ChapterTwenty-Five
Piper
His body goes rigid with tension. He sits up on his elbows. “When?”
“It was on my dresser when I got home. I’m not sure when it came in. I didn’t see Mindy before I left to come here, so I couldn’t ask.”
“What was it?” His eyes are full of concern.
I grimace. “Lingerie.”
His face turns into thunder.
“There was a typed note with it. He knows about us somehow.”
His brows furrow. “What did the note say exactly?”
“It said, ‘for you and your new boyfriend.’ How ick is that? And how does he know about us?”
His jaw hardens. “I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”
Frustration sinks into me. Not at Oliver—at Ben. And at myself for ever choosing him. “I hate that he’s still affecting my life.”
Oliver strokes my back with long brushes of his fingertips. “It won’t be forever. We’ll take care of it. You’re not alone in this.”
“I still worry.” I swallow. “Even with you, I worry that I’m going to do something wrong, say the wrong thing, and it will make you angry.”
“You’re safe with me.” His voice is low and serious, and his face has that intense focus, concentrated on me. “That doesn’t mean I won’t get upset sometimes. I’m human. But my emotions aren’t your responsibility—they’re mine. I want you to be honest with me, and I’ll be honest with you.”
He has no idea what his words mean to me. “Ben held me responsible for everything. Well, all the bad things. He took credit for anything good.”
His jaw hardens into steel.
“I was always on pins and needles, walking on eggshells all the time.” I search for the words, wanting him to understand. “It was like walking through the same minefield every day, but they constantly moved. Some days, a random comment wouldn’t bother him in the slightest, but the next day, that same phrase would set him off. It was impossible to predict.”
“He was a weak fool.”
“I was the fool,” I say. Oliver opens his mouth to contradict me, and I cover his lips with gentle fingers. “When I met Ben, I was grappling with so much guilt. So much shame. When Dad died, everything was overwhelming. Ben was charismatic, handsome, so seemingly perfect. When things started going bad, deep inside I thought it was no more than I deserved. How could I be allowed joy when my little sister was dead? When my father got sick, and I couldn’t even visit? I was a mess. Ben was a monster, but I wasn’t perfect, either. My pain was like a knife, and it cut him too.”
He cups my face in his warm hands, smoothing his thumbs over my cheeks. When he speaks, his voice is rough with emotion. “You never need to soften your edges for a man who doesn’t have a sharp enough tool.”
I’m struck speechless. He’s right. What I’m going through now is like grief, but it’s not the loss of Ben that I’m mourning—it’s the loss of myself. The lack of trust in my intuition. I’ve lost part of my innocence, my youthful hopes and expectations.
I have to forgive myself, relearn how to have faith in my internal compass. How do you hang on to hope when it can lead to more hurt?
And I need to be honest with Oliver. He still doesn’t know I haven’t even started working on the pieces I promised him. I have to trust him with my fears, with all of my scars, like he trusted me.
My thoughts grow cloudy with fatigue. All the sharing—and the mind-blowing sex—has exhausted my mind and body. Wrapped in Oliver’s arms, drained and completely sated, I slide into a dreamless sleep.
I wake up in darkness, still wrapped up in Oliver. His breathing is deep and steady. Still sleeping. Memories of the night before flicker to life in my mind’s eye, and warmth fills me.
My muscles ache in the best of ways, and just thinking about him sends heat flooding to those achy areas. I’m tempted to wake him with my mouth, fall back into pleasure, but… I know how precious sleep is for him.
Besides, my mind is churning, my fingers tingling with a familiar itching. I think I know what I need to do. An image is forming in my mind. I need to create.
Carefully, I extricate myself from Oliver’s heavy limbs and make my silent way out of his room and into the kitchen, where my bag is still sitting on the counter. Fortunately, I don’t run into anyone while I’m sneaking around in the dark, naked. Once I have my jeans and T-shirt on, I jot down a quick note and leave it on the counter.
Then I take the elevator down to the garage and into the space Oliver made just for me. My insides get all melty thinking about it. That was him, taking care of me even then, back when his voice was cold and his features impassive.
I go back to the drawing table, where I was working yesterday, and rip the notebook to the next clean sheet. The pencil moves across the table and… it’s not terrible. My shoulders slump.
Finally. I know the result won’t be exactly what’s on the page. The piece will change shape and melt and mold into something different—that’s how it always works. But I know, with an artist’s intuition, that this is it. This is where I need to start. The beginning of anything is always terrifying and exhilarating.