Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Winter
Ifinally drifted off sometime around four in the morning, my mind too exhausted to keep spinning through everything that had happened. The sleep wasn't good, and it wasn't long, but it was something.
When I wake, it's to sunlight streaming through the curtains, warm and insistent against my closed eyelids. I blink my eyes open slowly, disoriented for a moment by the unfamiliar ceiling, the angle of the light, the sounds filtering in from somewhere beyond the closed door.
Then I remember everything that transpired. I turn my head and look at the clock on the nightstand. 8:47 AM.
The guest bedroom is comfortable and welcoming, with pale walls and a large window that lets in the morning light. Kate has clearly put thought into making this space feel like a refuge, and I'm grateful for it even if it doesn't feel like mine and never will.
My body aches like I've been in a physical fight. My head pounds with a dull, persistent throb. My eyes feel swollen and tender from hours of crying.
I push myself up to sitting, the blanket falling away from my shoulders. I'm still wearing the sleep shirt from last night, wrinkled and twisted around my body, and for a moment, I just sit there trying to orient myself to this new reality.
I swing my legs out of bed and stand on unsteady legs. There's a mirror on the wall near the closet, and I catch my reflection as I move past it.
I look terrible.
My face is puffy and swollen from crying, my eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. The mascara I didn't fully wash off last night has smudged beneath my lashes, and my hair is a tangled mess falling around my shoulders from the braid that came loose while I slept.
I turn away from the mirror and head to the bathroom. The shower is exactly what I need. I turn the water as hot as I can stand and step under the spray, closing my eyes as the heat hits my skin. Steam fills the bathroom, surrounding me in warmth and white noise that drowns out everything else.
The tears come again without warning. I didn't think I had any left after last night, but they stream down my face anyway, mixing with the shower water. My shoulders shake with sobs I try to keep quiet, not wanting Kate and Amy to hear me falling apart again.
I cry for the year I wasted believing Rowan's lies. For the apartment in Greenwich Village I gave up to move in with him. For the life I thought we were building together that turned out to be nothing but a performance on my part while he was living an entirely different reality.
When the crying finally subsides, I grab the soap and scrub my skin until it's red and stinging.
I'm trying to wash away everything from last night, the feeling of his hands on me just hours before I found out the truth, the memory of his voice calling Madeleine easier than me, the weight of two years collapsing in the span of a single conversation.
I wash my hair twice, working the shampoo through until my scalp tingles, letting the water rinse everything away. I stay under the spray until it starts to run lukewarm, my skin pruning and the steam so thick I can barely see the shower walls.
Finally, I turn off the water and step out, wrapping myself in the soft towel Kate left folded on the counter. The mirror is completely fogged over from the steam. I wipe a hand across it, clearing a small section, and look at my reflection.
My eyes are still red, but my face is clean. I don't look quite as destroyed as I did when I first woke up. It'll have to be enough for now.
Back in the guest room, I dig through the suitcase I packed in a frantic rush last night, pulling out black lounge pants and a matching top. They're comfortable and soft, exactly what I need when I can barely think about getting dressed.
I pull them on, grateful for clothes that don't demand anything from me.
Kate left a pair of slippers by the door. They're a size too big, but I slide my feet into them anyway because the hardwood floors are cool and I need something between me and the ground.
I gather my damp hair and twist it into a high bun on top of my head, securing it with an elastic from my bag. A few wet strands escape and fall around my face, but I don't have the energy to fix them.
I stand there for a moment, hand on the doorknob, and take a deep breath.
From beyond the door, I can hear Kate and Amy's voices in the kitchen. They're trying to be quiet, but their conversation carries down the hallway in low murmurs punctuated by the occasional sound of movement.
I can smell coffee, rich and strong. I take another breath, steadying myself, and open the door. Time to face the day.
I walk down the hallway toward the kitchen, following the smell of coffee and the sound of voices.
Kate and Amy are sitting at the kitchen table with their laptops open, coffee mugs in hand, clearly trying to look like they're working but fooling no one. They both look up when I appear in the doorway.
