“No hurry. Next time, please bring a side of mint chutney with my order.”
Jeremiah didn’t have it in him to respond with a smile. All the enjoyment had drained from the day. From the town.
Even when they hadn’t been together, knowing Remy was in the area had calmed him and, at the same time, given him something to look forward to. She was the color in his days. The rest of his life felt like shades of beige compared to her.
He steered his Cobra toward Appleton.
He wanted to be what Remy needed because she was everything he needed.
He’d been reading up on recovery from sexual trauma. Memories that interrupted the present, like the memory that had interrupted their kiss, were called “intrusive thoughts.” Apparently, they could be a frequent struggle for survivors.
Additionally, he’d learned that the culture pressures those who’ve suffered sexual trauma to keep their stories hidden because their stories are “messy.” But it only makes things worse when people are told to cover up the wound with things that won’t fix it—like silence, new hobbies, new relationships. It’s best for survivors to learn to ask for what they need.
Remy had asked him not to pursue a physical relationship with her and he’d respect that request. If someone was going to add a physical component to their relationship, it would have to be her. Until then, he’d wait while she gathered trust in him. But how was she supposed to gather trust in him if she was on Islehaven and he was here?
It was joy, pure joy, to lose herself in her art again. Even if, or maybe because, losing herself in it had proven more difficult than ever after returning home.
Yesterday Remy had disembarked at Islehaven’s harbor, Leigh had given her a lift home, and she’d done some hasty unpacking. Then she’d zipped herself into a jumpsuit and turned on crashing classical music. She’d been chagrined when she’d confronted the state in which she’d deserted her current piece. It was in its adolescent phase—a gawky, awkward time. Not the best stage for a parent to jump ship.
At first, she’d tried to immerse herself in what she’d initially envisioned for the wood. A goblet, belonging to a coalition of cosmic princesses. When they sipped from it, it gave them the power to spin galaxies.
She’d taken up the ten-inch wood rasp she used for smoothing her sculptures . . . then failed to tap into her powers of concentration. Over and over, her connection to the imaginary narrative fractured and her thoughts wandered away from the vessel and the princesses and back to Jeremiah, the Camdens, Alexis, and Wendell.
When her dinner alarm had sounded, she’d thrown in the towel with disgust.
Upon locating her phone, she’d seen she had texts and missed calls from Jeremiah. They’d been concentrated close together.
While reading and rereading his texts, she’d eaten frozen chicken adobo with veggies and ancient grains. Which, after the fresher food she’d had in Rockland, tasted awful.
She’d pondered how to respond and eventually sent a reply.
Remy
I decided to come home to Islehaven. Call when you want to talk about it.
She’d expected him to call right away. However, he had not.
By this morning, she’d arrived at a place of genuine irritation with him. Yes, she’d said to call when he was ready to talk about her leaving. But hestillwasn’t ready? He was reacting to her departure from the mainland with surprising indifference. He’d led her to believe she meant something to him! Yet . . . no call. No return text.
She’d skipped her morning walk and yoga in favor of rushing straight into the distraction work provided. Without her permission, her imagination morphed. The goblet was no longer the possession of princesses but belonged to a singular cosmic prince. He lounged disdainfully on a silver throne. He had a lean torso, sandy hair, and charisma. The ladies in waiting were either cowed by him or infatuated with him. Only one blond peasant had the bravery to stand up to him. He began to straighten in his throne, his focus intensifying on her, as she gave an impassioned speech detailing why his ability to spin galaxies must be harnessed for good.
Thatdaydream had stuck.
Just like old times, she startled when her phone let her know the lunch hour had arrived.
Emerging from the music and absorption of her work, she was surprised to realize that a storm was rolling over her cottage. Great booms of thunder. Screeching wind. Torrential rain. When had that started?
She peered out the kitchen window at the twisting trees, microwave whirring as her meal circled around and around inside it.
Strange how oddly empty the house felt now that she was here alone again. She’d lived here for six years. And only shared this space with Jeremiah for ten days. Yet his imprint remained in every single room. She hadn’t washed the sheets last night because the wonderful scent of him mixed with the scent of her soap had been all over them. He’d had the nerve—the nerve!—to turn her blessed solitude into solitude tinged with loneliness—
A knock, loud and decisive, rapped against her front door.
She jumped.
“Remy?” came a muffled but easily recognizable voice.
Jeremiah? Her heart sprinted off the blocks. She crossed the living room and opened the door.
