

#

# Between Octobers

Savor The Days Series **, Book One**

By

A.R. Rivera

Dedication

To my father, who gave me patience,

My mother, who gave me faith,

And my husband, who gives me everything.

I could not have done this without you.

Between Octobers

By A.R. Rivera

Published by A.R. Rivera at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 A.R. Rivera

All Rights reserved.

All characters and events portrayed in this book are products of the authors' imagination. Any similarities to persons living or dead are coincidental and unintentional, so don't get you knickers in a twist.

# Contents

Part One: Grace

Because of the King

October 5th

October 6th

October 7th

October 8th

October 9th

October 10th

Terminal

October 10.5

October 17th

October 18th

October 19th

The Box

October 20th

October 27th

October 29th

October 30th

October 31st

November 3rd

No Plan

November 29th

Challenges

January 4th

January5th

Keeping Up

February 7th

February 10th

March 12th

March 13th

March 15th

Turning Point

April 1st

April 2nd

April 3rd

May 3rd

May 23rd

May 24th

May 30th

A Way Out

August 6th

August 7th

October 29th

A Beginning

Part Two: Evan

Ready-Set-Go

Travel

House Again

Trail

The Search

The Finding

The Meeting

Aftermath

Four Days and Counting

Notebooks

Ever After

Oppressive Impulses

Sneak Peek At September Rain

About The Author

Acknowledgements

### Keep Reading . . .

### For a sneak peek of A.R. Rivera's next book in her

### Savor The Days Series—

September Rain releases May 15, 2014!

### (Can be read as stand-alone or prequel)

Part One

Grace

Because of The King

My house doesn't smell like this.

It's a sort of musty odor, but with a hint of oil.

A horrendous, confusing pulse lashes through my cranium, its fingers reaching into my eyes and neck. Pieces and pictures wander in confusing ways, blurring into strange shapes. I don't know what they mean.

My body, tight and uncomfortable, feels like jeans tangled inside a washing machine. Blinking—I know I blink because I feel my eyelids move—makes no difference against the blinding dark. My hands are bound together by something. And my feet are crammed uncomfortably against . . . something. My neck is kinked, forced to one side. The position isn't the source of my throbbing headache, but it's painfully unpleasant. I draw a deep breath. The air is hot, stuffy. The sound of release drags in reverb, noisy and close. It brushes back against my cheeks.

I focus on tracing the line of my stomach between my forearms. A bump answers from the inside, soothing me.

Something knocks against my head, contributing to the mindboggling ache that turns my stomach. I blink again, feel my lashes catching and shake my head, trying to remove the obstruction.

Entrancing fear cripples me as the room seems to bend. The floor jolts, disappearing for a terrifying second. My upturned face hits something before I slam back onto my side.

Suddenly, the sounds, sensations, and smells all come together but I can't find the word that describes it. It laps at the edge, blotted out by fuzz.

There was a talk show I watched the other day. The guest was a woman, an expert who gave a list of guidelines about . . . The word isn't there, but the flood of information is clear. "Never let them take you to a secondary scene," the expert said. "It's always a place where there's little to no chance of reaching help. The captor is in complete control."

I struggle in the cramped space, but it doesn't help. It's noisy, though. A loud crackling din; almost like paper. The word is back, on the tip of my tongue, but my brain can't make the connection. I remember I was in the kitchen. I broke the coffee pot. The tarp in the garage. She made me close my eyes, and then . . . Pain. Now, I'm here.

I have a captor and I've already broken rule number one.

I'm crumpled, stuffed into the trunk of what can only be a compact car. The space is so tiny; it has to be, like, a Prius or something. I try to think through the hazy panic . . .

Lord Jesus, help me remember!

My hands are awkwardly stuck out over my belly; my wrists feel like they've been constricted for some time. They're tingling, compressed by a vise. My puffy fingers feel more swollen than usual. I clasp my hands as in prayer; the same way Caleb does when he begs.

Caleb! Noah!

As far as my mouth can tell, whatever's binding my wrists is too thin and smooth to be rope. I try with all my strength to stretch the hidden manacles, pushing and pressing into my restraints, popping the joints, but my wrists can't separate.

It's okay, my Nurse Voice soothes, I can work with restrained hands.

My feet, however . . . I have no idea what has them trapped. Again, I concentrate but . . . Fragments appear and fly away before I retain them and I can't tell exactly how I'm wedged. Wiggling my toes, I can tell I'm wearing my shoes. The sensation helps me map my legs. My feet are apart but my knees are stuck against the side of what feels like a milk crate. I can't get my hands down past my belly to free my scrunched-up knees, to work my feet free.

I try to turn, readying myself for when my captor, whoever it is, opens the trunk. A chilling thought freezes me, mid-roll.

