I add cream to Ronan’s mug—a splash, no sugar. I know how he prefers his coffee. I know dozens of things about my husband that I did not know five weeks ago, and each one feels like a small, precious gem I carry in my pocket.
“Dr. Singh is good,” I say. “She asks me what I think, and then we talk about whether that thought belongs to me or to someone who put it there. I cry sometimes. But I leave feeling lighter.”
“That’s how it’s supposed to work,” Nora says.
Saoirse nods. “My therapist always says that hard things and good things aren’t opposites. They show up together.”
They do. I am learning this.
“I’m not sure if it’s okay to bring up, so if you’d rather not talk about it, tell me to shut up, but I’m super curious…” Saoirse pauses for a moment before continuing. “Have you heard anything about the cult or that cult leader?”
Since I left The Children of Light for good, Ronan has told me a few things. Father’s real name is Clive Buford and he is a criminal. Also, when he used the women and children of the Flock as protection in Wisconsin, he and a few of the Brothers of the Flock escaped somehow and they have not yet been located.
“He is still missing.” The words leave a cold residue on my tongue. “Ronan tells me his network is dismantled, his finances are frozen, and he’s running out of places to hide. As for the Flock, they are being aided by the motorcycle club.”
“Good,” Nora says.
Neither woman fills the silence that follows. They hold it with me, the way only people who understand can hold something like that.
I clear my throat. “Alright. I have to go. Ronan will be home soon, and I have something to show him.”
“Ooh. Cryptic.” Saoirse grins. “Call us later.”
“FaceTime us later,” Nora corrects, winking.
I blow them both a kiss—a gesture I learned from Nicholas—and end the call.
I carry my coffee to the kitchen island and settle into a barstool there.
On the counter, a stack of college brochures fans across the surface. I’ve been collecting them for two weeks—picking them up at the public library Nora showed me, and requesting them online using the laptop Ronan bought me. I don’t know what I want to study yet. The sheer number of options is staggering, and I’ve spent hours reading course descriptions the way I once read scripture—searching for meaning, for direction, for something that resonates.
I want to learn, though. I know that. Wanting something for myself still feels new—a muscle I am training, one flex at a time.
When Ronan strides into the kitchen dressed for work, my hands find the lapels of his shirt, and I pull him down and kiss him. Because I want his mouth on mine and I no longer need permission to take it.
He makes a low sound against my lips and his arms circle my waist.
“Morning,” I say when we separate.
“Good Morning.” His voice is thick. “I thought I heard voices in here.”
“I FaceTimed the girls.”
“Group call?”
“Group call.”
He grins and nods toward the mug of coffee I prepared for him. “Is that for me?”
“It’s for my husband. If you see him, let him know.”
He laughs—the full kind that creases the skin beside his eyes. He takes his mug, sips, and gives me a nod of approval.
His gaze drifts to the counter and the brochures. He picks one up. Sets it down. Picks up another.
“You’ve been busy,” he says.
“I want to learn things.”
