54. Jessica
September, Present Day
Maple Ridge
I shutthe front door and close my eyes against the pain clamped around my heart.
“I can’t afford to lose any more clients due to people accusing me of hiring an ex-con.”
By the time Troy gets to Eugene, maybe even before that, he’ll see I was right in ending things with him. He deserves the happily ever after I can’t give him. My life—all that I touch—is a mess, and I can’t risk it tangling anyone else in my web of devastation.
Bailey whimpers. I crouch next to her, hug her, and let my silent tears soak into her fur. I’ve screwed up everything for the man I love. I wish I hadn’t moved to Maple Ridge. Then his business wouldn’t be in trouble because he’d hired me, and the festival wouldn’t be dealing with the possible fallout from me being involved with it.
I heave my ass off the floor and retreat upstairs to the guest room. If I’m going to drown in sorrow and grief, I might as well pour my feelings into Angelique’s own pain and keep writing.
I sit in the window seat with my laptop and get lost in the words. Tears wet my cheeks, but I can’t tell if they’re for Angelique’s pain or for my own or both.
The sky is dark by the time I finally glance at the clock. 1:50 a.m. Oh. Wow. I hadn’t realized it was so late. I’d stopped to eat dinner several hours ago but went back to writing afterward. Guess whatever had kept my words from flowing is gone.
Careful not to accidentally kick Bailey, I put the laptop to the side and move off the window seat, my muscles stiff. She fell asleep a couple of hours ago, her body squeezed between my legs and the ledge.
I take a moment to stretch my muscles. I should feel tired, but I’m not. I’m not sure I could even fall asleep. I’m too wound up. About the festival. About Angelique’s story. About what happened with Troy.
I don’t know what I’m going to do now. I’m unemployed again, which for now isn’t too big of a worry since I have the money the State of California paid me for the wrongful imprisonment. But that won’t last forever. I’ll need to begin planning for the long term now that I’m no longer working for Troy.
I go into the bathroom and flick on the light. Troy performed miracles with the small space, like he did with the rest of the house. It’s beautiful and functional. Not an inch of space goes to waste.
He knows how to fix up things that are falling apart and need a fresh start. Too bad his talent wasn’t enough to put me back together. Put me back together so I’m a new and improved model.
I pull the elastic from my hair and let the long strands fall past my shoulders. The dark roots are a stark contrast to the blond. Until the fallout of Cora’s article hit Maple Ridge, I’d been meticulous with my roots. Now, they’re one more reminder of how messed up my life has become. How my dream of starting over has met roadblock after roadblock.
I go to the toilet, wash my hands, and return to the guest bedroom. Bailey is no longer sleeping. She’s standing on the window seat and looking outside at the night sky. The street is quiet. No one is walking or driving past.
“You want to go for a walk?” I ask her. She barks and jumps down.
In the foyer, I attach Bailey’s leash to her Service Dog in Training vest and peek through the gap in the living-room curtains to make sure no one is watching the house. No one is, and we step outside.
I inhale the fresh scent of freedom and pine and walk along my path to the sidewalk.
Bailey sniffs the ground and pulls me toward the small patch of neatly mowed grass that makes up my front lawn. She does her business and I survey the front yard. I have a plan for what I want to do to it over the next few years, but now I might not be able to see it come to fruition. If I can’t find a job in Maple Ridge or a way to make a steady income from home, I might have to eventually sell my beloved house and move elsewhere.
I’ll have to start my life over once again.
How many times will I have to move because people think I’m a bad person due to my unfortunate past? Will pitchforks be the welcoming committee no matter where I end up?
Living in a city might be my sole option for starting over. I’m not the only former inmate who’s released and needs a job. There are places that will hire me regardless of where I lived prior to Maple Ridge. Jobs that are no one’s idea of a dream occupation, but I might not have a choice.
The person who killed my husband took so many of my choices away from me—choices that would have given me the happily ever after I so desperately want.
If it weren’t for the restitution payment, I would have to face the reality of moving sooner rather than later. Hopefully by the time I have to move—if it comes to that—my past will be less of an issue than it is now. People will have moved on and no longer think the worst of me.
Bailey and I wander along the sidewalk, and I think about my options of where I could move to. Hawaii? Caribbean? Iceland? I snicker, exhaustion beginning to wiggle its way through my body. While they sound like marvelous places to move to, they’re probably not feasible choices.
Realistically, I’ll have to pick someplace in the U.S. The only place I won’t move to is Seattle, where Amelia lives. Knowing she’s so close but I’m not allowed to see her would be too painful.
My thoughts drift back to Troy, and a throbbing pain grows in my chest. Angelique’s words come to mind from when she lost Johann: Just one breath at a time, and one day I won’t have to keep reminding myself of that.