What if they don't?

No one will know. My boys, my baby, my Noah, Caleb, Lily, Ronnie, Aunt Rose and Evan. Evan, Evan. The faces flash before my wet, blind eyes.

October 5th

I sort of always assumed a person would know death was coming. They'd have some sort of inkling, like a gut feeling, or a sense of finality when they said goodbye the last time they left home. Like in the movies, when the creepy score starts to play, you know something bad is about to happen. But in real life, there's no foreboding music.

I visualized that accident a thousand times. Dreamt about it. Solomon couldn't have heard screeching tires; no one used their brakes. He couldn't have seen it coming; the fog was too thick.

Loss: it's too simple a word. Only four letters. Three alphabetic representations for such a broad term. The light tense, the singular syllable, they do it no justice. How can anyone understand what it means? Every letter of the alphabet should be used. Its implications touched every part of my life, so it makes sense that the word itself should carry every letter.

My life, for the last eleven months and three weeks, could be summed up in two words. Simple phrases: still breathing, keeping up, getting by. Holding on. I was barely holding on. To daily chores that didn't get done unless I did them. Everything since the day Solomon died had been routine. I'd inhale to exhale and repeat. Eat, sleep, and breathe. Cooked to wash dishes. Got dirty to shower. Changed to wash clothes. It was all I could manage most days: inhale, exhale, repeat.

I know I should've been . . . not over it, but dealing well enough to put his clothes away. I couldn't seem to let go of that part of my life. I was never sure if it was because I was holding onto it or if it was holding onto me.

There, in my big empty bed, inside my sleeping house, I took a deep breath and held it, straining to picture myself packing his things. Touching this shirt and that hat . . . I would have to remember where we were when he got them. I'd feel the stabbing pain, imagining the beautiful words he spoke when he wore them.

Aunt Rose said that God never gives us more than we're able to handle. Solomon used to say that God may squeeze, but He doesn't choke. Doctor Elena Williams, the grief counselor recommended to me by the pastor of the church I didn't attend anymore, suggested I clean out the closet. She said by avoiding Sol's things I was tying myself to his memory in an unhealthy way; and if I didn't stop, it might affect our children. She called it pivoting—the illusion of movement while bound in one place. I didn't quite agree with her analysis, but I knew something had to change. And come hell or high water, I had to wade through.

Words for tomorrow: new leaf, start moving.
October 6th

It was well past nine when I woke. I'd slept in—four hours. Oddly, I felt okay despite the fact that it was a day closer to the one-year mark.

Noah, the too cool teen, was in the kitchen making his famous waffles. While he was busy, I pulled out the jars of vitamins crammed near the rows of glassware in the kitchen cabinet and started sorting. One of each type into three different piles. That was routine, though I usually had them out before the boys got out of bed.

The morning conversation was easy. Noah wanted to hang out and maybe catch a matinee with some of his friends. Caleb wanted to go with him, but changed his mind once he realized he'd have to sit in the dark for two hours. Instead, he asked to go to his friend Nathan's house, next door, for a play date.

While we were gathered around the table, I made my move. "I'm putting Dad's things away today."

After my last failed attempts, making the announcement was sort of an insurance policy. If I told them I was doing it, I'd stick to it. No more pivoting—from that day, I'd be ambulatory. Since making the decision last night, I felt lighter, more like me—the me I used to be. I wondered what the Good Doctor would have to say about that.

I took my morning run on the treadmill, setting the machine at the steepest incline, and ran until my legs went numb. When I walked into my giant closet after a shower, Sol's clothes glared at me from under a thin coating of dust.

New leaf, I reminded myself, and pushed the thoughts to the back of my mind. It was easier to dwell with a shovel. If my shoulders weren't so sore, I would've been outside working on the hole for the pool. The area was originally chosen for a gazebo, but leveling the ground was more difficult than I thought. By the time I stepped back to survey the damage, I was a solid three feet into the dirt. So, I kept going. The boys liked the idea of a pool.

Stretching the slump from my spine, I continued towards the kitchen for coffee. More liquid motivation.

My sister-in-law and best friend, Lily, arrived and entered without knocking. I made a call for reinforcements the night before—technically, it was a text message—and a solid back-up plan.

"Grace! Help!" She squealed, as the unbalanced stack of boxes flew to the floor.

Surprisingly, I almost giggled. "Are you sure you got enough?" I teased, stooping into the formal living room to help her restack. There must have been a dozen.

"I'm going to keep everything you don't want." Her shining brown eyes matched her older brothers exactly.

