"Then don't waste any more." I cup her face in my hands, wiping away the tears with my thumbs. "You're free now. Whatever you want to do with that freedom, I'll support you. But don't spend another minute grieving for the time you lost. Spend it building the life you want."
She stares at me for a long moment, and I watch the grief give way to resolve.
"It's over," she says, and her voice is steady. "It's actually over."
"Yeah, sweetheart. It is."
She leans into me, and I wrap my arms around her again, holding her close. Outside, the last light of sunset fades into darkness.
Tomorrow, there will be more logistics to handle. Court dates and legal proceedings, therapy appointments and difficult conversations. The road ahead isn't going to be easy.
But tonight, I don't think about any of that. I just hold her in the dark, feeling her breath slow against my chest, and let myself believe we might actually get to keep this.
Somewhere in the harbor, a boat horn sounds. Gemma stirs against me.
"Will?" Her voice is thick with exhaustion. "What happens now?"
I press a kiss to her hair. "Whatever we want."
14
GEMMA
I'm still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It's a Tuesday afternoon, and Ironside is quiet. A few regulars at the bar nursing beers and watching a baseball game on the mounted TV. The brothers scattered around a pool table in the back, their laughter punctuating the crack of billiard balls. Will in his office, door open, doing the kind of paperwork that makes him grumble under his breath.
And me, perched on a stool at the end of the bar with my sketchbook open, designing a logo for a boutique in Portland that found me through Molly's recommendation. My client list has been growing steadily since I decided to open my own graphic design business.
This is my life now. It still doesn't feel entirely real.
Craig is out on bail, but he's barred from entering Oregon as a condition of his release. Shaw calls with updates every few days, his voice carefully neutral as he explains the legal proceedings. Assault charges. Stalking charges. Violation of the restraining order. The DA is confident, especially with Tate's video evidence, but confident isn't the same as certain. The trial is scheduled for three months from now, and until then, Craig is someone else's problem.
I try not to think about him. Most days, I succeed.
My pencil moves across the paper, sketching curves and angles, playing with negative space. The boutique owner wants something feminine but edgy, and I've been through a dozen iterations trying to find the right balance.
It feels good to be designing again. I'd built a decent freelance business before I met Craig, had clients who trusted my eye and recommended me to their friends. Then he convinced me that my work was a hobby, not a career. That I didn't need to pursue it because he provided everything I could want. The clients drifted away. The sketchbooks gathered dust. I believed him, or at least I stopped arguing.
Now I have three clients and a waiting list. It turns out people appreciate a designer who listens more than she talks.
"That's looking good."
I glance up to find Molly sliding onto the stool beside me, a glass of white wine already in her hand. She's been coming by more often lately, sometimes with her husband, sometimes alone. Rebuilding the friendship I let Craig dismantle, one conversation at a time.
"It's getting there." I tilt the sketchbook so she can see. "What do you think? Too busy?"
She studies it with the critical eye of someone who's been in retail for fifteen years. "Maybe lose the swirl on the left. Simplify it."
"That's what I was thinking." I make a note in the margin and close the book. "Thanks for the referral, by the way. She's great to work with."
"I knew you two would click." Molly sips her wine and glances toward the pool table, where Cole is lining up a shot while Tate heckles him. "You look happy, Gem. Like, actually happy. Not just putting on a brave face."
The observation catches me off guard, mostly because she's right. I am happy. Not the fragile, performative version I wore like armor during my marriage, but a quieter, more solid kind. The kind that doesn't depend on anyone else's approval or disappear when I'm alone.
"I'm getting there," I say. "Therapy helps."
"You're seeing someone?"
