Her brow furrowed. “I don’t hate you, Zachary. I don’t understand you, but I don’t hate you.”
“Why?”
She stepped back. “You’d better come inside.”
I followed her in, my knees almost crumbling as I inhaled.
Megan.
She was everywhere.
Her scent soaked the air. Her favorite sweater was draped over the back of the chair. Her sneakers were lying on the floor by the door, looking as if they had been kicked off moments ago. The journals I’d given her were sitting on the table. I looked around in panic, expecting Dixie to come running, barking out a greeting, or to see Megan’s sad face looking at me.
My gaze flew to Karen, who shook her head. “She isn’t here.”
“But she was.”
“Yes.”
Reaching behind me, she shut the door. I stepped forward, only to let out a muffled curse. In three strides, I was across the room, standing in front of Tempest. My fingers flew over the canvas, confused. I had left it behind. In one angry stroke of a knife, I had destroyed the image. Severing the completeness of it, the way Megan’s betrayal had severed my heart. I left it to her as a symbol, torn and jagged, yet it was here, mended and complete.
“How?”
Karen stood beside me. “It broke her heart—almost as much as you leaving. She asked Ashley for help to have it restored.” A small humorless laugh left her mouth. “She wouldn’t take money to fight Jared, or accept help for anything, but she asked me to loan her the money to fix your painting.” She moved away and sat down. “It arrived back this week. She was going to give it back to Ashley for you, but she couldn’t bear to part with it yet.”
I sat down across from her, my legs feeling too weak to hold me up anymore. “Where is she?”
“You don’t have the right to know the answer to that question.”
“Please.”
A weary sigh shook her frame. “She’s been staying here.”
I swallowed the thick feeling in my throat. “But she’s gone now?”
“She went back to Boston. She was meeting with some people about her book.”
“She’s being published?”
Karen shrugged. “She hasn’t decided yet. Things are…complicated right now.”
“Is she all right?”
“Do you really care?”
I had no idea how to answer that loaded question. For months I’d been fighting feeling anything besides anger and betrayal. I’d been trying, so hard, not to feel anything except contempt for her. It was a battle I knew earlier today I had lost before I’d even begun to fight it. I missed Megan so much, it made me even angrier, which made my denial stronger, and the whole time I’d been wrong.
So fucking wrong.
“Yes, I care.”
“You have a strange way of showing it.”
“I thought she lied to me. I thought she was using me.”
“Because you chose to believe the lies of someone other than her. You never even gave her the chance to explain!”
I could hear the anger in her voice. “It made more sense,” I offered, knowing it was a feeble excuse.
“It made more sense than her loving you?”
“Yes.”
“You’re more fucked up than I even thought, aren’t you?”
“I don’t understand love.”
“You made that obvious.”
I frowned at her, not understanding. “Did Megan not tell you my past?”
Karen leaned forward, almost sneering at me. “Listen, Zachary, and listen well. Until a very short time ago, I knew nothing about your past—about who you were. Megan kept it all private.” She sat back, her eyes drifting to the table. “Until this moment, I didn’t realize how well she wrote it.”
“Wrote what?”
She stood up and picked up Megan’s journals. She held them in her hands, as if making a decision. She withdrew the red colored one and placed it on the table, then handed me the rest of the books. “She wrote your story.”
I was shaking as I took the books. “Why?”
She sat down again. “Partly to get the memories out, I think. Mostly though, to heal. She wanted to remember all of it. She didn’t plan on doing anything with them, except to write them out of her head. It was better than her sitting here, staring into space, which is what she did for a few days. I got up one morning and found her writing, as if her life depended on it. I knew she’d be okay—it would take some time, but she would recover. If she could write it out, she’d get through this.” Her eyes narrowed. “And she has.”
“She’s moved on.” My voice sounded clogged, almost choking as I spoke.
“How long are you staying here?” she asked abruptly, ignoring my statement.
“I don’t know.”
“You need to read those books.”
“Why are you keeping one?”
“It’s the last book. The ending, if you like. Once you read those, we’ll talk. I’ll decide if you get the last one.”
“Why are you giving them to me at all?”
The room was silent as she mulled over my question. “I don’t really like you, Zachary. I don’t understand what Megan sees in you that inspired the love and loyalty she feels toward you. I don’t know why my husband thinks so highly of you—even now.” Her fingers traced over a pattern on the arm of the chair, back and forth, almost hypnotically. “But I love both of them, and he asked me to give you the information on Jared. Megan still feels something for you, although I don’t understand why. Their opinions have to be counted, so I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt—for their sakes.” She stood up, signaling she was done with me. “Read the journals. Then we’ll talk.”