Lily was my closest—more accurate, only—friend. Best friend since the day we met. First day of eighth grade, fourth period Home Economics. She wanted to be my kitchen partner because she overheard me telling the teacher I already had a year of Home Ec at my old middle school in Bothell, a rinky-dink town outside Seattle where I grew up. I knew how to cook; all two of the women in my family did. Mom started teaching me as soon as I was old enough to reach the stove, and Aunt Rose picked up where she left off. I was trying to get out of the class and Lily wanted an easy A. After class, she ate lunch with me so I wouldn't have to sit alone. I wouldn't have gotten through that first day of school, let alone the past year, without her.

Getting started is the hardest part, I told myself, tugging at several shirt sleeves before mustering the strength to remove one. It reminded me too much of my parents. The way I had to take down and fold their clothes. So neatly and carefully. My big brother, Ronnie, was with me that day; Aunt Rose, too. Now, Sol's sister was helping. With Lily there, it was easier to remember the moments triggered by his belongings. Memorabilia.

When I packed up my parents' things, it was only a few days after my dad fell asleep driving, and right after they were cremated—before I developed the urge to cling. Mom's only sister, Aunt Rose, happened to be visiting at the time. She was watching us that night they didn't come home. She made the arrangements to have them laid to rest in Fresno—the place my brother and I were moving to. We didn't just pack up their clothes, we packed our house. It wasn't just a goodbye to my parents; it was a farewell to childhood, to life as I knew it. My security.

My mom and dad were good people. They raised me and Ronnie in the Bible-believing church of the South by way of the Pacific Northwest. My father was the son of a Baptist minister and my mother came from a long line of Pentecostals. They used to drag me and my big brother to every gathering, meeting, and event our church took part in. The church body was small and my parents took their Christian Duty very seriously. My brother and I attended every Sunday morning and evening service, every foot-washing ceremony, baptism, all-night prayer meeting, picnic, play, potluck and Bible study . . . no matter what. There is no good reason to miss church, Mom used to say. If I was sick, I could get healed; if I was tired, God would wake me; if I did not want to go, I had to pray for desire. I bet we went eight times a week. When I grew up, attendance often felt like punishment, but I still believed.

As we cleared away Sol's belongings, Lily got nearly everything she asked for. The only things I held back were of too much sentimental value to part with. One being a pale pink dress shirt I bought Sol on his last birthday.

"He hated pink on guys." Lily held the delicate fabric of the long sleeve between her fingers, rubbing it gently as I set it back on the hanger.

"I had to beg him to try it on," I remembered. "When he finally did, he looked in the mirror and said, 'You're right, Grace. It is a nice shirt.' It was one of the only times he ever admitted he was wrong." I wiped the tears away with the back of my hand and felt an honest smile on my face.

"Yeah, he was never wrong as far as he was concerned." Her eyes shone as she chuckled.

The other mementos I insisted on keeping were Sol's old sports equipment, concert memorabilia, his guitar and saxophone. Those were going into the guest-slash-music room for the kids. I let Lily take the high school yearbooks and letterman jacket to give to Maria. I knew she would want those. There were also several shoe boxes of family photos we'd accumulated, only the ones of him in double print. She and Maria could fight over who got what amongst themselves.

Lily folded the cardboard flaps down one at a time, tucking them in on themselves.

I sighed, looking around the half-empty closet. "I think we're done."

It was a sad and rewarding moment, staring at the lopsided arrangement. The end of an era. My stomach lurched. Dr. Lena, as I call her, gave explicit instructions to fill the empty space because the visual emptiness could be counter-productive. I quickly reached for some hangers on my side of the closet and placed them in the opposite end. The recollection sparked a reminder of my second homework assignment.

Helping to carry two of four boxes, I lagged behind Lily. "I wish you could stay longer," I whined.

She loaded up the trunk of her lemon-yellow Beamer. "I'll come back tomorrow. You can cook me dinner." She chirped. "Hey, Dr. Pataki approved my vacation time. In one more week, I have a whole week off." She checked her cell phone for the time. "See you tomorrow?"

"Want to go out for a drink or something?"

Her brows pulled together. "You want to go out?"

I nodded.

Her eyes suddenly brightened. "Absolutely, but why?"

"Homework." Dr. Lena and I discussed me packing Sol's things last month. When I saw her the last Friday morning, she'd urged me to catch up.

"Because of Wednesday?"

"Probably."

"Geez, a whole year already," she marveled under her breath, touching her lips with her fingertips.

"Pick me up at seven-thirty?"

"Seven-thirty, it is." Lily climbed into the driver's seat.

I watched her little yellow car speed away until it disappeared down the hill, trying not to think about what we'd do or where we'd go. I never really liked wearing dresses, but Lily always did. I was positive she'd take the opportunity to shove me into one.

