13. Jessica
August, Present Day
Maple Ridge
Tuesday after work,I bike to the grocery store with Bailey in the trailer. Gray clouds hunker in the distance with the promise of an evening storm.
We enter the store.
I grab an empty basket, and we head for the produce section, with me constantly reinforcing Bailey’s positive behavior with treats. I select several ripe peaches and put them in my basket.
As I glance up, I catch a short, gray-haired woman staring at me from the other side of the display. A deep chasm forms between her eyes. She doesn’t say anything. She just looks at me as if Medusa has strolled through the store and turned her to stone, hatred frozen in her expression.
An uneasy feeling settles in my bones and sets up residence in my stomach. I open my mouth to say something. What? I don’t know.
She turns and walks away, glaring at me over her shoulder one last time.
She disappears around the corner—and I get a sinking sensation it’s not Bailey, who’s wearing her Service Dog in Training vest, the woman has issues with.
She knows. I don’t know who the hell she is, but the reverse isn’t true. She has read Cora’s article, has memorized my picture as if it were an FBI Most Wanted poster.
I hurry through the store, not wanting to risk someone else recognizing me, and collect everything I need for tonight’s dinner.
I walk to the haircare aisle and stop in front of the boxes of hair color. My roots will need touching up soon, but maybe instead of blond, I should select a different color. Something that will make me look less like Savannah or Jess. Something that won’t draw attention—so no pink or purple or blue.
The clatter of a shopping cart from the end of the aisle jerks my attention that way. A woman pushes her cart toward me, a dark-haired toddler sitting in the seat. The back of the little girl’s head resembles Amelia’s at that age. My heart clenches to the size of a walnut, the ache something fierce.
Gotta get out of here.
Gotta get out of here.
Gotta get out of here.
The hair color can wait for another time.
I hurry out of the aisle and join the line for self-checkout, my head kept down to hide the scars on my face.
* * *
I pedalup the driveway to my house and dismount at the backyard gate. Now that I’m home—my safe place—the tension in my muscles, the panic vibrating under my skin, eases.
I lift the trailer cover and let Bailey out. She intently sniffs the ground under the hedge.
“What is it, Bailey? A rabbit?” I open the gate and let her into the garden. “I’m just putting the bike away. I’ll be right back.”
She knows the routine by now, but repeating it to myself helps me. Makes me feel like I have a little more control over my life.
I wheel the bike and trailer to the garage and unlock the side door.
Troy’s truck turns onto the driveway. I wave at him and push my bike and trailer into the garage. I come out carrying the grocery bags and find him standing by his truck door.
“I wasn’t expecting you yet,” I say, walking to him. He’s three hours early.
“I know.” He smiles at me but stays beside the truck. “I’m taking Nova and Butterscotch to the lake. Do you and Bailey want to come with us?”
“Okay. Let me just put these groceries in the house first and get changed. I’ll be quick.”
“Go ahead.”
Bailey follows me into the house and sits patiently by my side while I put away the food that needs to be refrigerated. The rest can wait on the kitchen counter until we get back. I go upstairs and swiftly change into shorts and a T-shirt.
Bailey and I step out of the house. She’s no longer wearing her training vest. She gets to be a regular dog for now.
Troy is still by his truck, the rear passenger door open, and he’s talking to Nova. She’s buckled in her car seat and holding a stuffed bunny that looks like it’s been hugged one too many times.
“Hi!” She lifts her bunny for me to see. She’s adorable and reminds me so much of Amelia at that age, I have to swallow past the tightening in my throat.
But the little girl means the world to Troy. I can’t let my pain at missing Amelia ruin things for them. And it might do me some good to spend time with them together. “Hi, Nova. Is it okay if Bailey and I join you, Uncle Troy, and Butterscotch?”
“Hi!” she replies, which I interpret to mean yes. Maybe?
I bring Bailey to the other side of the truck and help her into the front. I climb in and sit so that she’s between my legs, the typical location for service dogs when riding with their owner—unless the owner is driving. I give her a treat.
We pull into the beach parking lot ten minutes later to find it half-full. Troy and I click the leashes onto the dogs’ collars. I carry the net bag holding an assortment of colorful beach-friendly toys to an open stretch of sand. He carries Nova.
The wind hasn’t picked up yet beyond creating gentle waves on the lake, but the temperature has dropped a few degrees, making me glad I wore my cardigan.
Troy crouches to Nova’s level. “You want to build the sandcastle there?”
Nova nods. She grabs a small plastic shovel and digs it into the sand. She flicks the shovel up, flinging clumps of sand into the air.
