the two cream pots on the stoop are twigs now, having been destroyed by winter. The siding needs a good power wash, but the front door is inviting.

I pull in behind an unfamiliar car, grateful I grabbed two pizzas in case Chris has his buddies over. The black Ford Focus has a GVSU sticker on the rear window and I rack my brain, trying to remember who we know from Grand Valley State University.

The pizza warms my hands as I walk to the door, fumbling with my keys. Trying not to drop the precious pepperoni is my only goal as I wrestle to pluck the right key from the ring, but I manage to open the storm door, then the heavy wooden one.

“Hey! It’s just me,” I call out, dropping my keys in the bowl on the island. I set the pizzas down and yank off my coat, then toss it on the mini church pew that doubles as our entryway bench. It was a flea market find and I’m slightly obsessed.

I don’t hear anything, and I glance into the living room, noticing an unfamiliar black coat tossed on the couch. I spin, searching the house. It’s not large, so I’m not sure where he would be.

A sound comes from the back of the house—from our bedroom. I squint at the closed door and an odd sensation wriggles up my spine as I pad toward it.

The shower is on. I can hear it from the en suite despite the closed doors. Brows furrowed, I push into the bedroom. The bed is still made from this morning, but a pink purse lies sprawled out on the end.

I gulp.

Chris’s laughter sounds from the bathroom, muffled by the sound of the falling shower. I turn toward it. Steam wafts under the crack between the door and the bedroom carpet.

A pit forms in my stomach as I inch forward, my hand hovering over the door handle.

“Right there, Chris. Don’t stop.” A high-pitched female voice mewls.

I freeze. Heat flames in my cheeks, and I can feel the blood drain from my face. My mouth falls open as I stare at the door. Embarrassment and shame have me taking two steps backward, my eyes still glued to the bathroom, where Chris lets out another grunt.

He …

He’s …

I turn, stumbling into the bed, my face planting next to the pink bag and the waft of—what the hell—lavender? Numb, I push up, bolting for the bedroom door, my head taking one last glimpse toward the bathroom. With one quick jerk, I slam the door to the bedroom behind me.

Our bedroom. Our haven.

He was my first, and he was going to be my only. Forever.

The confusion from that first flash of the bag on our bed is eroding and I’m falling. I run to the door, shove my feet back into my boots, and I dart out the door without my coat.

The first tear blindsides me as I lean on my car door, trying to take in breaths. Pressure and pain crush my chest, and I clench my teeth, determined to get out of here.

He …

He was …

I back out of the driveway, narrowly missing the mailbox as I swing back on the street. The last thing in my rearview mirror is that damn sticker.

I’m so na?ve. I’m so stupid. How did I not see this?

I grip the wheel, shock shaking me to my core. I can’t stop fidgeting. My heart pounds while every car on the road is a blur around me. Through the crippling ache in my chest, I manage to avoid a complete breakdown.

What do I do? Why did I just leave?

I should’ve stormed in there. I should’ve knocked on the door. I might have done … something. Anything.

Why does it feel like I did something wrong? I went from bringing dinner home to my future husband to feeling like a stranger in my own house.

My muscles are taut as I stare straight ahead, speeding to the safest place I know.

I’m utterly devastated.

A text message flashes across the screen on my phone, but I can’t bring myself to read it. Ironically, I can’t even bring myself to feel rage at this moment.

My childhood neighborhood comes into view and instant relief floods through me at the sight of my parents’ vehicles there. I fumble out of my car, my knees shaking as I reach the front door. The cold temperatures dip lower as the sun sets over the horizon, and I shiver while I knock. It’s pathetic and weak, just like me.

How did I miss this? My thoughts vacillate between trying to search my memories for red flags and disbelief—maybe I misheard?

The door opens and my dad stands there.

“Fleur?” he says. “What are you doing here? Sweetheart, what’s wrong? Where’s your coat?”

My dad’s voice soothes the panic bubbling in my chest, and it eviscerates the hold I have over my tears. A sob bursts from my throat. Followed by another, then another.

I fall forward, the scent of my father’s aftershave bringing me home. I shudder as he wraps his arms around me, and I release a flood of tears on his sweater.

Present Day

I stare at the box on my kitchen table. The memories of that day are still fresh in my mind when I look at it. My dad held me, broken, for hours after I arrived at my parents’ house. My mother made coffee, and I worked through what I was going to do.

My whole life was in the house. Wrapped up with Chris.

As much as my mother told me it wasn’t my fault, that he’s the asshole, I couldn’t help but feel the need to run away. Far away.

I spent that abysmal night ignoring every phone call from Chris and searching for a place to disappear. One result yielded the Top Ten Smallest Towns in the South blog post, and after scanning the photos, I found Ruin.

Old Hillside was the only place in town to stay and when I clicked over to their website, they were hiring. It sealed the deal.

Circles. That’s what I walk around the table as I stare some more at the box. When I walked up to my front porch with the brown package sitting there, I had a feeling about who had sent it. Took three hours for me to bring the box inside, and it’s been in the front entryway for a week now.

