“Afraid of how good this is. Afraid it won’t last.” He pushed a lock of hair off my forehead. “Scared to death of losing you.”
“Oh.” I was speechless. I swallowed hard. “You’re… you don’t have to be scared of losing me.”
Something flickered in his expression that I didn’t understand, couldn’t decipher.
“I don’t?” he said.
“No.” I shook my head. “No.”
“Good.” He pulled me closer. “Because you’re the first woman I’ve never wanted to let go.”
February 4
Pink and red hearts, smiling teddy bears, and cheerful cupids plaster the windows of the shops lining Avalon Street. The sidewalks are edged with dirty piles of snow, the roads crusted with slush. Skate-blade grooves scar the frozen surface of the lake, and skiers’ ruts twist through the mountain trails.
I walk through downtown, unconsciously glancing at every young woman in the hopes that one of them will be Maggie Hamilton. In my imagination, we have a good, old-fashioned ninja fight where I take her down with a lot of violent kicks and spins.
I now understand the fierce protectiveness that Dean has always had for me. I know that white-hot burn of rage, the certainty that you would do anything, anything, to make things right. I hate the helpless feeling simmering at the edge of my anger, the fear that my husband could be hurt. I want to stand in front of him like some avenging angel, battling anyone who dares to try and destroy what he has worked so hard to build.
Though I knew I shouldn’t, this morning I looked up Maggie’s contact information in the student directory, then called her from one of the phones at the public library. Another girl answered and said that Maggie was staying with her parents for the spring semester.
I know I can’t track her down and demand answers, so instead I’ve looked up tons of information about sexual harassment cases, legal recourses, case precedents, how to deal with false charges. Dean’s lawyer put him in touch with another attorney who specializes in sexual harassment cases. At least we can start a defense.
But it’s fucking scary. I found a report online that discussed how educators are particularly vulnerable to false charges from embittered students—and even if the professor is proven completely innocent, he can still face devastating, long-term repercussions. Professionally, emotionally, and financially.
That cannot happen to Dean.
No way. Not now. Not ever.
I stop outside The Happy Booker and wait for Kelsey, who is stalking toward the store with her hands shoved in her coat pockets and her shoulders hunched.
“When the pioneers established settlements, what made them think this was a good place?” she remarks as we go inside. “Especially when they discovered that winter is a bitch?”
“Have some hot chocolate.” From behind the front counter, Allie waves toward the hot-chocolate maker she set up by the cash register. “It’ll warm you up. Free sugar cookies too.”
“Huh.” Kelsey blinks at her, then approaches the little table. “I guess that sounds pretty good.”
Allie beams. I introduce them to each other and go behind the counter to check my upcoming hours on the schedule and program them into the calendar on my phone.
“You going to lunch?” Allie asks me.
“Kelsey’s taking me to Matilda’s Teapot,” I say, then amend it to, “Well, she’s tolerating Matilda’s Teapot because she knows I like it, and it’s closing soon.”
“And because, for whatever reason, your husband is snarling and growling at everyone these days,” Kelsey adds, “which leads me to believe you could use some strawberry scones and apricot tea.”
“What’s wrong with Professor Hottie?” Allie asks.
“He’s just stressed out with work,” I say, aware of Kelsey’s sharp gaze.
I wish I could confide in her and Allie, but Dean and I need to deal with this alone. Since we returned to Mirror Lake a few days ago, he’s been mostly quiet and grim-faced, either holed up in his office or working out at the gym. When we’re together, he hugs me often, asks how I feel, pulls me close to him at night in bed, but he is silently under siege.
Are you sure you’re okay, Dean? “Fine.”
We should meet with that counselor soon. “Okay.”
I scheduled my follow-up appointment with Dr. Nolan. “I’ll be there.”
“So I was thinking of us hosting a Willy Wonka party,” Allie tells me. “We can wrap golden tickets around small chocolate bars and leave them at the toy store down the street and a few other kids’ places.” She pushes a tumble of red curls out of her eyes as she peers at her planning worksheet. “Will you take some to the library too? Maybe give them out during story time?”
“Sure. I have a shift tomorrow morning.”