I try to do as she suggested, but it’s not easy. The memory of those final minutes between Troy and me—the argument, Olivia phoning him so he could say good night to Nova, of he and I severing what we had between us—suffocates me. I can barely draw in a lungful of air.
* * *
The next morning,I help Bailey into her trailer and cycle to the grocery store. After I finally went to bed around three, I tossed and turned most of the night. My legs feel like I’m cycling through quicksand. It’s a miracle I’m actually moving. My body’s sluggish as hell.
I arrive as the store is opening. A teenage employee near the shopping carts gives me a once-over. His gaze lands on the scar by my mouth, and he grimaces, his disgust unmistakable.
I ignore it. It’s not like I care what he thinks of my appearance. Or maybe it’s my past he’s shaming me for.
Bailey and I walk through the store, picking up the items I’ll need for the next couple of days. My last destination is the haircare aisle. I reach for a box of the blond color I’ve been using.
My hand pauses midair, hovering like a moth in the light. It drops several rows, and I grab a different box than the one I had intended to get. Chestnut brown. My natural hair color.
I locate a pair of scissors for cutting hair, put them in the shopping basket, and make a beeline for the till, not allowing myself the chance to change my mind.
The self-serve checkout isn’t open yet, so I’m forced to go to the cashier. I don’t bother to make eye contact with her. I don’t need to see the condemnation on her face or how she fears for her children’s safety. I keep my eyes on my purchases, my head hanging forward.
“That will be thirty-nine-eighty,” she says.
I open my wallet and remove two twenties. I pass them to her, my hand trembling, and brace for her mean words.
A warm beige hand lightly squeezes mine. The unexpected compassion seeps into my blood and leaves me not feeling so alone.
My gaze darts to the cashier’s. Her young brown eyes are filled with understanding—perhaps the understanding of someone only too familiar of what it’s like to be in an abusive relationship?
I’d offer her a safe place to stay if she needs one, but I don’t know how safe my home is. I’m living day to day, waiting for something else to happen. More protesters to arrive. A new wave of reporters knocking on my door.
I reciprocate the gesture, letting her know I’m here for her if she needs someone on her side.
She hands me my change.
I don’t bike my usual way home. I take a route that doesn’t see much tourist traffic. A route that’s longer, with steeper hills. A punishing route.
My ribs are supposed to take about twelve weeks to fully heal. The car accident occurred two months ago. Good enough.
When I first moved to town, my legs and lungs would burn cycling up the steep inclines. A lifetime of living at sea level and then moving to the mountains will do that. Five months ago, there were so many things I didn’t think I would be capable of.
And now, there are still so many things I can’t do. I glance at the tattoo on my forearm—moving on from losing my daughter is one of the things I struggle with most.
Maybe Robyn is right. I would benefit from medication. Too bad I didn’t talk to a physician about it while I had medical insurance.
Eventually, I pedal down my street and onto my driveway. I put the bike and trailer in the garage, and Bailey and I go into the house through the back door.
I deactivate the alarm and carry the bags toward the kitchen. “I have to finish a few things first,” I tell Bailey as I enter the kitchen and put the bags on the island. “Then we can hang out in the garden while I write.”
The day promises to be pleasant, the cool morning air hinting at the coming fall, and Bailey loves being outside as much as I do. Now that the protesters are gone, I don’t have to use Troy’s noise-canceling headphones. I get to listen to the real sounds of nature while I write.
I put away the groceries and phone the medical clinic to book an appointment with a physician.
As soon as I end the call, I turn on my laptop and google a YouTube video on cutting my own hair. “Okay, you ready for this?” I ask Bailey, the question more for me than for her.
I head upstairs, carrying the laptop, the new scissors, the box of hair color, and walk into the bathroom.
I put the laptop on the counter and rewatch the video two more times. I take a long breath through my nose and let it out slowly. I can do this.
I’m a cliché…cutting my hair after breaking up with my boyfriend. But this, what I’m about to do, goes deeper than that.
I follow the video step by step, snipping away at the long strands until the ends fall above my shoulders. The woman in the video makes it appear easier than it is, but she’s a trained hairstylist and I’m not.
I add layers throughout my thick hair, freeing loose waves the long length had weighed down. Next, I give myself bangs. It’s the first time I’ve ever had them.
Once I’m finished, I clean up the hair from the floor, apply the hair color, and blow-dry my hair, styling it into something casual and carefree. Then I study the outcome in the mirror.
I look…different but still like me—the old me. The before-I-got-married me—especially with the brown hair color.
A smile tilts the corners of my mouth. The movement resembles more of a smirk than a full grin. I’ll always be scarred, both inside and out. Nothing I can do about that.
I nod at the reflection in the mirror, happy with how my hair turned out.
