Chapter 15 #2
I shake my head. “I—” I sigh, struggling to get the words out. “I don’t know what to look for to find the right man.”
After Tommy, I was hell-bent on finding someone better, but all I’ve found is disappointment. Half our relationship was spent hoping he would propose and convincing myself I wanted to say yes. Creating hypothetical futures and curating Pinterest boards of engagement rings and wedding venues.
The other half was spent second-guessing and barely treading water while trying to keep him happy. Whatever he wanted, I did. I bent and folded every edge of myself to morph into something he desired, and in the end, I couldn’t remember what shape I had been before we met.
“I was married once before,” Molly admits, her voice low.
Cautious. “At first, it was fireworks. Soul-consuming. I thought I’d never find anyone like him again.
He hit me for the first time after a year of marriage.
I didn’t know what to do—he had apologized, swore it would never happen again.
And for a while, that was true. Until it wasn’t.
Took me three tries before I worked up the courage to divorce him. ”
Tears brim my lashes as Molly shares her story, the strings of my heart twisting and knotting with every word. Her memories revive some of my own. For so long, I lived in denial that Tommy was emotionally abusive. It took even longer to believe I wasn’t at fault for the way he treated me.
The club we belong to—the one neither of us signed up for—shouldn’t exist. Our experiences are different, but I understand, perhaps more than even Doug. Our membership is not a reflection of who we are or our past, but proof there’s hope and love and belonging on the other side.
“When I met Doug, I didn’t know how to trust a man.
I knew most men weren’t like my ex-husband, but the trauma ran deep.
I almost quit our dancing class when we were partnered.
I had the same fireworks with him, and I was terrified.
He knew it, too. It was how he responded to a fear he didn’t understand that told me everything I needed to know about him. ”
Molly pauses her steps and faces me fully.
“With Doug, I am safe—it’s not the only reason I chose him, but it was the first of many.
He saw what was missing in my life, and he filled the space, bringing light and love.
He helped unravel years of fear and trauma without reproach.
Whenever he’s around, I know I’m protected and cared for, and that’s what I needed but didn’t know how to ask for. ”
The small laugh lines around her eyes crinkle, and her soft brown irises are like glass. “I’m happy you found him,” I say, offering her a smile of my own.
“Me, too.”
I hustle alongside her, one step of hers covering the same distance as two of mine.
“Can I offer you some advice?”
I offer the universal hand wave of “go ahead,” and she clears her throat. Oh, god, no gentle advice begins with the clearing of a throat.
“You spend a lot of time planning, preparing, and anticipating so everything is perfect.” It’s not a question but a statement that slices right to my core.
“Let some of that go. You can’t plan for love.
It doesn’t fit neatly in checked boxes, and it’s far from perfect.
It’s messy and complicated, so trying to hold something so multifaceted to such a high standard is doomed to fail. ”
We’ve nearly caught up with Jett and Doug, thanks to the pit stop they made to swap out camera equipment, and before we’re in earshot, Molly catches my forearm, pausing my steps. Her gaze flickers from the guys to me. Something flashes across her gaze, almost like clarity.
“Keep an open mind and follow the unexpected path if that’s where your gut leads you. It might not be what you imagined for yourself, but it doesn’t mean it’s not meant to be.”
She only lets the conversation fall when I acquiesce, and Jett saunters over, looking like the dopiest tourist on the planet.
Pockets cover his cargo pants, and the camera dangling around his neck bounces as he walks.
Add the sunscreen washing his skin in a white sheen, and the stereotype is complete.
Oh, shit. This is what I look like, too.
A laugh rips out of me, and he cocks his head. “Laughing at me?” he asks.
“Never.” My voice cracks, and he playfully shoves my shoulder.
He’s stronger than he realizes, and I step back, trying to absorb the impact, but I misstep, hitting a divot in the road and careening back. My arms flail, and I grab on to the first thing I can: Jett.
I yelp as the gravel and rocks grate and dig against my skin, pain searing through my tailbone when I land hard on the ground. A breath later, he lands on top of me, his camera taking the brunt of the impact against my stomach.
His hands bracket the sides of my head, a wild look contorting his face as he scans my body, searching for damage. Our mouths are inches apart, my gaze flickering across his lips, and the lower half of his body digs into my hip to lift pressure from his camera.
Oh, fuck. His camera.
“Is your camera—”
“Are you okay?” He cuts me off, pushing from the ground and revealing scrapes and cuts along his palms.
I wince, and guilt trickles down my throat, suffocating me.
“Did I break your camera?”
He crouches, setting the camera to the side and unzipping my backpack. The muscle in his jaw tics.
His voice is like thick honey when he says, “Fuck the camera, Sofía. Are. You. Okay?”
The damage isn’t bad, and after the initial shock, most of the pain dissipates, leaving behind a bruised ego and a mountain of guilt.
“Which of these is a first aid kit?” he asks, lifting a few of the pouches.
“Red.”
For blood, obviously.
“Give me your palm.” He bandages the tiny scrape before checking me over, turning my jaw. “Did you hit your head?”
“No,” I mumble, his fingers lingering on my skin. They tremble a bit, and when I wrap my hand around his wrist, the shaking worsens. Is he afraid? “You’re hurt.”