“Do you know how many fucking nightmares I’ve had about that woman?” I touched my thumb and index finger to the insides of my eyes. “She’s right there in front of me and I’m begging and begging her to stop, and she doesn’t. I wake up shaking and screaming.”
“Do you still have the nightmares?”
“Sometimes. For a while, they got better, after I went to the doctor. I started taking meds that would make me forget what I’d dreamt. I didn’t dread going to sleep so much. But I stopped taking them after Steph’s accident.”
“Why?”
“Because it was my fault.” I retreated into the truth that tortured me, repeated the words that haunted me. “‘Just as he has done, so it shall be done to him.’”
“No, Jack. You’re wrong.” She sniffed and sat up taller. “What you did saved lives, and it had nothing to do with Steph’s accident. You are not responsible.”
I closed my eyes. “It’s the only way I can make sense of it.”
“No one could ever make sense of a tragedy like that.”
“Sometimes I dream about the checkpoint, and it’s Steph driving the car,” I whispered. “In my subconscious, they’re connected forever.”
Gently she rocked me, her words laced with quiet sobs. “It wasn’t Steph, Jack. She was the love of your life, and you never would have harmed her. You made her happy.”
“I wanted to. God, I wanted to.”
“You did. And if she were here right now, I know she’d be saying the same thing to you that I am—it wasn’t your fault.”
I knew she was right—Steph would say that, and she had a thousand times in my mind. But I just couldn’t believe her.
“And she’d probably be angry that you blame yourself,” Margot went on. “She’d want you to forgive yourself so you could be happy again. Don’t you think?”
Of course she would. She’d stand right there and argue with me just like she used to. But forgiving myself would mean giving myself permission to move on, to be happy when I didn’t deserve it. I’d never make that mistake again. “I can’t.”
She rocked me again, her arms wrapped around me, her lips pressed to my skin. When she spoke, her voice was soft. “Have you ever told anyone about this?”
I hesitated. “Steph and my therapist knew about Iraq. But I’ve never talked to anyone about feeling responsible for her death until you.”
She let that sink in—both of us did. I’d just shared a part of me with her that I hadn’t shared with any other living soul. I wasn’t even sure why I trusted her so much, but I did. Again, I figured it had to do with her temporary presence in my life. It freed me to be my real self around her.
“I wish there was something I could do for you,” she said.
I exhaled. The truth was out. And while I didn’t exactly feel better or hopeful, I did feel less alone. I put my hands over hers on my chest. “You’re here. You’re listening. That’s something.”
“I am here. And I’m glad you told me.”
“I am too.” It was startling to realize I meant it. I hadn’t intended to reveal so much of myself, but it had been so long since I felt this kind of closeness to someone, the kind that compelled you to share your secrets.
She sighed as she leaned back again. “Want to hear something ridiculous?”
“Sure.”
“The entire reason I took the job up here was because my mother made me leave town after the scone-throwing incident.”
I craned my neck so I could see her face. “What?”
“It’s true. I had to leave town until the rumors died down.”
“Jesus. And have they?”
“Yes. She called yesterday and said I could show my face again.”
“That’s why you were going to leave yesterday, huh?”
“Yes.”
God, I was glad she hadn’t. “But you’re still here.”
“I’m still here,” she whispered.
I kissed her, felt her fingers stroking my jaw. Her lips were warm and soft and tasted like lavender, and I wanted nothing more than to live in that kiss with her forever, to trap it under glass and stay safely inside, cut off from memories that haunted me and a future that could never be.
I wanted it so badly I didn’t stay the night.
Twenty-Seven
Margot
The next morning, I walked to Pete and Georgia’s house just before ten. I hadn’t slept well, so I felt a little groggy as I made my way, but the sunshine felt good on my arms. Inhaling deeply, I hoped the fresh air would succeed in perking me up where three cups of coffee had failed. But I caught the scent of manure on the breeze, and wrinkled my nose. Was that fertilizer? Ugh, how did people who lived near farms ever get used to that smell? That’s one thing I will not miss when I go home.
But there was something I would miss—being with Jack. The last twenty-four hours had been incredible. Something had changed between us. What we shared no longer felt like a meaningless little fling. I felt close to him. Protective of him. Proud of him. Fascinated by him and how he made me feel.