My heart swells with emotion. “I said some awful things to her.”
“She doesn’t hold it against you. She’s been really worried.”
“How is she?”
“Honestly, I think she’s struggling,” he says, and pain stabs me through the heart. “It’s been a lot for her to process too.”
“I want to be there for her, Kev, but I can’t support her when I’m like this.” It’s hard for me to admit that, even to myself, but it’s the truth. The best way I can take care of Presley is to take care of myself first.
He stops walking this time, turning to face me. “She knows that, and she’s in the same boat. She wants to be there for you, but she can’t.” His expression turns sad, and acid churns in my gut.
“What are you not saying, Kev?”
He removes a small white envelope from the back pocket of his jeans. “Hide that quick. We’re not supposed to give you anything.” I slip it in my jeans, trying to ignore the sudden pounding in my chest. “Presley asked me to give you that before she left,” he says.
“No.” I shake my head, pain slicing through me. “No, Keven. Do not tell me she’s gone.”
“I’m the only one who knows,” he says. “She asked me not to say anything to the others until I had told you.”
“But you know where she’s gone, right? You know where to find her so when I’m better I can get her back.”
He shakes his head. “She wouldn’t tell me, and she made me promise not to look for her. She said she needs time to heal, and she can’t do that with you. She loves you, but it’s too painful. She needs a clean break, and her belief is that you do too.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Presley – Six Months Later
“What’s up, Pink?” Pete says, holding his hand up for a high-five as I step through the door of Denver Ink to start my shift.
“Same ole, same ole, boss.” I flash him a grin as I toss my dark hair over my shoulders. The pink-tipped ends are new, but after my colleagues christened me Pink, as in P-ink, short for Presley Ink, I decided to add some pink highlights to my hair. Everyone has a special artist’s name in this studio, and it adds to the family vibe.
Inspiration came to me five months ago after I’d left the little house I’d rented on Jensen Beach.
After I fled Boston, I craved solitude and the soothing comfort of the ocean. Ford’s fiancée, Michelle, suggested I head to Florida. She spent some summers with her family on Nettles Island, which is close to Jensen Beach. It was the perfect hideaway, and I took long walks on the beach, inhaling the fresh salty air, letting the heady sunshine warm more than just my skin, as I began the difficult healing process. My therapist, Jenna, was a great help in those early days, making herself available for biweekly video calls as I struggled to untangle the jumbled mess in my head.
I couldn’t afford to stay there forever, and wallowing in guilt and remorse with little distraction wouldn’t have been healthy in the long-term, so I knew it was time to put my tattoo artist goal into action. Thanks to Alex Kennedy’s steady stream of commissions, I had enough money saved to make it a reality. I recalled the conversation I had at the wedding with Austen and booked a flight to Colorado the next day.
Pete gave me an initial trial, and I was thrilled when he offered me a full apprenticeship after my first week. I haven’t looked back since, and there’s no doubt getting to fulfill my lifelong dream has helped me to get through the dark days when I felt so lonely, like I had little to look forward to. Immersing myself in Denver Ink, and in my little sideline business, has saved me. I have continued my pressed-flower picture business, but I mainly sell at the local weekend market and via word of mouth.
I settle behind the reception desk, pulling up the schedule for today, and I begin the prep work before the others arrive. Pete makes coffee, regaling me with outrageous stories from the eventful dinner party at his in-laws last night.
The rest of the crew arrives in drips and drops, and the place quickly fills up with excited customers. Before I know it, it’s lunchtime. Wrapping up warmly in my coat, scarf, and gloves, I walk to the little deli a couple of blocks away to fill everyone’s order.
When I arrive back at the shop, everyone is standing in the waiting area, fixated on something playing on the wall-mounted TV.
After placing the paper bags down on the counter and unbuttoning my coat, I turn around to see what has everyone so intrigued. I suck in a gasp as my eyes latch onto a familiar face. Although it’s been almost seven months since I last saw Kent, I haven’t forgotten how vibrant his blue eyes are, or how firm his strong jawline felt under my fingertips, or the soft warmth of his lips. Not a day goes by where I don’t think about him, miss him, pine for him. Some days the craving for his strong, protective arms is so intense I have almost given in and called him, but I resist.
I can’t interfere with his recovery, and he probably wants nothing to do with me anymore anyway. Maybe it was cowardly to leave while he was in rehab, but my fragile heart couldn’t cope with the prospect of fresh rejection. I know Kent was speaking from a place of hurt that day in the hospital when he said those things to me, but he can’t help how he feels, and he should never be made to feel guilty for it. And I was hurting too. My heart was an empty shell, and I had nothing left to give anyone. Not even the man I love with every facet of my being.
No, I was right to walk away. There was too much hurt on both sides, and I had to get away from Boston to leave all the painful memories behind. I’ve worked hard to absolve myself of responsibility for Clay’s actions, but it’s still a work in progress. I have a new therapist here and I attend weekly sessions.
Despite my best intentions, my heart still clings to the memory of my lost love. I haven’t washed Kent’s Harvard T-shirt even though the spicy scent of his cologne barely lingers on the fabric anymore. I keep his picture by my bed, and I regularly reread all the notes he gave me. The first picture I made—with the first bouquet of flowers he sent me—hangs proudly over my bed.
“Shush. It’s starting,” someone says behind me, snapping me out of my head.
I refocus on the TV screen, trying to keep a neutral expression on my face so no one figures out my secret. But it’s hard because my emotions are veering all over the place. Kent is the only man who has ever fully owned my heart, and being away from him is torture even if I know, deep down, I’m doing the right thing.
Kent is giving a press conference at some swanky hotel in downtown Boston. I know this must be about the case because TV stations, gossip sites, and newspapers have been carrying reports of the trial for weeks. Gerald and Anna’s case came to trial first, and I celebrated when they were locked away for fifteen years with no prospect of parole. I thought I might be called to give my testimony, but the FBI hasn’t been in contact with me, about either case, so I guess they have enough to nail the bastards without me.
