Chapter 3
Megan
“Iwon’t be long,” I promise Cole. I figure it’s the only way I can reassure him that I’m okay.
When I turned down his offer of dinner and a dip in the pool, opting to shower first, his eyebrows twisted with big-brother worry.
Priorities, though. I haven’t showered in two days.
So, he shows me up one of the long hallways lined with paintings of hockey players and up a flight of stairs to one of the guest bedrooms. As it turns out, his best friend’s mansion has an entire wing for guests. But Cole tells me no one else is staying here right now.
Just us.
He hesitates to leave me, though. “You sure?”
“I’m okay, Cole. Really.”
“All right. We’ll do dinner when you come down, with Jamie.”
“Okay.”
“I’m glad you’re here, Megz.”
I try to smile. “Me, too.”
He gives me another hug, and finally he leaves me there, closing the door gently behind himself like I’m in mourning.
Maybe I am.
I exhale as it hits me how badly I just want to be alone right now. But that’s probably a bad idea. If I’m alone, I might just curl up and feel sorry for myself.
I can’t let Troy do that to me.
I’ve given him enough of my past. He doesn’t get my present or my future anymore.
I look around the guest room, which Cole said was right next to his, and a swell of gratitude for my brother lodges in my throat.
My suitcase, backpack, and purse have all been left for me by the foot of the bed.
It’s a queen-sized four-poster bed with luxurious white bedding. There’s also a cozy sitting area and an adjoining bathroom. Like the rest of the house, this room is elegant, a mix of classic and contemporary, white and airy, with earthy, warm tones, and there’s something about it that feels very coastal-chic. All the wood and the natural colors, maybe, along with the subtle seaside vibe of the stones around the fireplace.
It’s so nice, I could weep.
But I’ve held it together this long, I’m not about to cry now over luxurious bedding.
I wonder what the man who lives here is like—this “best friend” of Cole’s—besides having great taste in decor. And why Cole never told me much about him. I’m pretty sure he vaguely mentioned a Jamie he’d been hanging out with a while back, but that was it.
I wander over to the curtains. Soft and white, they cover one whole wall, the muted light of evening glowing through. I draw them open and find tall glass doors that open to a balcony over the lush backyard.
Below, several stone paths meander through the gardens, connecting the patio that wraps around the pool to what appears to be a private path down to the beach. Beyond, I can see the dark waters of Burrard Inlet. And along the far shore, at the base and a little way up the mountains that erupt to the north of the whole Vancouver area, homes glitter as the sun begins to set over the water.
Wow.
I step onto the balcony for a better view of the pool I glimpsed below. My brother is there, settling onto a lounge chair on the poolside patio, talking on his phone. I can barely hear his voice, he’s so far away, but I can tell he’s laughing.
I just hope he’s doing as well as he seems to be. Trusting men is sort of a sore spot, and unfortunately, my brother helped form that wound.
I pull out my phone and take a photo of the view, shirtless athlete included. Then I post it to my Instagram with the vague caption: Room with a view.
I know Troy will be looking at my account, somehow, even though I blocked him, and asking around to try to figure out where I went. But I’m not about to live in fear of him.
This is my life, starting today. It’s not ours anymore.
In truth, it never really was.
Cole’s back is to me, and he’s small in the photo, so you can’t tell who he is. I never post about him. No one who follows my account knows that I’m the little sister of a famous hockey player.
They just know me—or at least my pseudonym—as what I am: a fledgling author who knows a lot of random stuff about plants, voyeuristic sex, and how to survive an apocalypse.
Most of my readers are women who, according to their emails, read me for the sultry postapocalyptic world I created, the gripping survival-struggle story arc, and the hot sex scenes. They’ll eat up that photo, for sure.
Then I text the photo to my friend Nicole, the only other person I know here in Vancouver.
Me:Home sweet home? Temporarily.
I know she’s waiting to hear from me as soon as I arrive. Her response comes in like lightning.
Nicole:Fuck yes! Where the heck are you? Are you okay?? And who’s the hottie?
Me:I’m okay. And there’s no hottie. It’s just Cole. LOL. How are you?
