Chapter Seventeen #2
He’s right. His pain is immense because his dreams were shattered by something beyond his control.
Mine . . . mine would be shattered by my own hand, simply because of boredom.
It’s difficult to leave any relationship if there’s not a huge betrayal, especially when children are involved.
Boredom and annoyance are likely not grounds for a divorce, but I’m worried that’s where it starts.
The thoughts of escape. This glimpse of what my life could be like without Shephard.
It used to feel like his presence was air, lifting me up and making me lighter. Now, for whatever reason, he just feels more and more like a weight. Something else I have to carry to keep us all moving forward.
Saint looks out at the water again, his jaw working.
Then, his voice lowers, almost to a confession, chilling me to the bone even in the warm sun.
“When I was watching you say goodbye to your girls, when Shephard was there . . .” He pauses, and I hold my breath.
“I was angry, Petra. So angry.” He turns his eyes to me, and they burn with an unsettling intensity.
“I wanted you to get caught, so you’d leave him, so I could have what he takes for granted. What he barely sees anymore.”
The confession is a dark, dizzying plunge into his psyche, revealing a level of calculated malice that should repel me. But instead, a perverse thrill shoots through me. He wanted to destroy my life, to claim it for himself. And he almost did.
He leans in, his hand cupping my cheek, his thumb tracing my jaw.
His eyes, burning with a mix of fury and desire, lock onto mine.
And then, his lips descend, hard and hungry, claiming me completely.
The kiss is fierce, a primal embrace of chaos.
And then, right there, on the open water, beneath the broad, indifferent gaze of the afternoon sun, we have open sex, or maybe it’s the beginnings of making love, unashamed, a defiant act of rebellion against everything we’ve just confessed and every boundary we’ve shattered.
We pull into the small cove, the water lapping gently against the hull as Saint expertly maneuvers the boat toward the rickety wooden dock.
The sun, lower now, casts long, stretching shadows across the water, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple.
We don’t speak, the quiet after our intense coupling thick and heavy.
As we begin the process of tying up the boat, securing it to the weathered pilings, our movements synchronized and efficient, a familiar anxiety begins to prickle at my skin.
The real world, the one I’ve temporarily escaped, is rushing back in, demanding its due.
My hands move mechanically, coiling a rope, but my mind is already back in the cabin, drifting further, to my house, to Shephard, to the delicate facade I have to maintain.
“I have to go home this weekend,” I say, the words feeling brittle, almost like a confession, the sudden return to mundane reality jarring.
“What? I thought you had another two weeks booked.”
I avoid his eyes, focusing instead on the knot I’m trying to tighten. “I don’t leave until Friday, and it’s just for two days. It’s my daughter’s birthday. I need to be there.”
Saint pauses, his large hands still on the rope, his movements ceasing. I feel his gaze on me, steady and intense, but I don’t look up. The silence stretches, taut with unspoken questions, with the reality of our separate lives.
He just nods. A single quiet nod. No questions about Shephard, no protestations, no demands.
Just that simple, heavy acknowledgment. It’s both a relief and a subtle disappointment.
Part of me, the part that craves his intensity, wanted a fight, a plea, a sign of his possessiveness.
But he gives me none. He just accepts it.
When the boat is securely fastened, the ropes taut, he steps onto the dock. Instead of releasing my hand, which had somehow found its way into his during the tying process, he tightens his grip, coming to a pause.
I follow his gaze to the opposite side of the water from where we docked, and when my eyes lock onto what made him freeze, I squeeze his hand until it slips from mine.
Oh, God.
Saint is in the water before I can even fully process what I’m seeing. But there she is, just twenty or so feet from the shore, floating in the water. Mari, with her bright-orange hair, face down, her arms limp, skimming the top of the water.
“Mari!” Saint yells, swimming toward her. I step closer to the edge of the dock, wondering if I should go call the police, or yell for Louie, or jump in and help him. But I’m just frozen as I watch.
“Mari,” I whisper. “God, no.”
Saint reaches her, both his hands gripping her waist to flip her over. As soon as he does, I hear a piercing scream.
But it isn’t coming from Saint.
It’s coming from Mari, who is wearing goggles and beating Saint over his head with her snorkel. “I. Know. How. To. Swim. You. Dumbass!”
Oh, my God.
My entire body sighs, and I feel all the blood that rushed to my head suddenly drop to my feet. I’m so shocked that I have to lower myself until I’m sitting cross-legged on the dock.
“I’m so sorry,” Saint says. “It looked like you needed help.”
Mari motions to her body—to the bathing suit she’s wearing—and then pulls the goggles off her eyes.
Her wet curls are matted over half her face.
I’ve never seen her so mad. “I had a snorkel literally sticking up out of the water! I’m in a bathing suit!
Aren’t detectives supposed to know what context clues are?
” She starts marching toward the shore, water splashing all around her.
“Can’t even get a peaceful swim out here anymore,” she mutters.
I can’t help but laugh at that.
“I hear you laughing, Twinkle Twat,” she calls over her shoulder at me.
I laugh at that too. Then I glance over at Saint and see he’s slowly making his way back to me, sopping wet. But there’s a smile tugging at his lips.
He pushes himself up onto the dock until he’s sitting next to me. “You gonna put that in your book?” he asks.
“Absolutely.”
“Can you rewrite it so that I actually save her?”
“Absolutely not.”
Saint laughs, pulling off his shirt. Then he grabs my hand and helps me to my feet. His fingers intertwine with mine again, just as they were before he tried to save a perfectly fine woman from drowning. His hand is warm and strong. My anchor.
We walk back to the house in silence, the gentle creak of the old planks beneath our feet the only sound disturbing the quiet afternoon.
Aside from the sound of water dripping from his soaking-wet clothes.
His presence beside me is still powerful, still electric, but the silence between us now feels different. It’s not the comfortable, easy silence of shared pleasure, but a charged, knowing quiet, filled with the unspoken reality of everything we confessed on the boat.
The fact that he’s married, but he’s also available, feels like a big change.
I can’t help but insert images of him into my future, wondering what it would be like to no longer be holding the weight that is Shephard.