Verity(68)

I wrap my legs tightly around him and bring his mouth to mine. He groans, sinking into me even deeper. He’s kissing me when he comes, his lips rigid, his breaths shallow, making no attempt to pull out. He collapses on top of me, still inside me.

We’re quiet, because we both know what we just did. We don’t discuss it, though.

After Jeremy catches his breath, he slips out of me and lowers his hand, sliding his fingers between my legs. He watches me as he touches me, waiting for me to reach my climax. When I do, I’m not worried about how loud I am because we’re the only ones here, and it’s bliss.

When it’s over and I relax against the bed, he kisses me one last time.

“I need to sneak out now before everyone gets home.”

I smile at him, watching as he dresses. He presses a kiss to my forehead before walking across the room to climb back out the window.

I don’t know why he didn’t use the door, but it makes me laugh.

I pull a pillow over my face and smile. What has come over me? Maybe this house is fucking with my head, because half the time I’m ready to get the hell out of here and half the time I never want to leave.

That manuscript is definitely fucking with my head. I feel like I’m falling in love with the man, and I’ve only known him for a few weeks. But I’m not only falling in love with him in real life. I’ve fallen in love with him because of Verity’s words. Everything she revealed about him has given me insight into the kind of person he is, and he deserves better than what she gave him. I want to give him what she never did.

He deserves to be with someone who will put her love for his children before anything else.

I pull the pillow off my face and I place it under my hips, lifting them so that everything he just left inside me doesn’t seep out.





I dreamt about Crew when I fell back asleep. He was older, about sixteen. Nothing significant happened in my dream, or at least, if it did, I can’t remember it. I only remember the feeling I had when I looked into his eyes. Like he was evil. It was as if everything Verity had put him through and everything he’d seen was embedded into his soul, and he had carried that with him through childhood.

It’s been several hours since then, and I can’t help but wonder if keeping silent about the manuscript is in Crew’s best interest. He saw his sister drown. He saw his mother do very little to help her. And while he is very young, there’s a possibility that memory will stay with him. That he’ll always know she told him to hold his breath before she tipped the canoe over on purpose.

I’m in the kitchen with him, just Crew and myself. April left about an hour ago, and Jeremy is upstairs, putting Verity to bed. I’m seated at the kitchen table, eating Ritz crackers and peanut butter, staring at Crew as he plays on his iPad.

“What are you playing?” I ask him.

“Toy Blast.”

At least it’s not Fallout or Grand Theft Auto. There’s hope for him yet.

Crew glances up at me, seeing me take a bite of my cracker. He sets down his iPad and crawls onto the table. “I want one,” he says.

It makes me laugh, watching him crawl across the table to reach the peanut butter. I hand him the butter knife. He spreads a huge glob onto a cracker and takes a bite, sitting back on his knees. His eyes fill with excitement. “It’s good.”

Crew licks the peanut butter off the knife and I scrunch up my nose. “Gross. You aren’t supposed to lick the knife.”

He giggles, like it’s funny.

I lean back in my seat, admiring him. For all he’s been through, he’s a good kid. He doesn’t whine, he’s quiet, he still somehow finds humor in the small things. I don’t think he’s an asshole, anymore. Not like the first day I met him.

I smile at him. At his innocence. And again, I begin to wonder if he has any recollection of that day. I wonder if Crew’s memories would determine which therapeutic program is best for him. Since his own father doesn’t know the extent of what he’s been put through by Verity, I feel like that’s on me. I’m the one with the manuscript. I’m the one with the responsibility to tell Jeremy if I think his son has been damaged more than he thinks.

“Crew,” I say, reaching down to the jar of peanut butter, spinning it with my fingers. “Can I ask you a question?”

He gives me one exaggerated nod. “Yup.”

I smile, wanting him to feel comfortable with my line of questioning. “Did you used to have a canoe?”

He pauses in the middle of licking the butter knife again. Then he says, “Yes.”

I scan his face for clues that I should stop, but he’s not giving me any. “Did you ever play in it? Out on the water?”

“Yes.”

He licks the knife again, and I feel a little relief that he doesn’t seem too disturbed by my conversation. Maybe he doesn’t remember anything. He’s only five; his perception of reality as it happens is different from an adult’s. “Do you remember being in the canoe? With your mother? And Harper?”

Crew doesn’t nod or say yes. He stares at me, and I can’t tell if he’s scared to answer the question or if he just doesn’t remember. He glances down at the table, breaking eye contact with me. He sticks the knife into the jar again and puts it in his mouth, closing his lips over it.

“Crew,” I say, scooting closer to him, placing a gentle hand on his knee. “Why did the boat tip over?”