We stay like that until our skin is dry and the cold creeps back in. We get dressed in silence, me in his big coat, him in a sweatshirt and sweat pants, our fingers always finding each other.
At the end of the dock, we pause. The city is far away, the future even farther. But for the first time, it doesn’t scare me.
We walk back to his car, his arm around my shoulders, my head on his chest.
I don’t know what happens next.
But whatever it is, I’m ready.
Because I am Tara Monroe.
And I am finally, completely, free.
15
CHAPTER 15 – CONFRONTING REALITY
Tara
If I don’t move, I can almost convince myself the world outside doesn’t exist. I’m nestled on the biggest section of Hunter’s couch, wrapped in a throw blanket so soft I keep stroking it without thinking. The penthouse is still and peaceful, afternoon sun hitting the glass towers across the river and ricocheting light onto everything: the herringbone floors, the glass table, the absurdly expensive crystal vase with exactly three blue hydrangeas. The air is tranquil.
I hold a mug of hot chocolate—real milk, expensive cocoa, a marshmallow melting at the rim—and cradle it like it’s the only thing keeping my heart from shattering. The steam rises and hits my cheeks. Every time I exhale, the surface of the drink ripples, but my fingers won’t stop trembling. Not from cold. Just from being alive, I guess.
Hunter is at the far end of the L, one bare foot tucked under his thigh, eyes half on me, half on the skyline. He’s wearing jeans and a dark cashmere pullover, and his hair is wet at thetemples because he just showered. We both did, after we got back, without a lot of words, merely making love again as the water pounded down on our naked bodies. It should have been soothing, but I can tell he’s on edge. I can feel him vibrating with energy, the way a barely-contained wolf might hover at the perimeter of a meadow, just waiting for what comes next.
But I’m not sure what’s going to happen next. It’s been three hours since I dragged myself out of Lake Harriet, three hours since I remembered everything. Now my brain is leaking memories like a sieve. Sometimes they’re little flashes, like a soundbite or a single line of dialogue. Sometimes it’s a montage, ten seconds of fast cuts and sensory overload. Most are benign: the sticky sweet of marshmallow Fluff on a plastic spoon; the feel of carpet burn on my knees; the sound of Eliza shrieking when we jumped off the dock in August, pretending to be mermaids. Some are less than pleasant—arguing with my father, hiding in the laundry room while my mother threatened to call the police; the overwhelming sadness when I learned they were going to divorce.
Then there’s everything I lived as Daisy, the fractured fairy tale version of me. Auctioned off in a filmy white dress, wearing skyscraper heels while tottering like a newborn filly. Sitting in a restaurant at Sanctum, hands folded, pretending not to notice the hush of men’s voices. The way Hunter looked at me, the way his breath felt on my cheek, the way I wanted him more than I’d ever wanted anything. Those memories don’t come in flashes. They’re slow and thick, like honey. I savor them, even when they make my chest ache.
Hunter clears his throat, shifting, as if the silence is a bone stuck in his throat.
“You warm enough?” he says. Voice low, gentle, almost unfamiliar.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. My face is already on fire, and it’s not the blanket’s fault. It’s because I’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes, staring into space, and all I can think about is how he tasted when I kissed him. How I begged him to finish what he started. How it felt when he did.
Another memory detonates: the auction stage. I’m standing on the black velvet dais, the lights so bright I can’t see a thing, the filmy dress not much more than a shadow. There’s a murmur, a rustle of expectation from the male audience, and for a second I think I’ll faint. Then I look up, and see Hunter in the distance, eyes burning blue, and I know it’s for me. I want it to be for me.
I take a tiny sip of hot chocolate, trying to slow the gallop in my chest.
“I’m not embarrassed,” I blurt, before I can stop myself.
Hunter’s eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t say anything.
I set the mug down, careful not to slosh, and force my hands to lie flat on my thighs. “I mean, I should be, right? I should be completely mortified that I was sold at a virgin auction. That I let men look at me in the nude. That they were able to bid on my assets, and the right to claim my virginity.” My cheeks flush hot, but I hold steady. “But I’m not. I’m not embarrassed.”
He lets out a long, soft exhale. Like he’s been holding his breath since the beginning of time.
“You shouldn’t be,” he says, and his voice has a rough edge I’ve never heard before.
“It’s not just that,” I say, because I can’t stop now, not when it feels like the words are digging me out of my own grave. “I wanted it, Hunter. Even before I knew who I was. I wanted to be claimed. I wanted it to mean something.” I search his face, desperate to see if he understands. “I wantedyouto want me. Not Daisy, not Tara. Just me, whoever she was.”
Hunter’s jaw flexes, like he’s fighting back something fierce. For a long, endless minute, he doesn’t move at all. Then he gets up, crosses the space between us in three silent steps, and sits on the edge of the couch right by my feet.
“You have no idea how badly I wanted you,” he rasps, the words are barely a whisper. “Even when I knew I shouldn’t.Especiallythen.”
I want to touch him, but my hands are frozen to the wool of the throw. “Do you hate me?” I ask. “For being so broken and confused and complicated?”
He shakes his head, and his eyes are wet. “No,” he says, and there’s something holy in it. “I love you, Tara. In every way a person can.”