Butterscotch and Bailey get to work, digging in their own patches of sand. They, too, send it flying.
Chuckling at their zealous digging, I slip off my sneakers and socks and put them to the side. Troy does the same with his and helps Nova remove her cute little pink shoes.
Troy takes one bucket and fills it with water. He carefully pours it on the sand where we’re working, making sure it’s wet. He goes back to get some more water.
Nova scoops up a shovel full of wet sand. She walks the two feet to one of the buckets and dumps the sand into it. She repeats the cycle. Dig, toddle, dump.
I take one of the other buckets and fill it with sand like I used to do with Amelia. Instead of sadness taking root in me like I thought it would, joy slips in as I work.
“Should we make the sandcastle big enough for Butterscotch to live in?” I ask Nova. My smile is as big as the feeling of freedom that courses through my body.
She vigorously nods.
I don’t relive my memories of building sandcastles with my daughter. This—building castles with Nova—is different. Instead of the briny ocean scent on the breeze, the air is rich with the soothing pine scent of the forest. The water isn’t rushing up the beach as the tide advances. Seagulls aren’t squawking overhead. Here, several ducks quack and bob on the water not far from us.
Troy returns with another bucket of water. His wicked grin is the only warning I get. He splashes the contents at me. Several cold droplets hit me in the face. I giggle-shriek and scramble away from him.
“Hey, you’re not playing fair,” I protest, the wide curve of my lips saying otherwise.
Nova jumps to her feet and giggles at my reactions. Troy flicks water at her, and she giggles louder.
Nova and I share an impish glance, and we both, by some unspoken agreement, lunge at him. He retreats a few feet into the water, his eyes alight with mischief.
We chase after him, still laughing. Nova attempts to splash him, but her water droplets don’t go far enough.
“Watch and learn, Nova,” I say and send a large wave at Troy. Water splashes his legs, abs, and chest. Droplets sparkle in the sun and travel down his hard body. Lucky droplets.
“That’s the best you can do?” Troy taunts, his sexy grin turning me heated.
The dogs bark excitedly at our game, unable to join us because their leashes are attached to the spike in the sand. I’m sure if given a chance, they’d be in the water, splashing us.
Troy lunges toward Nova, scoops her up, and tosses her in the sky. Her squeaked giggles have me laughing even harder.
He lowers her to the sand. We call a truce and return to our sandcastle in progress. Nova crouches next to the hole that Butterscotch has been digging and starts digging there.
I’m about to help her, but Troy pulls me into his arms. One second, I’m smiling at him, grateful he invited me along. The next, his mouth is on mine, and he’s reminding me how good we are together. My arms loop around his neck.
Troy deepens the kiss, but it only lasts a brief moment. He pulls away. The heat in his eyes tells me he would keep kissing me but that’s not why we are here. We’re here to spend time with Nova.
Grinning, we get back to building the sandcastle, talking to Nova and laughing with her as we work.
I pull my phone from my pocket. The lighting is perfect for the kinds of photos I want to take, with the sun shining behind Nova, haloing her head. Nova’s expression as she works on the sandcastle with Troy is too cute not to take pictures of her.
I take a dozen photos of them together and of them separately, none with them looking at the camera. “Hey, you two,” I say to gain their attention. They turn my way, and I take several more photos of them together, but this time with them smiling at the camera.
“What an adorable family,” a female voice gushes not far from us.
I glance up from the phone. A couple in their sixties is walking toward us. They’re holding hands, their gazes on us, and they’re smiling.
Heat flushes my cheeks. I pretend I didn’t hear them, lower to my knees, and pat the sand on the side of the castle. Troy doesn’t seem to hear her as he doesn’t say a word or react to her comment. Troy, Nova, and I aren’t a family—mother and father and child. But I know someone who would like Troy to be part of her family with Nova.
It was obvious when I interviewed Olivia last month for the PTSD articles that she cares for Troy as more than just a close friend. Does she even know I’m here with Troy and her daughter?
I go back to working on the sandcastle, but my mind keeps returning to how cute Troy and Nova are together. She’s not his daughter, but he clearly loves her like one. He really is great with kids. I saw that in the spring while he was playing street hockey with the kids in Simone and Lucas’s neighborhood.
Troy is meant to be a father, and he wants to be one eventually.
He has frequently told me he loves me, and I don’t doubt it. But maybe he’s meant to have children with someone else. Maybe in time he’ll realize that too.
He should be with a woman who isn’t afraid to give him kids. Who isn’t afraid of possibly losing someone she loves.
A woman who has lost someone she loves and has come out the other side stronger. Like Olivia has.