Six Months Later
Isat in one of the rocking chairs on the side porch, a glass of wine in hand, and watched the sun sink below the live oaks.
On the left side of the view, almost hidden by the tree line, was the well, the top of it covered with a stack of pallets and a tarp.
Next week, my new contractor would fill it in completely, then cover it with sod.
I was going to plant a memorial garden on the top—for the version of me who died down there.
The woman who begged her husband to save her.
The woman who thought a faux kidnapping would fix her marriage.
The woman who believed that love was something she could force into existence with the right formula, the right steps, the right amount of effort.
That woman drowned in thirty feet of freezing water.
Good riddance.
My phone chimed and I glanced at the screen, then opened the text from my attorney.
Jules took a plea deal. 18 months.
I took a small sip of wine and let the warmth spread through my chest. Eighteen months felt too short, but Sam had already filed for divorce and frozen all their accounts. Jules would come out of prison empty-handed, with no money, no marriage, no friends.
Jake, on the other hand, was looking at seven to ten years.
His attorney had tried to paint me as the villain, a controlling wife who drove him to desperation.
But the jury didn’t buy it. It was hard to spin attempted murder as something else when your client literally threw a coin down a well and made a wish for his wife to die.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. I’d orchestrated an elaborate rescue setup, complete with props and breadcrumbs, trying to hand deliver a heroic opportunity to Jake.
Instead, I’d stumbled into my own genuine rescue.
No fake blood or staged crime scene required—just a cheap tablet with one bar of signal and the determination not to die for a man who couldn’t be bothered to save me.
The crunch of tires on gravel sounded, and I turned to see headlights sweeping across the tree line. My pulse quickened, but not with fear. With something I hadn’t felt in years. Anticipation.
Marcus parked his truck and climbed out, holding a large Tupperware container.
I’d gotten three estimates from contractors on filling the well, but Marcus had been the only one who had made me laugh, and the only one who had apologized to me for what had happened in the well.
Despite his bid being the highest among the three, I had hired him, and at our second meeting, hesitantly accepted his invitation to dinner.
Over tacos and margaritas, he had kept me laughing, and when he’d gently kissed me good night after walking me to the front door, I had gone inside with a smile that hurt my face, it was so big.
Maybe it’s too early to be dating, but we’re taking it slow. Tonight, he’s bringing over some chili he made, and I’ve got corn bread in the oven, and we’re going to watch a new legal miniseries that is an adaptation of a book we’re both reading.
He doesn’t know about my trust fund yet. Doesn’t care that I live in a mansion. He’s got his own pretty big house, one with a library, which was all I really needed to know about the man.
“I hope you weren’t lying about liking it spicy,” he called out, holding up the container of chili.
“I love it hot,” I called back with a smile. I’d always cooked as bland as possible for Jake, whose eyes watered if he had too much pepper on his steak.
Just another example of a sacrifice, a modification that I’d made to my life, all in an attempt to please a man who hated me.
Marcus climbed the porch stairs and paused beside me, following my gaze toward the dark tree line. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” I stood up and reached over, picking up my wineglass. “I’m great.”
And for the first time in months, I meant it.
I’d spent the six months since my accident in therapy, learning all about fixing broken things.
Broken marriages, broken men, broken memories, and broken versions of myself.
But I’ve also learned that some things aren’t meant to be fixed.
Some things are meant to be survived, learned from, and then left behind.
The well would be filled by next week.
My divorce would be final by spring.
And hopefully by summer, I’d figure out who I was when I wasn’t trying to make everyone else happy.
I raised my glass in a silent toast to the woman at the bottom of that well. She’d been flawed, sure. Stupid in love. Stubborn enough to make it.
Most importantly, she’d saved herself.
And that, I thought, following Marcus into the warm light of the kitchen, was the only rescue that mattered.