Chapter 14
GEMMA
I'm still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It's a Tuesday afternoon, and Ironside is quiet.
A few regulars at the bar nursing beers and watching a baseball game on the mounted TV.
The brothers scattered around a pool table in the back, their laughter punctuating the crack of billiard balls.
Will in his office, door open, doing the kind of paperwork that makes him grumble under his breath.
And me, perched on a stool at the end of the bar with my sketchbook open, designing a logo for a boutique in Portland that found me through Molly's recommendation. My client list has been growing steadily since I decided to open my own graphic design business.
This is my life now. It still doesn't feel entirely real.
Craig is out on bail, but he's barred from entering Oregon as a condition of his release.
Shaw calls with updates every few days, his voice carefully neutral as he explains the legal proceedings.
Assault charges. Stalking charges. Violation of the restraining order.
The DA is confident, especially with Tate's video evidence, but confident isn't the same as certain.
The trial is scheduled for three months from now, and until then, Craig is someone else's problem.
I try not to think about him. Most days, I succeed.
My pencil moves across the paper, sketching curves and angles, playing with negative space. The boutique owner wants something feminine but edgy, and I've been through a dozen iterations trying to find the right balance.
It feels good to be designing again. I'd built a decent freelance business before I met Craig, had clients who trusted my eye and recommended me to their friends.
Then he convinced me that my work was a hobby, not a career.
That I didn't need to pursue it because he provided everything I could want.
The clients drifted away. The sketchbooks gathered dust. I believed him, or at least I stopped arguing.
Now I have three clients and a waiting list. It turns out people appreciate a designer who listens more than she talks.
"That's looking good."
I glance up to find Molly sliding onto the stool beside me, a glass of white wine already in her hand. She's been coming by more often lately, sometimes with her husband, sometimes alone. Rebuilding the friendship I let Craig dismantle, one conversation at a time.
"It's getting there." I tilt the sketchbook so she can see. "What do you think? Too busy?"
She studies it with the critical eye of someone who's been in retail for fifteen years. "Maybe lose the swirl on the left. Simplify it."
"That's what I was thinking." I make a note in the margin and close the book. "Thanks for the referral, by the way. She's great to work with."
"I knew you two would click." Molly sips her wine and glances toward the pool table, where Cole is lining up a shot while Tate heckles him. "You look happy, Gem. Like, actually happy. Not just putting on a brave face."
The observation catches me off guard, mostly because she's right. I am happy. Not the fragile, performative version I wore like armor during my marriage, but a quieter, more solid kind. The kind that doesn't depend on anyone else's approval or disappear when I'm alone.
"I'm getting there," I say. "Therapy helps."
"You're seeing someone?"
"Dr. Reyes, in Coos Bay. She specializes in trauma recovery.
" I trace the edge of my wine glass with one finger.
"It's hard, sometimes. Digging through all of it.
But it's also kind of a relief, you know?
Finally having someone tell me that my reactions make sense.
That I'm not crazy for feeling the way I feel. "
Molly reaches over and squeezes my hand. "You were never crazy. Craig was just really good at making you think you were."
"Yeah." I squeeze back. "He was."
We sit in easy silence for a moment, watching the brothers play. Cole sinks his shot and does a victory lap around the table while Tate pretends to be offended. Shaw leans against the wall with his arms crossed, shaking his head at both of them.
"So," Molly says, a teasing note entering her voice. "You and Will. Living together now."
"Officially as of last week." I can't help the smile that spreads across my face. "It just made sense. I was spending every night there anyway, and Cole's place was starting to feel like a storage unit for my stuff."
"And you're sure you're not moving too fast? Not that I'm judging. I'm just asking."
It's a fair question. I've asked it myself, more than once. But the answer is always the same.
"I know who I am now," I say. "I know what I want. Moving in with Will wasn't about escape. It was about choosing something for myself. That's not moving too fast—that's finally moving forward."
Molly studies my face for a moment, then nods. "Yeah. I can see that." She grins. "Plus, that kitchen of his? I'd have moved in for the kitchen alone."
I laugh, and it feels easy. Natural. The way laughing used to feel before I forgot how.
