Chapter 14
Lucy
I woke up alone, the sheets cold where Marcus should have been. My hand reached out instinctively, finding only emptiness. The room was quiet, too quiet, except for my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I sat up, blinking away sleep, and there it was—a note on the pillow. I unfolded it with shaky hands.
"Had to leave early to check on something. Emily called—nothing to worry about. I'll explain later. Take care of yourself. – Marcus."
Emily. His ex-wife. The name was like a stone dropping into my stomach. I had seen her message last night. She was a Little. At the time, Marcus had said not to worry. So why had he gone to her? What changed overnight?
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, the floor cool beneath my feet. My mind raced as I got dressed, pulling on jeans and a T-shirt without really seeing them. Wasn't this always the fear? That I'd be left behind, discarded when someone else came calling? It felt too familiar, too real.
The intimacy we'd shared, those whispered promises late at night—they spun around in my head like a broken record. Did they mean as much to him as they did to me? Or were they just words, easily forgotten? I swallowed hard, trying to push down the rising tide of doubt.
"Get a grip, Lucy," I muttered to myself, shoving my arms through the sleeves of an old flannel shirt. "Don't jump to conclusions."
But the questions kept coming. What if he's still in love with Emily? What if I've been fooling myself, thinking anything could be different this time?
I couldn't shake the feeling of impending heartbreak, the icy fingers of fear wrapping around my heart. My instincts screamed at me to retreat, to build up those walls I'd spent years perfecting. Yet, deep down, a small voice whispered for patience, for trust. But right now, that voice was drowned out by uncertainty.
I thought back to the time we’d spent together, when he’d blindfolded me, touched me in the dark. I could trust my Daddy. I knew that he’d keep me safe, that he wouldn’t let me down. There had to be a good explanation. Maybe Emily was in some kind of trouble. Marcus had a big heart. Just because he was going to visit someone, it didn’t mean that he loved them and not me.
"Focus on what you can control," I told myself, grabbing my bag and keys. I had stuff to do—the renovations to finish. Maybe keeping busy would help drown out the noise in my head. But as I grabbed the paint for the living room trim, I couldn’t get a question out of my head: What if I'm not enough?
Somehow, I managed to get down to work.
It wasn’t fun, but it was something. The trim was fiddly. I had to move slowly and use a lot of tape to stop the paint from coloring the walls. I made a couple of mistakes, and had to carefully rub paint off where I went over the line. It was slow, demanding work.
After the first coat, I paused, had a cup of coffee. Obviously, it didn’t taste as good without Marcus here. I resisted the urge to send him a message. He was probably busy. I didn’t want to burden him with questions. I just had to trust him.
When I was done with my break, I dipped the brush into the pale blue paint, watching the color drip slowly back into the can. With the first stroke, memories flooded in, unstoppable as the tide. Marcus’s laughter echoed in the empty house. I could almost see him there, flipping pancakes while teasing me about my poor flipping skills. The way he’d lean over, brushing flour off my nose, his touch lingering longer than necessary. My heart squeezed tight, but I pushed the thought away, focusing on the steady rhythm of painting.
In the glasshouse we fixed up together, we'd been covered in dust and grime, grinning like idiots at our handiwork. Marcus had pulled me into his arms there, ignoring the dirt, holding me close until the world faded away. He always had a way of making everything else disappear.
Now, without him, the house felt like an echo chamber, amplifying the silence and my loneliness. Each brushstroke felt heavy, dragging through the paint like my thoughts through molasses.
"Get it together, girl," I whispered, leaning against the wall for a moment. But the emptiness pressed in, and tears threatened to spill over. I blinked rapidly, refusing to let them fall.
This was supposed to be my safe place, my sanctuary. Instead, it was full of reminders of what might already be slipping away. I took a deep breath, willing myself to focus on the task at hand, ignoring the gnawing ache in my chest that refused to be tamed.
A sharp knock at the door jolted me from my thoughts. Startled, I dropped the paintbrush, splattering white on my worn jeans. Swiping my hands with a rag, I moved to the door, each step a reminder of the loneliness creeping in.
