I’m in charge of the camera. I can make this lingerie thing work, and I will, with her.
I posted an image, a call for her to come home, a signal that Butter Boudoir isn’t off the table. I’d planned on keeping the photo for myself. The outer curve of her bare breast is visible and even that feels intimate. But I want her to know I’m willing to try. She was right to remind me this is a partnership. I can’t control her, and if I try, I’ll be no better than Rich or her dad.
The passage I chose is one of her longest—and it’s inspiring more comments than usual, people tagging lost loves or commiserating friends. People lonely on a wintry Sunday afternoon.
You said
When you leave, turn out the lights
Lock the door behind you
Close the gate
How can you not see
When you’re gone, there are no lights
The door won’t shut
The gate is a cage.
I miss you.
That was three hours ago. I’ve watched my account like it’s a ticking time bomb, deleting any comment or message she might take the wrong way. The last thing I want is for her to see something that might wiggle its way into her head and convince her she’s not good enough. If she feels she has nowhere to turn without me, she might fall into a black hole.
A knock on the front door makes me sit up. I gave Halston a key, so my mind jumps to the worst case scenarios: she sent someone for her things; she called Rich to confront me; she’s hurt, and the police are here. Holding my breath, I cross the apartment quickly and look through the peephole. Halston sags on the doorstep, weighed down by a backpack I don’t recognize.
I yank open the door. She falls into my arms. “Oh, Hals,” I murmur, gathering her close. Her nose and cheek ice right through my shirt. “You’re freezing, babe. You should’ve come home. You could’ve been mad here where it’s warm.”
She looks up at me with red-rimmed eyes. “Home?”
“You know you belong here with me. Don’t you?” For a moment, I’m afraid she doesn’t know that, even after I’ve done my best to make her feel safe here. It’s the same feeling I had when my mom would go to her cabinet in the afternoons.
To my relief, she nods. “I forgot my keys.”
I bring her inside and sit her at the kitchen table where I just agonized for hours. “What do you want? Coffee, tea, hot chocolate?”
“I want you. I don’t care about anything else, not even what we’ve built.” Her eyes water. “You were right. Our relationship is more important.”
She looks defeated. That isn’t what I want. She shouldn’t have to give in just to keep me. That’s probably what Rich expected from her. I lean back against the counter. “I’ve given it some more thought.”
“Wait. Before you continue.” She puts the backpack on the table and unzips the top. “These are for you.”
She pulls out three thick journals in varying shades of brown leather.
“Halston.” My chest tightens with anticipation. “Are those . . . full?”
“I didn’t bring them all. I started when I was fifteen, in counseling.” She picks one up. “This was the first one. It’s flowery and juvenile. Hormone central. So, it sucks.”
“Can I read it?”
She swaps it for a bigger one. “This one’s emotional. Angry, not sexy. It’s from when I moved out of the denial stage. Each book has a personality.”
“What’s that one?” I ask of the third journal.
She looks at me from under her lashes. “It’s . . . darker. When the guilt over my mom gets too much, I write in here. It’s more explicit than what you’ve read so far. There isn’t much in here, because it’s not a place I go very often.”
Like a conditioned response, I salivate. My greedy hands tingle. I’ve devoured what I have, and getting more feels like a gift. “Did you bring them for me to read or just to torture me?”
