Chapter 6 #2
I held on to that pain, feeling the disappointment I’d seen marring her striking features.
That was all I had to offer her. No part of me could give her what she needed, what she deserved.
If I acted on any of my feelings toward her, it would be out of my own selfish needs. And no way in fuck would I do that.
Hannah Morgan didn’t need me in her life.
Ten months. I’d have to endure for ten months. Then she’d be gone.
Why in the fuck did that thought sear me somewhere deep in my chest?
HANNAH
Because the universe had a sick sense of humor, I got the letter the next day. It felt weird, getting mail at Beau’s place, but I hadn’t wanted to pay for a PO Box, and he’d begrudgingly said it was okay if I used his address “temporarily.”
Not that I got much mail, mostly just junk and student loan reminders.
This piece of mail was a past-due notice for a credit card bill in my name. With a balance of over $20,000.
I did not own a credit card. I had watched my mother collect them, rack up debt, declare bankruptcy, rinse, repeat. Same with Waylon, but he’d gone a little further, getting credit cards in the names of dead people, his infant nephew, grandfather with dementia—anyone, really.
I knew right away this was him.
He’d done it when we were married, opened joint accounts, lines of credit.
When I’d realized what he’d done, we’d have a rip-roaring fight, he’d either scream at me, threaten me, or apologize with sincerity that should’ve earned him an Oscar.
Finally, I’d gotten a backbone, saw through him, and got the courage to leave.
It took blood, broken glass, and many tears.
But I did it. I left.
With nothing but a shitty credit score and a laughable bank balance. I’d had to work myself to the bone to get my credit to an adequate level, to rebuild it along with my life.
I thought I’d done all the things I could to guard myself against this, setting up alerts and monitoring my credit score.
Waylon had stopped calling, stopped harassing me.
I thought that meant he was going to leave me alone.
Even if he wasn’t going to sign the papers, he’d get bored, meet another woman who might be stupid or blind enough to want to marry him, and I’d eventually get my divorce. Wait him out. That had been the plan.
Oh, how na?ve I’d been. He wasn’t quiet because he’d gotten bored with me; he’d been busy doing this. I looked at the charges, wanting to vomit. Guns, strip clubs, a four-wheeler. All of it in my name.
I could barely breathe. There was a thrashing in my ears, my vision tunneling.
I was never going to be free of this. Never going to be free of him.
I would never be able to wrench myself out of the gutter to a better life.
One where I could pay my bills, live somewhere safe, pretty, and have things that didn’t come from Walmart or the sale rack.
Logically, I knew what I needed to do. I needed to call the credit card company, close the account, and put a fraud alert on my credit report. Try to gain the sympathy from whomever I got on the phone, then convince them to erase this or somehow transfer the charges to Waylon.
Since none of that was realistic, what I really needed was a lawyer. It’s what I needed from the start. But I couldn’t afford one, and I’d deluded myself into thinking I didn’t need one.
Technically, I could afford one now. A cheap one.
I’d saved almost every penny from this job, including what I’d spent on Clara’s birthday.
I’d begrudgingly sent Beau the total which he’d already deposited into my account.
There were the things I’d spent money on—the fairy garden, flowers, all the little things that brought joy into Clara’s life.
I would never ask Beau to reimburse me for those things.
I didn’t want to be repaid for that. I wanted to give that to his little girl.
Yes, I could afford a lawyer, but that would mean kissing nursing school goodbye for another semester, at least. More than likely a year.
I thrummed my fingers on the table to keep my hands busy, to try to anchor myself in the moment so I could focus on making a plan.
I had the offer to nanny from Nora, if it was real.
I could tell her I’d changed my mind. Could work for them, even if it hurt my heart to be on the edge of such a lovely family, one I’d never get.
There it was. A plan. Sacrifice some hopes, dreams, endure a little more pain. I was used to all of that. I could do it. My breathing began to even out, I could see beyond pinpricks of darkness, and I was no longer about to faint.
“Hannah.”
A deep voice jerked me from my mental prison. I’d been sitting at the dining room table, staring at the letter, my head in my hands.
Clara was with her grandfather. Beau, I’d thought, was at work.
Obviously not, since he was standing in front of the table, staring down at me, arms crossed.
I quickly crumpled the paper. The last thing I needed was for Beau to see it.
He’d think I was irresponsible, just another person in this country with a spending problem.
Because there was no way I’d tell him about my estranged husband and his emotional abuse.
I’d rather let him believe I was careless and riddled with debt.
If I had my way, he wasn’t going to know anything. Not that there was much that would lower his estimation of me.
“I thought you were at work,” I said, mouth dry.
“I came home. Left some files here.” His words were terse, his eyes on the crumpled paper I was now leaning on.
Not obvious at all.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.” I was a shitty liar.
“Not nothing if it looked like you were about to fall apart just looking at it.” His brows were furrowed, onyx pupils fixed on me. He looked pissed off. Not unusual when he was in my presence.
He’d been there for longer than I expected. And I’d been so deep in my pity party, I hadn’t even heard him enter.
Not only that, but he was watching me intently enough to see my distress. However, it wasn’t hard to miss, since I wasn’t hiding it like I usually did. I thought I could be alone in my misery, to wallow, just for a little while.
I didn’t answer him. I worried that if I spoke, I’d burst into tears, blurt the whole story to him. Like he would save me.
Beau, the hero.
What a joke. I’d long learned no one was coming to save me from my own life. That was my job. I wasn’t very good at it.
“Tell me what’s going on,” he demanded harshly. Not the voice of a man wanting to save a woman, but the voice of a man annoyed to have to even be confronted with anything difficult from the woman he barely tolerated.
I gnashed my molars together against the aggressive tone, the expression, the energy he tended to give off whenever it was just us. The energy that had me on edge, shrinking into myself, tensing.
I wasn’t afraid that he’d hurt me in any way. Physically, at least. Emotionally, he’d hurt me plenty so far.
But still, I hadn’t been able to relinquish my little kernel of want. For him.
Having sexual fantasies about my asshole boss was borderline unhinged, but I couldn’t stop myself. And I hated that. That my body was, apparently, conditioned to want things that were bad for me.
Anger, deep and bitter, poisoned my veins. Anger at Waylon for damaging me so thoroughly, anger at myself for letting him, and now at Beau for doing it in an entirely new way.
I pushed out of my chair, taking the crumpled sheet of paper with me.
I forced myself to look him in the eye, despite how complicated, infuriating, and arousing the action was.
“Nothing is going on,” I repeated.
“You’re lying,” he accused. Rightly.
I shook my head. “Nothing is going on with Clara. Or me in a way that will interfere with my job of taking care of her. That’s all that matters.
” There. Not a lie. “What do you care anyway? You don’t even like me,” I added, which was meant to be combative, strong, but it just came out sounding juvenile.
Beau didn’t answer straightaway, his expression flattening, hands flexing at his sides.
“I do like you, Hannah,” he said quietly. “And that’s the fuckin’ problem.”
Then he stomped off.