Chapter 25
Porter hadn’t answered my texts. All day.
I wanted—no, needed—to tell him about my experience with Jorjina that day. I needed him to know that I was contemplating packing my things, contemplating leaving the Cluff home. I just wanted the green light. I needed to know that I had a place to stay.
But he wasn’t answering.
The blue suitcase called to me from my closet.
Go.
Do it.
Be brave.
Just go.
But I couldn’t, not without talking to Porter first. While I waited to hear from him, I removed the pile of money from my pocket and placed it inside the front pouch of the suitcase. I sorted through the dresses in my closet—blue, green, lilac. They were all the same, and they were items I would never wear in the outside world. Jorjina’s money would see to that. I’d be able to buy new clothes, and help Porter with the cost of groceries until I was able to find a job. Perhaps Tiffany could put in a good word for me at the free clinic. I’d be a loyal worker, earn my own money, and make my way in the world.
My mind continued to spin as I pondered what else to pack. Certainly not my dresses or long underwear. I looked around my bedroom, searching for items I didn’t want to leave behind. The trinkets from Aspen’s children, those would come with me. They’d remind me of the sister wife who actually cared about my well-being. I’d miss her, miss her instincts and her honesty. But she wasn’t enough to keep me here. I needed Porter.
The photographs of my family called to me from the wall. I couldn’t pack them yet, or else Aspen or the other sister wives would be aware that something was amiss. But I made a mental note to pack them when the time came.
I pulled the phone from my pocket. Still no texts from Porter. Perhaps he was working on the house.
Whenever I thought of the tiny cottage, I got goose bumps on my arms. The thought of living there, just Porter and me, delighted me to no end. When I daydreamed, I envisioned an endless loop of possibilities playing out in my head like a picture book.
Maybe we’d paint the walls a beautiful sea green, and he’d chase me around the living room until he caught me, pulled me to the floor, and wiped fresh paint on the tip of my nose. I’d pretend to be upset and swat him on the chest.
We’d make love in the empty room, reveling in our privacy, in the home we were creating together. Maybe I would teach him to cook my famous apple dumplings, show him how to peel the apples and roll the dough. He’d flick bits of flour at me as I instructed him, distracting me with his humor, then he’d grab me by the waist and hoist me up on the counter. My bare legs would wrap around his waist and I’d kiss him hard before insisting we get back to baking the dessert. Maybe we’d . . .
Boom.
What was that?
I gripped the corner of my dresser, wondering where that loud noise had come from.
Boom.
There it was again. It was coming from the window. I’d left it open slightly since a thunderstorm had begun earlier in the evening. I sent up a quick prayer to Heavenly Father that Porter was on the other side of the glass.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Someone was at my door. I had to decide—window or door? Window or door?
I chose door. I had to.
Aspen was standing on the other side. “Did you hear that?” she asked, peeking over my shoulder into the room.
“Yeah, I did. I think it was a raccoon.”
“A raccoon? No, I don’t think so. That seems very unlikely.”
“It was. I watched as it pounced toward my window,” I lied, “practically scared me to death. But it’s gone now, it ran away.”
“Oh.” She hesitated, narrowing her eyes, still looking past me. “All right. If it comes back, let me know.”
“Of course.”
Closing the door after Aspen, I locked the latch and returned to the window, throwing it open and facing my fears head-on.
A pair of familiar knuckles gripped the window sill.
“Porter, what are you doing?” I shrieked, pulling on his forearm, helping him into the room.
He was a mess. His hair, his skin, his clothing—all soaked from the rain. But not only that, something was off. Something was horribly wrong.
“What’s going on?” I asked as he hoisted himself over the window and crouched on my floor, wrapping his arms around his knees. But he didn’t answer, didn’t speak a word. Instead, he pulled me down to the floor, his hands gripping my wrists like a vice.
“Porter, you’re scaring me.”
Still, he said nothing. His body slumped until his head rested in my lap, his arms wrapped around my waist. And then it happened.
Porter Hammond cried.
He hiccupped and he sobbed, soaking my dress with his tears. Again and again, I pleaded with him as I stroked his sopping wet hair.
“Porter, please . . . tell me what happened.”
But he didn’t respond and each time I asked, he simply tightened his grip on my waist. I was terrified for him, for us. I didn’t know how to help him, didn’t know how to care for the man I loved. Not unless he told me what was the matter.
Something had ripped him apart. Something or someone had done this to him.
Finally, he let out an agonized whisper. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“About what?” I asked, trying desperately to understand.
“I shouldn’t have done it.” He choked on his sobs. “I should’ve known better.”
“I don’t understand. What did you do?”
Was he referring to me? His love for me? I was completely bewildered by his behavior. And I had no clue how to support him.
“Never,” he said between sobs, “never again.” His fingers dug into my waist and I flinched at the throbbing pain. But I welcomed the pain. The pain told me that his regrets had nothing to do with me, with us.
No, this was something bigger. Something much bigger.
My mind was a whirlwind. Even though I was confident that his devastation had nothing to do with me, I still had no idea what he was talking about. I’d never seen him like this, so unglued; even when he was coming down from the meth, he wasn’t like this. This was an emotional response, not a physical one.
But from what?
“Porter, I can’t help you unless you talk to me. I can’t make anything better.”
“You can’t,” he whispered. “No one can. It’s done. I’m done.”
“What?”
He sat up with a start, his eyes wild as they bored into mine. He spoke so quickly and urgently, I almost couldn’t process his words.
“You have to leave this place, Brin. You have to go before it destroys you. Stay here any longer and it will. I know it.”
I nodded. “I know.”
If only he knew just how ready I was. But not like this. I couldn’t leave with him like this. This Porter scared me. And as much as I loved him, I couldn’t go anywhere just yet. I could hold him, support him, nurse him, and love him. But I couldn’t leave with him. Not yet.
“You have to let me in.” I stroked his cheek. “You have to tell me what’s going on. Tell me, Porter, please.”
He stared at me. His eyes were thoroughly bloodshot; tears and rain combined to soak his cheeks. He pressed his eyes shut and shook his head violently before sinking back down to rest his head in my lap. Shivers took over his body from the cold wetness that permeated his clothing.
“I need to warm you up,” I whispered before shifting to retrieve the quilt folded at the foot of my bed. Porter moved with me, his arms still wrapped around my waist. Spreading the blanket around him, I rubbed his limbs and back, hoping to spread warmth throughout his body. Within minutes, his shivering had subsided and his breathing had evened out.
He was asleep.
I leaned back against the wall, thinking. I couldn’t wake him, yet I couldn’t leave him alone on the floor of my room. So instead, I closed my eyes and drifted to sleep with Porte’s head in my lap.
When I woke the next morning, the damp blanket was draped on my legs, but the weight of his body was no longer pressed against mine.
Porter was gone.