“I'm getting there,” I said.
He nodded, eyes on mine.“Good.”
In the doorway, Mom hovered with a stack of folded dish towels she didn’t need to be holding.She caught my eye and gave me that small, private smile she saves for when she sees me as both her little girl and the woman I’ve become.The sound of our families rose and fell, ordinary but no less magical.I turned my body so I could rest my head against Brody’s shoulder and let my eyes close.Because in this moment, the harsh reality of the courthouse was far behind me.In its place: soft lamplight, comfort soup, a blanket that smelled like mom's laundry soap, the slow rhythm of Brody’s breath, and a house full of the people who had chosen me, over and over.
Chapter 49
In the time between the trial date and the launch of my book tour, my nerves had both settled and transformed.The idea of meeting people face-to-face who had read my book, formed an opinion about me, my writing, and, to some extent, my life.I knew exactly what I needed to feel comfortable on this trip, but if I was being honest with myself, I was afraid.Not because I felt like I should be able to do this on my own, but because I had quickly become dependent on Brody, and even though we were good...it made me nervous.
I knew it wasn't the same kind of attachment I had with Andrew.Therapy and a lot of self-reflection had clearly shown me that what we had wasn't healthy.Writing a book about it helped clarify the concept even further.
But it was still hard for me to depend wholly on someone, even someone as good as Brody.I could only control what I did; I had no control over the choices Brody made, and what if he decided that I wasn't what he wanted?
I knew I was probably being extra; my emotions had been all over the place, along with the feeling of being exhausted, but I chalked it up to recent life events.The stress, the pressure...all of it.Pair all those things with this new relationship with Brody, which felt anything but new.It felt inevitable, and that was a scary thought.
We had been trying to spend as much time at the property as possible, and Brody had rigged carabiners to two trees near the big maple, where we could hook one of his fabric hammocks.It had become one of our little getaway spots—something just for us.
We were lying cuddled up together, my head on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat. “Come with me?”I asked, my heart feeling like it was in my throat.“On tour.It’s not long, and there’ll be stretches where I’m in greenrooms and on stages and pretending to be a big-time Author, but… we’d end every night together.”
Brody didn’t hesitate.“Of course.I would love to...I was kind of surprised you hadn't asked yet.I already talked to my family about it, letting them know I wouldn't be around to help for a bit."
With that, some of the nerves had settled, and before I knew it, we were headed out.
Headed on my very first book tour.Something I had dreamed about but honestly never knew if I would get to experience for myself.We had, after much debate, convinced both our families that we didn't need the full send-off and only one person was required to drive us to the airport.As we unloaded our suitcases from Chase's truck.He pulled me aside and handed me a bottle of hand sanitizer like he was knighting me and said, “Two pumps, minimum, when you are signing books,” and kissed my forehead.He and my family were ridiculous, but I felt adored, and I let it flood me.
Then it was living out of suitcases and garment bags, canvas totes and backpacks loaded with Sharpies.Lanyards with laminate passes, AUTHOR in block letters that made me snort every time I looked down at my chest.Because how was this all of a sudden my life?
The launch hit like a match to dry kindling.
A bookseller in Halifax posted a short clip of my Q&A, me answering a question about “the truth behind the other woman” with my careful reply: “What interests me is how stories are framed and who gets to narrate them.I grew up with parents who told me every story has several points of view.I think that in life and in literature, certain points of view are more palatable, easier for people to believe or consume...the others are rarely told.”TikTok stitched it into a chorus, with commenters adding their own edges: women reading passages over tears; men in BookTok caps saying, softly, “I never thought about it that way”; couples holding hands on their couch while the caption read, 'It wasn’t her, it was him'.
DMs pinged with paragraphs that felt like whispered confessions.I read as many as I could.
“Numbers are bananas,” Marin said on Day Six, passing me a bottle of water like a relay baton.Her eyeliner didn’t smudge, even when the bookstore A/C failed and my hair decided it was summer, not the middle of fall.“We’re reprinting...again.We’ll have to cap signed copies; your wrist will fall off.”
“My wrist will be fine,” I said, flexing it, superstitious, like a pitcher keeping a no-hitter intact.
Between the noise, hotel rooms became our cocoon.Their sameness softened for us: the lamp’s golden circle on the nightstand, the diagonal shadow of blackout curtains, the anonymous art over the bed, a boat, a field, some accidental geometry.Brody’s rituals slotted into the spaces: his hand finding my wrist after a long day, thumb rubbing slow over bone until my breathing matched his; the way he’d peel off his shirt and drop his jeans with zero regard for the luggage we were absolutely tripping over; the way he’d set the room to 'arctic tundra' and then tuck me into him like he was my personal furnace.
Some nights, we were too tired to do more than laugh quietly and trade kisses slow as a sigh.Other nights, exhaustion made us a little feral, playful quickies between the bathroom door and the dresser, his palm over my mouth when I almost gave our floor a vocal show, my nails digging moons into his back while we tried and failed to be quiet.Every night we ended together, my cheek on his chest, his heartbeat my anchor.
On my birthday, Marin left us alone.“You get one night without me banging on the door, reminding you of a morning flight,” she said, shoving the keycard into my hand with a grin.“Don’t make me regret this.”
We ordered room-service pancakes at ten p.m.and ate them cross-legged in bed, the syrup too sweet and exactly right.Brody stuck a single candle on a strawberry and sang “Happy Birthday” in a voice that made me laugh and swallow tears at the same time.Then he handed me a flat, tissue-wrapped package.
Inside was a walnut bookmark, thin and smooth.On one side, he’d carved a line from my book in his careful letters, the one Marin had told me not to cut, the one Women on the Internet had turned into a screenshot: 'I decided to stop auditioning for a love that couldn’t see me.'On the other side, he’d carved a tiny maple leaf and a star.Our tree.Our sky.
Abby’s email arrived the next afternoon, between a radio spot and a bookstore event, subject line: For Old Times?The body was too breezy: "Would you come do a signing at the shop?It would mean the world, our customers still ask about you.And it would be great to see you."For a split second, guilt flared.The need to make others happy.The pull to help a friend.But just as quickly, I remembered how she wasn't a friend when I needed one, the way she’d looked at me like I was a stain she couldn’t scrub out.The way she assumed the worst and jumped to conclusions.How I’d packed my life into boxes because a woman I’d believed to be a friend decided I was an easy villain.
I wrote back: "Thank you for thinking of me, but I have to decline.Wishing you and the shop all the best."I stared at it a second longer, but added nothing, pressed send, and felt nothing like guilt.
“Proud of you,” Marin murmured when I told her later, clicking through calendar holds in a spreadsheet that would give a mortal a migraine.“You don’t have to walk through every door that opens just because it opens.And you will have to get used to people crawling out of dark places now that your name is out there.”
The crowds got bigger.Venues upgraded from cozy to professional.A small festival in Montreal put me on a panel called “Reframing Her”; the moderator was thoughtful, the questions careful but hard, the audience a galaxy of eyes.People stood up and told their stories without using names.I didn’t have answers; I had a book, a boundary, and a hand that stayed steady on the table when I talked about believing in your own voice, even when it shakes.
After, in the greenroom, I put my head between my knees while Marin counted out the signing line like a field general.Brody’s fingers slid into the back of my hair.“Breathe,” he murmured, and I did.
I didn't know what had overcome me, but I was nauseous and dizzy.Marin made sure I had a cookie and some water, reminding me this was a marathon and I needed to take care of myself, and we kept going.