"Hey, you," Marie greeted, her voice like a balm. She stood there, basket in hand, two cups of coffee steaming up into the crisp morning air. Her smile was warm, but her eyes—those saw more than they let on.
"Thought you might need a pick-me-up," she said, stepping over the threshold. Her gaze flickered over my face, taking in the telltale signs of strain. "Mind if I come in?"
"Sure," I replied, trying to muster a semblance of cheerfulness, though it felt paper thin. I stepped aside, welcoming her into the quiet chaos of my childhood home.
"This is looking so good!" Marie commented, her voice light as she took in the half-finished trim work and scattered tools. We settled on the dusty floor, using overturned paint cans as makeshift seats. It was oddly grounding, sitting there amidst the remnants of my past and the echoes of recent memories.
"Coffee," she offered, passing one cup to me. The warmth seeped through my fingers, a small comfort in the sea of uncertainty.
"Marcus left this morning," I blurted out, the words tumbling free before I could stop them. They hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. "He went to see Emily."
Marie raised an eyebrow, her expression shifting from curiosity to concern. "His ex-wife?" she asked, her tone careful.
I nodded, my voice barely above a whisper. "He said I have nothing to worry about, but I can't help feeling . . . scared." The admission slipped out, raw and honest, leaving me exposed.
Marie studied me for a moment, her eyes softening. She didn't rush to speak, didn't offer platitudes or dismiss my fear. Instead, she listened, giving space to the vulnerability I'd laid bare. And in that silence, I found a sliver of solace, knowing she was there beside me.
A draft of cool air slipped through the cracked window, stirring the dust motes that danced in the light. I rubbed my thumb against the warm ceramic of the coffee cup, staring at the steam curling into nothingness.
"I think I've lost the bet," I said, my voice a whisper against the quiet room. The words dropped like stones between us, heavy and unyielding.
Marie looked at me, her eyes filled with something soft, yet strong. "What bet?"
I sighed, feeling the weight of it all pressing down on me. "I told myself I wouldn't fall for him. That I'd protect my heart." My laugh was bitter, tasting of regret. "But I love him, Marie. And now, I might have my heart broken because he's going back to her."
My voice cracked, betraying the fear I tried so hard to keep hidden. Tears stung my eyes, and one slipped free, tracing a path down my cheek. Marie's hand found mine, gentle and reassuring.
"Lucy, listen to me," she said, her tone firm but kind. "Marcus cares about you deeply. Anyone can see that. He probably just needs to tie up some loose ends with Emily. You can't assume the worst."
I shook my head, the motion slow and uncertain. "But what if he's realized he still loves her? She says she’s a Little. What if I've just been a distraction?" The thought clawed at me, deepening the ache in my chest.
Marie smiled softly, a light in the darkness of my doubts. "From what I've seen, you're anything but a distraction to him. Trust in what you two have built."
Her words hung between us, offering a fragile hope. I wanted to believe them, to hold onto the possibility that Marcus and I were more than just fleeting moments in time. But fear lingered, a shadow I couldn't quite shake.
"Why do I always do this?" I sighed, staring into my coffee as if it held the answers. "I dive headfirst into relationships, ignoring all the warning signs. I thought this time would be different."
Marie tilted her head, her curly hair bouncing with the motion. "The fact that you're aware of this pattern means you're growing, Lucy. But don't let fear sabotage something good. Give Marcus a chance to explain."
Her words were like a balm, but doubt still clawed at my insides. I knew she was right, yet the fear of getting hurt again was strong, a familiar shadow lurking in the corners of my heart.
"Yeah," I mumbled, more to myself than to Marie. The room seemed to close in on me, the weight of everything pressing down hard.
Another knock on the still-open door cut through the tension. My heart skipped a beat, hoping for something—anything—to distract from the turmoil inside me.
"Sorry to drop by unannounced," Vanessa said as she stepped inside, her heels clicking softly against the wooden floor. Her professional demeanor had a slight edge of warmth today. "I wouldn't normally do this, but I have a client who's very interested in your property. I felt it was my professional duty to inform you."
