I wanted it to be hate. Hate for those eyes and the woman behind them. Hate for what she had done.
Yet, I was never able to feel that hate. Not for her.
No matter how hard I tried, it was impossible.
Somewhere, deep in my heart and my brain, was the smallest seed of disbelief. Doubt that the woman I had finally lost my heart to could have ever betrayed me that way. I wanted it to be real; I wanted to believe her sweet words and gentle ways had been real—meant only for me.
I wanted to believe she had seen the man behind the scars and loved him, despite them—despite his past.
A tiny part of me refused to believe she hadn’t loved me. In the darkness of the night, when I lay awake and the memories washed over me, that quiet voice told me I’d been wrong.
I was missing something and Megan loved me.
Which only fueled the rage even more.* * *Any reporters that had been hanging around Cliff’s Edge had long since left. The story became old and not interesting enough to stick around for in case I reappeared, but, as a precaution, I was determined to keep a low profile. Early fall was now upon us, and the town slowly began to empty of tourists, yet I still stayed close to the house and beach. I only ventured into town once, late at night, to pick up supplies. I hadn’t even let Ashley and Jonathon know I was back, and I knew Mrs. Cooper would never violate my trust. She was the only person I had contacted when I returned.
Jonathon had been in touch on the rare occasion I would check emails in the small café that had internet access. My cabin was far too remote to offer such amenities. He begged for my return or at least for new pieces to sell. Every painting the gallery possessed was sold, and he wanted more. I never answered back, but I had a few upstairs he could have if he wanted them, as well as the ones I had brought back with me. Perhaps being back would help inspire me. I shook my head as I took a sip of wine, unsure I would once more feel inspired. I returned to close this part of my life, to decide whether or not to sell the house. I wasn’t sure I would ever feel the same about the place now, or ever feel as safe as I had before everything happened. The memories were too many and far too fresh.
As hard as I tried to deny it, Megan was everywhere. I could hear her laughter in the house; see her walking on the beach. Certain times when I would walk into a room, I swore I could smell her fragrance lingering in the air, even though I told myself it was impossible. This morning, when I awoke, a bright color caught my eye. Tucked behind the lamp was one of her many hair ties. She was forever losing them and I would find them scattered all over the house. For a brief moment, I stared at it before lifting it to my nose. It smelled of her—floral and light. A burst of anger tore through me and I grabbed the trash can, tossing in the hair tie. In the bathroom, I found her lotion in the cupboard and flung it in the can. I yanked the top dresser drawer open, almost snarling at the sight of some of her socks. She always had cold feet and was in constant need of warmth. My fingers closed around the fuzzy material, an image of her feet resting in my lap, as we watched a movie, caused my eyes to burn with unshed tears. I emptied the entire drawer, not caring what all was inside.
Downstairs, I grabbed a trash bag and dumped the overflowing tin into it. Megan, or whoever had removed her things, had done a lousy job, and I was determined to finish it. Elliott followed me, low whimpers escaping his throat. I tore open cupboard after cupboard, ignoring his discomfort. A half empty bottle of corn syrup ricocheted off the floor as I flung it blindly, remembering her sweet smile I thought was only for me. The pictures Jared showed me proved I was wrong. An unopened jar of raspberry jam hit the bottom of the bag so hard it shattered, as I thought about licking the sticky mess off her fingers one morning, then making love to her on the kitchen floor. Her face that morning had been glowing and alive. Not like the last time I saw her, pale and ashamed, a face in the crowd, his arm holding her. With a roar, item after item went in the bag. I wanted no reminders of the woman who deceived me. Nothing that would sneak up on me and cause the ache in my chest to burst into life and throb with an intensity I thought would kill me.