He doesn’t have my new address, so it took me a minute to realize I had my mail forwarded to this address through the post office. I guess he assumed it would get to me.

I left almost everything behind. Tossed a few items into a duffel bag that my mom went to retrieve for me. There was no way I was going back into that house. But it left me starting over.

I don’t want to open it. The mirror in the corner of the room captures my reflection and I pause, sighing. The box needs to go. Adam is coming over later today. For the first time in several weeks, he’s coming over to chill and watch a movie. He’s been busy and unavailable lately, but I told myself in August I was committed to moving on. Or trying to.

Sliding the scissors through the tape on top of the box, a hum of peacefulness slithers through me. Maybe I need this. This will be healing.

Relaxing, I pull back each brown flap until I’m peering into the top of the box.

A letter sits on top of my black camera bag, and I roll up the sleeve of my cardigan to fiddle with the rubber bands. They instantly ease my anxiety. A tear takes off down my face and I snap a band, closing my eyes at each sting. Allowing the pain to ground me, to pull me deeper, shifting my worry.

The envelope has his handwriting on it. My name is in all capital letters because that’s how he writes. I swallow the lump in my throat while removing the letter.

I can’t do this.

The pads of my fingers skim the soft paper and I turn it over in my hand, flipping it several times while I mull over what he could have to say.

A knock sounds at the door, and I shove the letter back in the box, then move the whole thing to my bedroom. The front door opens as I shut my bedroom door, and Adam strolls in past the hall.

“Hey!” I say, tucking my hands into the back pockets of my jeans as I come back down the hall.

He doesn’t answer me, though. Instead, he sulks over to the couch and plops down, letting out a deep sigh.

That’s new. Usually, Adam is impossibly upbeat.

“You all right?” I ask, moving to kneel in front of him. His hair is disheveled, and his head hangs low. When he lifts his face to look at me, I gasp.

A large black and blue shiner bruises his left eye—the lid swollen. Dark circles camp underneath his eyes, the paleness of his skin creating an even starker contrast between the coloring.

“Adam, what happened?” I grip his knees and peer up at him. His eyes are dull and his face gaunt.

“Nothing. Had a run-in with a few of Darrin’s men.” Defeat shines in his eyes.

“Did you call the police?” I ask.

“No.”

“Why not? Gosh, they can’t get away with randomly punching you in the face.” I pull at his arm. “Let’s go right now. I’ll drive.”

“Leave it alone, Fleur,” he snaps, and I narrow my eyes at him.

I don’t want to leave it alone. This is getting out of control. I hesitate before standing and go to the freezer for a bag of peas. There’s more going on here. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I understand that.

I slowly turn back to the living room, watching Adam type out a message on his phone. He doesn’t want me to know and I’m not sure why. But I can relate to the struggle. It’s the same way I don’t want to tell him the man I loved found me replaceable. It’s embarrassing and stirs the insecurity around in my stomach.

Tossing the peas in the air twice, I sit next to Adam, curling into him on the couch, and I press the frozen veggies to his eye. He wraps his hand around mine, holding it as I hold the peas to his head.

“Thank you, Fleur.” He gazes at me, and I squirm under his study. I offer him a smile but jolt up.

“Coffee?”

“Sure,” he says, leaning back against the couch and closing his eyes.

I piddle around with the coffee maker for longer than I need to while watching him out of the corner of my eye. I can’t seem to shake the roiling sensation fluttering through my belly.

After fixing both cups of coffee, I snuggle on the couch and toss the remote into his lap. He scrolls through the app and picks out some action movie, and I settle in taking sips every few minutes or so.

We’re about halfway through the movie when Adam pulls me farther into him, rubbing my thigh. Tingles spread with each of his smooth touches, and I try to convince myself I’m ready for this. He’s been understanding about my reluctance—even though he doesn’t know why. I want someone to want me. Need to feel something other than humiliation. But am I ready to edge past our status of friends?

Don’t balk at this.

I nuzzle into his side, my head finding the crook of his arm. I smile up at him, and that’s when he moves. Tilting my chin up further, he leans down and presses his lips to mine. They are soft and subtle. A rush of blood to my head makes me dizzy as his kiss deepens. His tongue presses into my mouth and he moans. I meet his kiss, opening my mouth to him, searching. I want those fireworks, something to hint at the fact I’m moving on and it’s worth it.

Adam positions himself so he leans over me, and stroking hands roam up my side.

The ache to feel what he’s feeling grates at me, and I chase it. I press back into him, wrapping my hands around his head and tugging at his hair. He groans at my fervor, moving his mouth from my lips to my neck.

I can do this.

Adam rips away from me panting, his eyes pinning me. “Fleur, I want so much from you.”

I reach up to pull him back to me but pause. With my nose in the air, I sniff. Adam’s brow furrows, turning his face in the direction I’m smelling.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Do you smell smoke?”