We talk for another hour, catching up on town gossip and mutual friends and the various small dramas that make up life in Anchor Bay. By the time Molly leaves, the sun is setting over the harbor and the bar is starting to fill up with the evening crowd.
I'm helping behind the bar when Cole catches my eye and jerks his head toward the back hallway. The look on his face is serious, and my stomach tightens despite myself.
"Cover for me?" I ask Will, who's emerged from his office to help with the rush.
He glances at Cole, then back at me. "Everything okay?"
"I think so. I'll find out."
The back hallway is quiet, the sounds of the bar muffled by the heavy door. Cole is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, the same posture he used to adopt when we were teenagers and he was about to lecture me about something.
"What's up?" I keep my voice light, but my pulse is faster than it should be.
"I wanted to talk to you. About Will."
"Okay." I cross my arms too, mirroring his stance. "Talk."
He's quiet for a moment, chewing on whatever he wants to say. Finally, he sighs. "I'm not trying to be an asshole about this. I like Will. Hell, I love the guy. He's been my best friend for more than thirty years. But you're my sister, and I need to make sure you're okay."
"I am okay."
"You've been through a lot, Gem. In the last couple months, you escaped an abusive marriage, moved back home, dealt with a stalker, and started a new relationship with a man who's... look, Will's a good guy, but he's intense. And the lifestyle, it's a lot to take on when you're still healing."
"You're into the same stuff," I point out. "You going to lecture yourself next?"
He has the grace to look sheepish. "That's different."
"How?"
"Because you're my little sister and I'm allowed to be irrational about this." He runs a hand through his hair. "I just need to know you're okay. That you're making choices because you want to, not because you're looking for someone to take care of you."
"Can I tell you something?" I say when he's done.
"Yeah."
"For four years, I didn't know who I was.
Craig took everything that made me me and convinced me it was wrong, or dangerous, or shameful.
I lost my sense of self so completely that by the end, I didn't even recognize my own face in the mirror.
" I take a breath. "Will didn't give that back to me.
I found it myself. But he helped me remember where to look. "
Cole's expression softens, but he doesn't interrupt.
"What Will and I have—it's nothing like what Craig did to me. You know the difference better than most people." I hold his gaze. "I've never felt safer or more myself than I do right now. I need you to believe that."
"I do believe you." His voice is rough. "I just needed to hear you say it."
"I know." I step forward and wrap my arms around him, the way I used to when we were kids and he'd scraped his knee or gotten yelled at by Dad. "Thank you for caring enough to ask."
He hugs me back, tight and fierce. "I'm always going to care. Even when you tell me to mind my own business."
"I would never."
"You literally did that last week."
"That was different. You were trying to reorganize my spice rack."
He laughs, and the tension breaks. We stand there for a moment, brother and sister, the years of distance between us finally closing.
"I'm proud of you," he says. "For what it's worth."
"It's worth a lot."
When I get back to the bar, Will catches my eye with a questioning look. I give him a small nod, and the worry in his expression eases into warmth. He knows what Cole wanted to talk about. He probably knew before I did.
The rest of the evening passes in a comfortable blur. I mix drinks and chat with regulars and steal glances at Will whenever I think no one's watching. By the time we close up, my feet ache and my cheeks hurt from smiling and I feel more content than I have any right to be.
"Good night?" Will asks as we walk to his truck.
"Good night." I slide my hand into his, our fingers intertwining. "Great night, actually."
The drive home is short, just a few minutes through quiet streets that I'm starting to know by heart. Will's house, our house, sits at the end of a cul-de-sac overlooking the water. It's small but well-kept, with a porch that wraps around the front and windows that let in the morning light.
Inside, I kick off my shoes and head for the kitchen while Will locks up. There's leftover pasta in the fridge, and I'm reheating it when he comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist.
"Hungry?" I ask, leaning back into him.
"Starving." But he doesn't move toward the food. His lips brush the side of my neck, and a shiver runs down my spine. "But not for pasta."
"Smooth." I turn in his arms, looping my hands behind his neck. "Very smooth."
"I have my moments."