Nicole:Oof. He’s looking good. Call me when you can! I’m on my way to work :(
Me:I will. Let’s chat tomorrow. Enjoy your night!
Nicole:You too! Can’t wait :)
It occurs to me that I could go see her, right now, though I’m relieved she doesn’t ask. I know she’s waitressing at a hot nightclub tonight, out there somewhere in the sparkling city. But I’m emotionally drained, probably still halfway in shock, and sticky with two days’ travel sweat. I’m in no way ready for a night out on the town.
I go find a large towel in the bathroom, and lay it out on the bed, then heft my suitcase onto it. I don’t want the wheels to get dirt on the lovely bedding. I unhook the bungee cords and spread the whole, broken thing open.
Even in my hurry to leave town, the leaving itself was so deliberate, so final, I’d lovingly selected the few things I felt I couldn’t live without and packed them with care.
But I’d jammed them back in so haphazardly after they tumbled out into the street, mostly because that sophisticated, drop-dead-gorgeous man in the expensive suit was watching the whole thing. My life had poured out in front of him, and I’d felt naked, exposed. Pathetic and sad.
I pick through my things now, taking inventory. I’ll have to make the few outfits I brought last awhile. I didn’t bring a swimsuit; it didn’t really seem like a dire necessity when I was trying to fit my entire life into a suitcase and split town.
I find a tank top and shorts I can wear poolside and lay them out on the bed for after my shower. I figure I’ll feel a lot better after I wash up and put on fresh clothes.
But as soon as I strip down and get into the shower, something shifts. I let go of all the composure I’ve gripped so tightly since saying goodbye to Mom yesterday—for her and for my brother and for me—and I break down in tears.
Under the stream of hot water, in total privacy, I let it all out.
I left my apartment, the apartment I shared with my on-and-off-again boyfriend of eleven years, in the night, while he was out. I hid at my coworker’s house until I could get a ride with my mom to the bus station. I left town without Troy knowing, so he couldn’t try to stop me.
I wasn’t scared of him. Not physically. But I was broken down by his endless manipulations, his selfish orchestration of my life, and his bottomless black hole of need and insecurity that he expected me to fill for him.
And I was scared to leave my hometown. The only home I’ve ever known.
But Crooks Creek is small, and Troy is all up in it. Everyone knows him there.
Though not everyone loves him as much as he wants them to. Far from it.
My online therapist explained it to me, many times. But now that I’ve put distance between myself and Troy, I feel like I can safely acknowledge the truth to myself: that Troy Duchamp is a pathological narcissist who almost sucked the life out of me.
The man is an energy vampire and I’m drained.
The only good part of having nothing left to give to someone because they’ve taken way more than their fair share from you is coming to the realization that your feelings for them have eroded to the point that they’re completely gone.
It’s the only reason I was able to leave.
I’ll miss living so close to Mom. I’ll miss some of my old friends.
But I just knew I had to start over, somewhere else.
I haven’t seen Cole in person in two years, but running to my brother was really my only option. I know I can count on him for at least a few days respite. My brother isn’t a narcissist. But he has issues, too, that will make living with him long-term a bad idea.
The racking sobs fade into silent tears. My eyes just don’t seem to want to stop leaking.
But finally, they do.
I wash my hair, then step out of the shower and dry off with one of the big, plush towels, hiccuping a little in the aftermath of all that crying, and letting my frayed nerves settle.
I just need a day or two to recoup, regroup, and see what Cole can do to help me get settled. That’s why I came to him.
After that, I need to take care of myself like I’ve always done, because that’s what survivors do.
I know it won’t be easy. I’ve never even visited Vancouver before.
I need a job and an apartment, maybe some fun girl roommates. I need friends. I need dishes and furniture and so many things.
Most of all, I need my own life back.
The one Troy Duchamp stole from me, piece by piece, from the time I was seventeen.
I swipe the fog from the mirror with the side of my hand and look into my pink-rimmed eyes, and I remind myself that my heart is safe now.
But there’s a terrible fear that’s accompanied me all the way here, warning me that I’ll never be free of him.
Because he’s an energy vampire, and vampires need to feed.