New haircut. New hair color. New start.
* * *
There must besomething to dramatically changing your hair after a breakup. As soon as I sit in my garden and open my laptop, the words begin to flow.
Just not the words I had originally intended.
No, instead of working on Angelique’s story, I write an article. “Confessions of an Abused Wife.”
My experience as an abused wife and the things Robyn and I discussed during some of our sessions are stirred into the words. The trauma bond, the repeated cycle of abuse, the feelings of unworthiness, the positive reinforcement, the fixation on the “good” days, and the role dopamine plays in trauma bonding—it’s all added.
All the things I’ve never said to the people who’ve questioned why I didn’t walk away like they think they would have been able to, all those words are liberally mixed into the article.
And then I type all the other ideas I have for articles based on the past ten or so years. Articles that give voice to all the hurts I’ve been forced to endure. The pain, the prejudices, the hate.
Articles that unfortunately too many people can relate to. Articles that are raw and eye-opening.
I have no clue what I’ll do with them. For now, they’re only for me. Part of my therapy. Like journaling. But now that I’ve gotten those words down, I’m ready to return to Angelique’s story.
I hit Save on the article and pick up the last of Angelique’s journals I still need to read and transcribe. I flip through the pages to see how much farther I have left to go. My page-flipping takes me to the empty pages about a quarter way through, an envelope I didn’t know was there marking the spot. A bookmark?
The name Elizabeth is written on the front in faded blue ink, the handwriting the same as in the journals.
I turn the envelope over. It’s sealed.
I put it to the side on the table and get to work transcribing the last journal. It could be that whatever is in the envelope is meant to be read after reading the journals.
* * *
“Wow!”
I startle at Avery’s voice. She’s standing at the wooden garden gate, her eyes wide, lips parted in surprise.
The angle of the sun tells me it’s already late afternoon. I’ve been writing nonstop since I came out here several hours ago.
“I love the new hairstyle and color.” Avery unlatches the gate and enters the garden. “It looks amazing on you.”
“Thanks. It’s my fresh start.” I play with the ends near my face. I’m still getting used to the length being considerably shorter than it’s been in over a decade. “Can I ask you a question about your mother?”
Not seeming at all shocked at my question, Avery sits on the wrought-iron chair opposite me, her loose red curls gleaming softly in the sunlight. “Sure. Ask away.” She bends down and pets Bailey, who is currently not wearing her Service Dog in Training vest.
“How long did it take until she felt like she’d reclaimed her life after leaving your father?”
“A while. But everyone’s journey is different. You can’t measure your progress compared to anyone but yourself.” She straightens, her gaze studying me for a heartbeat. “Is there any reason you’re asking me this?”
I dig my teeth into my lower lip. Might as well tell her the truth now. Everyone will hear about it soon enough. “I broke up with Troy.”
If I thought her eyes went wide when she saw my haircut, that’s nothing compared to now. “You did?”
I nod, shame washing over me at how it all went down. I didn’t mean to hurt him, but I also didn’t mean for my past to hurt his company either. He deserves better than me, better than the disruption my life has caused him.
“I couldn’t give him what he wanted.”
“And what’s that?”
“Troy will make a wonderful father one day,” I reply, not directly answering her question. “And Nova deserves a father like that.”
Like Amelia deserved a wonderful father and eventually got one.
A spark of understanding shifts in Avery’s eyes. “From what Simone told me, Troy and Olivia have been best friends since they were kids.”
“Olivia is in love with him.” I shrug as if that says it all.
“Does he love her?”
I’m sure Troy’s brothers, Zara, Simone, and Emily can answer the question better than I can, but I nod anyway. If he can fall in love with me, the woman who is so messed up she doesn’t know which way is up, I have no doubt he’ll fall in love with Olivia. They deserve that love after they lost Colton, the person they both cared deeply for. “He does.”
“But is he in love with her?”
“Doesn’t matter. That will come. Isn’t that what happens? Two people who’ve lost someone important to them lean on each other to get through the bad days and fall in love?”
Avery stares at me for a beat and bursts out laughing, head flung back. “Are you sure you’re not writing a romance?”
I snort a laugh, even though she won’t understand why. Angelique and Johann’s story wasn’t a romance. A love story with a heartbreaking ending? Most definitely. But a romance with a happily ever after wasn’t in the stars for them. Unfortunately.
Tears prick my eyes at how Iris lost the one man she loved, and she never loved again. Is that my future too?
The only difference is, unlike Johann, the man I love is alive and will likely have a long and happy life.
I just won’t be in it.
I look up at my home—the home with echoes of Troy in every inch of it. The place brings me joy, but it also brings me great pain due to those memories.
If I stay in the house, will I eventually be able to move past that pain? Or would I be better off selling my home and moving far away?