Amy sets her mug down. "How are you feeling?"
I lean against the doorframe. "Like I got hit by a truck."
Kate stands immediately. "Coffee?"
"Please."
I cross to the table and sink into one of the empty chairs. Kate moves to the counter and pours coffee from the French press into a clean mug, then sets it in front of me along with the cream and sugar.
I wave away the cream and sugar. "Black is fine."
The coffee is strong and hot, exactly what I need. I wrap both hands around the mug, grounding myself in the warmth and the familiar ritual of morning caffeine.
Amy closes her laptop and looks at me across the table.
"Did you sleep at all?"
"Not really," I admit. "Maybe a couple hours around four."
Kate sits back down, her own coffee in hand.
"You should try to rest more. You're running on pure adrenaline right now, and that's going to catch up with you."
I take a long sip of coffee and feel it burn down my throat.
"I can't. My brain won't shut off."
We sit in silence for a moment. The kitchen is warm with morning light streaming through the windows, and I can hear the distant sounds of the neighborhood waking up outside. It feels surreal to be sitting here in this peaceful moment when everything inside me feels like chaos.
Amy leans forward, elbows on the table.
"So what's the plan?"
The question makes my chest tighten.
"I don't know. I need to figure out where I'm going to live.
I have to get my stuff from the apartment at some point.
I need to call my parents and tell them what happened, and I have a business to run.
The Chen project has a meeting scheduled for this afternoon that I need to reschedule, and there are fabric samples that arrived yesterday that I haven't even looked at, and I just—"
My voice breaks.
My hands start shaking, and coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim of my mug. I set it down quickly before I spill it everywhere.
Kate reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers.
"Winter. Slow down. One thing at a time."
"I don't have time to slow down," I say, and I can hear the edge of panic creeping into my voice.
"I can't just fall apart right now. I have responsibilities. Clients who are counting on me. A business that I've built from nothing, and if I don't keep it together, everything is going to—"
"You need to breathe," Kate interrupts gently.
I shake my head. "If I breathe, I'll fall apart."
Amy's voice is firm. "Then fall apart. We've got you."
I look at her, then at Kate, and I want to believe them. I want to let go and collapse and let someone else hold me together for a while.
But I can't afford to do that. If I stop moving, if I let myself feel everything that's sitting just beneath the surface, I'm going to drown in it. So I have to keep going. I have to stay busy and focused and productive, or I'm going to lose myself completely.
I pull my hand away from Kate's and pick up my coffee again, taking another long drink to steady myself.
My phone, which I turned off and left on the table when I sat down last night, has been turned on again and within seconds it starts buzzing.
All three of us look at it. I've been ignoring it all morning, but I finally reach for it and unlock the screen.
The notification count makes my stomach turn.
Fourteen missed calls. Twenty-seven text messages. All from numbers I don't recognize, but I know exactly who they're from.
Rowan.
The texts range from apologetic to angry to desperate. I scroll through them, my jaw clenching tighter with each one.
Please talk to me.
You're overreacting.
I love you.
We can fix this.
You're making a mistake.
The most recent one, sent fifteen minutes ago, reads:
At least tell me you're safe.
I turn the phone around and show Kate and Amy the screen.
"He won't stop."
Kate's expression hardens. "Block those numbers too."
"He has office lines. An answering service. He'll find other ways to reach me if he wants to."
Amy's voice is sharp. "Then ignore him. He doesn't deserve a response."
"Part of me wants to respond," I admit.
"I want to tell him exactly what I think of him and his excuses and his pathetic attempts to manipulate me into coming back."
Kate shakes her head.
"Don't give him the satisfaction. Silence is more powerful than anything you could say to him right now."
I know she's right. I know that engaging with him, even to tell him off, would only give him an opening to keep the conversation going. To keep trying to explain himself or justify what he did or convince me that I'm overreacting.
But it's hard to resist the urge to fire back.
Kate leans forward, her voice softer now.