Reckless Hearts (Oak Harbor #2)(59)

It’s not enough, I want to cry. It could never be enough.

“I’m here,” Will says, regret so deep in his eyes. “I promise you, Dee. If you ever decide to forgive me, I’ll be here. And I swear, I’ll never let you down again.”

He waits a moment, but I can’t say a word. I’m fighting a war inside, paralyzed in place with nothing but my racing heart pounding in my ears. Will finally nods, then turns and walks slowly back to his truck.

I watch him walk away, still torn. Part of me is screaming to go after him, kiss him for real and never let go.

But that word lingers, the hardest word I’ve ever known.

Forgiveness.

He starts the truck and drives away. I watch until he’s gone. I’m alone on the street, arms wrapped tightly around myself; a poor imitation of the embrace I really crave.

I can’t think about what he’s just said, so I turn instead to the boat and pull back the tarp.

I gasp. He didn’t just rescue Harold—he restored it, too. The last time I saw it, the boat was peeling and old, those base boards splintered with a gaping wound cut clear through the deck. Now, it’s like he never went down at all. The boards have been replaced, so seamlessly you would never know they were damaged at all. Every inch has been repainted, smoothed and sanded, repaired by hand.

Tears well up in my throat. It was broken, and Will fixed it. Because he knew how much this old boat mattered to me, the memories it held.

Can it really be so easy? I stare at it, feeling helpless. Can you just replace the broken pieces, and have the scars painted over, better than before? Or do those cracks last a lifetime, shadows of the damage that went before?

I stand there a long time, feeling the weight of it all crushing down on me. Not just Will, now, but the questions I’ve been grappling with for years now. The ones I still have no answers to.

I go get back into my car, and drive—to the only person I want to talk to now. The only one who might have some understanding for me, more than anyone in the world.

My mom.





Twenty.


The house is empty, but I find mom out back in what used to be the garden shed, but has somehow been transformed into an art studio, complete with whitewashed walls, an easel, and shelves crammed full of paints and art supplies.

“When did this happen?” I ask, surprised in the doorway.

Mom looks up from behind thin, wire-rimmed glasses. She’s in front of a canvas daubed with watercolor flowers. “Oh, hi sweetie, I didn’t know you were here.” She sets down her paintbrush and hugs me at arm’s length. “Sorry, I’m such a mess.”

“That’s OK.” I step inside the small space, still curious. “I didn’t know you were painting.”

“What, this?” Mom gestures modestly, “It’s nothing. I used to paint all the time. I stopped when you were younger, but your father suggested I give it a whirl again. He signed me up for classes in the spring, and even did all of this with the shed, isn’t that sweet of him?”

“Well, it looks great.” I pause, not sure what to say, but Mom’s busy rinsing off her brushes and setting things aside.

“So, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” she asks.

“I . . . was in the neighborhood, thought I’d stop by and say hi.”

Mom gives me a curious look. Despite all the trailing scarves and watercolors, she’s still the sharpest one around. “We haven’t heard from you in a while. I thought maybe you and Will were enjoying some time to yourselves . . . ?” She pauses, hinting.

“We were.” I stop. “I guess . . . I wanted to talk to you about it.”

If Mom’s shocked I would ever be coming to her for romantic advice, she hides it well, and she shows me outside to where some chairs are set up under the old cypress tree. I sink into the cushions and pull my knees against my chest. She’s watching me expectantly, but I can’t dance around it with small talk and half-truths. It’s been plaguing me for years, and now, it seems more vital than ever to know.

“How did you forgive him?” I ask, my voice breaking. “When Daddy cheated. He lied, and he left us, and you act like it never happened now. I don’t understand.”

Emotion flashes across my mom’s face, and she exhales a long breath. I feel awful for bringing it up like this out of nowhere, but I’ve kept silent about it for so long, and I have to hear her side of the story if I’m ever going to figure out what to do.

“Did Will do something?” she asks, her voice sharp.

“No.” I find myself defending him. “Not, not like that. But, he betrayed my trust, and I just . . .” I stop and shake my head. “It’s not just about Will. I need to know this for me. I’ve tried, Mom, I really have. I’ve tried to just respect your decision, I know it’s your life, but I can’t wrap my head around it.”

Mom gives me a sad, quiet smile. “Oh, honey. It’s not a simple answer.”

“So explain,” I plead. “I want to understand.”

She looks away for a moment, over the yard, and I can tell she’s picking her words carefully. When she looks back, her face is content. “I guess what it comes down to is that I chose a life with him rather than one without.”

She says it so simply, but it can’t be simple. The cheating, the betrayal. How can she just sweep it aside? Make a calm calculation and then just move on?