My mind spun. This was the last thing I needed right now—another decision, another potential upheaval. My house, my sanctuary in all this chaos. Would I even consider selling? Yet Vanessa stood there, expectant, and I forced a smile as I pushed aside the storm inside me to focus on her words.
Vanessa didn't waste time. "My client runs a few Airbnbs and is keen on expanding," she said, her voice smooth like the polished floors beneath our feet. She handed me a stack of papers. "The offer's well over market value."
I stared at the proposal, numbers dancing in front of my eyes. Enough to start fresh, maybe somewhere without ghosts of the past lingering at every corner. I had no idea that the house could be worth this.
"Lucy, you okay?" Marie asked, snapping me back to reality.
"Yeah, just . . . processing." I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to ease the tension coiling there. My sanctuary, my childhood home. Could I really let it go? Leave Marcus?
"Take your time," Vanessa added.
"Thanks, but . . ." I drew a deep breath, feeling the weight of history settle around me. "I'm not interested in selling."
"Understood," Vanessa replied, slipping a card onto the mantel. I already had one, of course, but I felt as though for Vanessa, the more cards, the better. "If you change your mind—"
"Yeah, I'll call," I assured her, though the words tasted foreign. The idea of leaving felt like tearing out a piece of myself.
After Vanessa left, Marie shook her head, an incredulous grin playing at her lips. "That was quite the offer."
"Maybe, but this house . . . it's more than money." I traced my fingers along the worn banister, memories flooding back. "It's home. And I’m staying in Small Falls. Why sell?"
"You're right," Marie nodded, her voice softening. "Some things are priceless."
"Yeah," I murmured, holding onto that thought as the walls seemed to close in again. This was my place, despite the whispers of what ifs and might-have-beens echoing through its halls.
Marie stood at the door, her bright eyes searching mine. "Are you going to be okay?" she asked gently, her voice a balm on my frayed nerves.
"Yeah, I'll be fine," I forced a smile, though it felt like a brittle mask. Her hug was warm and lingering, grounding me for a moment. Then she was gone, leaving me alone in the echoing silence of the house.
I tidied up, gathering scattered tools and brushes, each step resonating through the empty rooms. The quiet pressed down, heavy and oppressive, like the memories embedded in these walls.
For some reason, I wanted to sleep at Marcus’s place.
I walked back over, opened the front door with the key he’d given me. I moved through the motions of getting ready for bed. Pajamas slipped over my skin, soft and familiar. Climbing into bed, I clutched Mr. Whiskers, my old stuffed animal, seeking comfort in its worn plush.
The room was dim, shadows stretching across the floor. My phone sat on the bedside table, screen dark and silent. I checked it again, hoping—no, craving—a message from Marcus. Each time it remained blank, disappointment settled deeper, a gnawing ache that wouldn’t go away.
"Come on, Marcus," I whispered into the stillness, the words hanging in the air. I wanted to believe Marie’s reassurances, but doubt clawed at me, relentless and unyielding.
Mr. Whiskers offered no answers, just mute understanding. I held him tighter, wishing he could absorb the turmoil churning inside me. The night stretched long and uncertain, filled with unanswered questions.
Just as I was about to turn off the lamp, my phone buzzed. Marcus's name lit up the screen, a beacon in the dark room. My heart leapt, hope flaring bright and fierce. With trembling hands, I opened the message.
"It's over. I love Emily. I'm sorry."
The words blurred, tears welling up fast. A choked sob clawed its way out of my throat. The pain was sharp, cutting through me like a knife. It felt like the ground had vanished beneath me, leaving me suspended in a void.
Hugging Mr. Whiskers tight, I curled into myself. Tears streamed down my face, hot and relentless. Each drop carried away pieces of hope, dreams I dared to imagine now shattered, scattered like glass.
The night wrapped around me, heavy and suffocating. Heartbreak settled deep, an unbearable weight pressing down. I held Mr. Whiskers closer, seeking any semblance of comfort in his worn plush.
"Why?" I whispered into the silence, voice breaking. No answer came, just the echo of my own despair filling the space around me.
I lay there, the world outside forgotten. Just me, my broken heart, and the darkness that felt endless.