Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 103030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
The bridge of my nose pinches as a swarm of emotions gathers in my chest.
The wind swirls around the two of us. The sound of the air rippling through the concrete and light posts background noise for the cacophony of my thoughts and feelings struggling for attention.
And all I really care about is you.
I know he doesn’t mean it—not in the way it sounds. I’m positive he just means that I’m his employee, and I’m the only person involved in the situation he knows.
Still, no one besides Lisbeth has said that to me. Ever. And to hear someone say that, regardless of how they meant it, renders me speechless.
Oliver studies me with the most tender look in his eyes. “I hope you have someone to talk to.”
I nod, still unable to formulate words.
“You said you’re an only child, right?” he asks.
I grin at him. “You remembered I said that.”
“Of course, I do.”
A small, disbelieving laugh escapes my lips.
“And your husband died?” he asks carefully.
“Yeah. He did.” I give myself a second to walk through this conversational door. “We were getting divorced anyway. It just wasn’t final yet. He had a car accident and didn’t make it.”
He shoves his other hand in his pocket. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It was three years ago. Not that three years somehow erase the trauma and all that comes with it, but time makes things more manageable.” I shrug. “It’s hard to explain that to someone who hasn’t experienced it.”
Oliver leans against my car. The halogen lights above give him a warm, orange-y glow. He stares off into the distance, choosing his next words.
“I haven’t lost someone like that. Just grandparents. But,” he says, letting a sigh surround the word as if he doesn’t quite want to transition into the next part of the sentence, “I was engaged once.”
“You were?”
He twists his lips. “Yes.”
“Can I ask what happened, or is this too personal of a topic?”
He looks at me. “Do you want to know?”
I think about it before answering. “Yes.”
“Her name was Kendra. She was having an affair that I didn’t find out about until after I asked her to marry me. Something that she and her friends all made clear that she wanted.”
“Ouch.” I frown. I think it’s clear she’s a fucking fool. “She sounds like a bad apple.”
“She was a rotten one.” He smiles as he leans up and away from my car. “Rotten to the core.”
“Luca, my husband, was rotten to the core too. I often wonder if he was always that way, and I just didn’t see it or if he rotted while we were together.”
He slips his hands out of his pockets. “What you’re really wondering is if you’re to blame somehow for it. If he was rotten before, then you just didn’t see it. If he changed while you were together, maybe you had a hand in it. Am I right?”
I exhale sharply.
What he said is absolutely true. It’s a deep, dark fear that I only let myself consider in the middle of the night. I’ve never admitted that to anyone before—not to Lisbeth and not to the therapist I saw for a few weeks after Luca’s death.
Oliver’s question, coupled with the complete lack of blame in his eyes, is like a button has been pushed.
What you’re really wondering is if you’re to blame somehow for it.
It’s hard when the people you love—your husband and your mother—both blame you for all the wrong in the world. That you’re responsible for everyone’s unhappiness. If only you did a little better, were a little more, then you wouldn’t have handprints around your neck from being shoved against a wall. That if you could love better, your husband wouldn’t be on the prowl and your mother could be proud of you.
But Oliver’s not suggesting I was responsible. He was angry on my behalf … for my mom’s behavior. And from the short amount of time I’ve known him and watched his interactions with others, my guess is he definitely wouldn’t blame me for Luca’s actions either.
Oliver takes a step and turns to stand directly in front of me. He stares into my eyes, fights silently with me so that I allow him to see me without the guard I struggle to keep up.
“I don’t know you that well, Shaye, but I know that you need to stop blaming yourself for whatever happened with your husband.”
How is that possible not to feel responsible?
As if Oliver’s pushed a button to disengage the guilt and feelings of responsibility for all the ways my life has been fucked up, my bottom lip trembles. My eyes wet with tears that I refuse to shed.
“Sometimes people get fucked up,” he says. “Sometimes people pretend to be one thing when they’re really another.”
I nod, a strand of my hair falling into my face.