Pen Pal(79)

I cried when she told me that. I broke down and bawled because it was so fucking tragic.

Then she told me about how he’d been following her since the separation, and those tears dried up real fucking quick.

I wanted her to get a restraining order, but Kayla said that aside from the aforementioned kick—which, for obvious reasons, ended their marriage—Michael had only been violent with her once, many years ago. It was the day before their wedding. He lost his shit about some minor thing and grabbed her by the arm. He apologized, but it rattled her.

Looking back, she said, that was the first sign that something in his brain was changing. The initial clue that everything would eventually go so terribly wrong.

I wouldn’t have blamed him. Had he been on top of his meds, I really wouldn’t. Mental illness isn’t something you do to yourself. It’s not a choice. Your brain gets sabotaged by chemicals that are beyond your control.

What is in your control, however, is your response to the sabotage.

He was too proud to stay on his treatment plan. He thought he could handle his illness by himself. In his arrogance, he thought willpower alone was strong enough to conquer biology.

He was wrong.

Kayla paid the price for that arrogance. We both did.

But like I told her in my letter, it’s a price I’d gladly pay a million times over. Even if I had to do it every day until the end of eternity, I’d slice open my own veins with a razor blade and happily bleed myself dry.

There was no way I was going to live without her.

So dying for her was the only choice.

My mistake was that I thought my blood alone would satisfy the monster inside her husband’s head.

Unfortunately, he was more bloodthirsty than I imagined.





39





Kayla





Four months ago





As I sit at the kitchen table staring at my wedding ring in the palm of my hand, I sift through all the memories of my marriage to Michael, both good and bad, until I realize that the reason I haven’t taken off this ring before now is very simple.

I’ve been honoring the dead.

My dead child.

My dead marriage.

My dead hopes for the future that included them both.

All the things I once cherished are gone. Now, the only way I can think of to move on from the past is to do what humans do when we mourn that which is no longer living.

Hold a funeral.

I go upstairs to the master bedroom and find an empty shoebox in the closet. In it, I put our marriage license, my wedding ring, and the black-and-white sonogram of the baby from my first ultrasound appointment, along with a few other mementos.

Then I go out to the backyard with a spade I took from the shed and dig a hole beside the vine-covered pergola I told Michael I was pregnant under.

When the hole is deep enough, I set the shoebox in. Then I cover it with dirt, every so often wiping the tears from my eyes with the back of one hand.

My marriage has been over for a while now, but it still hurts. I know it always will.

Pain is the cost of love. And the deeper your love goes, so too goes the pain. You can never have one without the other.

I sit back on my heels, my throat choked with emotion. To the small mound of disturbed earth in front of me, I say, “I loved you both with all my heart. I hope you can forgive me for all the ways I failed you.”

I think for a minute, but there’s nothing more to say. So I make the sign of the cross over my chest and go back into the house to change.

If my past is dead and buried, my future still awaits.





It takes him a while to open the door after I knock. It’s late, and he’s not expecting me. I stand on the step with my heart pounding outside my chest and all my nerves on fire with longing until I hear his footsteps approach. The doorknob turns, then there he is.

Though it’s been a few weeks and our last meeting at the Harbor House restaurant didn’t end well, Aidan looks at me as he always does, like I’m the first sunrise he’s ever seen in his entire life.

My voice cracks when I say, “You told me to call you when I got clarity. I thought I’d knock instead.”

He glances down at my bare ring finger. “Thank fuck,” he says faintly, exhaling. “I haven’t been able to breathe without you, bunny.”

He grabs me in a bear hug and squeezes me so tight, I can’t breathe either.

Then we’re kissing. Hot, desperate kisses as he drags me through the door and inside his apartment. He kicks the door shut behind us and hugs me again, pressing his face against my neck.

He holds me, his arms trembling, and I’m thankful for everything that brought me to this moment because I’ve never found anything finer than this.

I whisper against his ear, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Giving me the space I needed, even though I didn’t want it. But if you try giving me any more of it, I’ll kick your ass.”

His laugh is low and breathless. He pulls away and gazes down at me with shining eyes.

“How about if I give you something else you need?”

I lift my brows and say coyly, “Depends on what it is.”

His grin turns wolfish, and his voice turns dark. “Oh, I think you know what it is, little rabbit.”