The afternoon passed quickly because I spent it in the back yard, digging the pool. Essentially using the shovel as pick-axe because the dirt was too hard and cold. The yard work helped keep my mind off my troubles, but fall was upon us and I needed to be reasonable. It was going to take professional help to get the hole finished and the pool completed before the rainy weather turned it into a mud pit. The installation of sophisticated water filtration and heating-related equipment was beyond my abilities, anyway.

Before setting the table, I made a quick call to Larry, Sol's old business partner at the construction company he owned. Larry agreed to help me find someone to finish the job.

Dinner was a quiet meal. Spaghetti with meatballs and electronics. Noah was on his phone, Caleb had his Game Boy, and I was compiling a list of all the things that needed to get done before my night out. Right at the top of that list I wrote, 'wax legs.' I hadn't been out anywhere in forever and didn't really want to get dressed up to go sit in some dingy L.A. club. But much more than that, I didn't want to bicker about it or listen to Lily complain about my hairy ways. A preemptive surrender was in order, by way of waxing.

In the dark night, as I laid in my lonely bed, I prayed for strength to do the things I'd been avoiding. I made a promise to myself that I'd do whatever it took. I would be the driver and not the passenger of my life. I would transfer the attention from myself onto others. I would stop asking myself how I felt about my problems and start remembering I was not the only person in the world who had them.

# October 7th

Santa Monica was beautiful in the fall. The sky overhead was clear and blue, despite the biting cold that drifted in from the ocean. As I sat on the frigid patio chair, wrapped tightly in my robe, I could see through the slats of the wooden fence into the field behind the house. The hillside was covered in a blanket of purple blooming weeds. I finished my coffee and headed back inside for my morning run.

I was motivated. Begging for real change. It felt like a red letter day, as Mom used to say.

When my heart rate hit the target range, I let my mind go blank and ran to the rhythm of my music. Fifteen minutes in, inspiration struck. I hopped off the treadmill and into my Jeep, heading for the pharmacy down the road.

When I returned, the house was still silent. I looked in on the boys before setting up in the master bathroom. After yanking on a pair of latex gloves, I started mixing. My naturally blond hair wasn't a pretty gold or bright yellow, it was the dirty-looking, dishwater tone. I always hated it and Sol didn't. But he wasn't here anymore. He'd died and left me all alone. I had to start over. I brushed out my hair and began applying the dark goo. When my head was thoroughly saturated, I used an old mascara brush to add a coat to my eyebrows.

The day slipped away. I kept busy washing, scrubbing, and in most places disinfecting, the entire house. After, I finished the grocery shopping and made chicken parmesan for an early dinner. The kids noticed my dark red locks as soon as they got up, but hadn't said much about the dramatic change. I'm not sure if they liked it.

True to form, Lily showed up an hour early to dress me. She was decked in a tight, coral mini dress that beautifully accentuated her caramel skin. She'd straightened the natural curls from her hair. It was hanging silkily down her back. Her makeup was flawless as always—smoky eyes and nearly nude lips. The most envious part, aside from her effortless hourglass shape, was her thigh-high boots.

I complimented them, leaning against the door frame, pathetically posing, begging her to say something about my hair.

She gasped, "It looks so good!"

"You think so?" I loved the new color, but knowing Lily approved made me love it even more.

She rushed in, quickly kissing the boys hello on her way to the master closet. I sat at my vanity, watching as she combed through the racks for at least twenty minutes, searching for the perfect outfit.

"What do you think of this?" She held a very short red dress.

"I could wear some slacks and a cute top," I pleaded. "I don't like that shade of red. It makes me look green."

"Your hair is red."

"It's burgundy."

"Maybe you're right. Overkill . . . hmm . . . Where's your LBD?"

"My what?" I ask, picking at my chipped nail polish.

"Little Black Dress. You have one, don't you?"

"I have black dresses. I never gave any a title, though. Check in the back corner." I pointed in the general direction, suppressing a yawn and wondering how many I'd have to try on before she decided.

"I don't see any." She grunted, pushing and pressing between bulges. "You need to move more stuff over. This is ridiculous." Murmuring a complaint, she lifted several hangers full of dresses and sweaters, too heavy for Southern California, and shifted them to the scantily clad opposite side of my closet.

"There." She sighed the word, exaggerating a wipe of imaginary sweat from her brow.

"There's one, right there." I pointed behind her at the newly placed collection of hangers.

She yanked it down and bid me to try it on. When I grudgingly slipped into the dress, I realized it was made of stretch cotton. "Now I remember why I don't wear this."

"Why?"

"Because it'll fade when I wash it."

Lily laughed, "A real clothing conservationist. You know, you're fighting their reason for existing."

In the full-length mirror, I checked each angle. The fabric clung like a second skin, hugging my waist and thighs and coming to a halt just below my knees. The modest neckline led to three-quarter sleeves. The racy part was behind me. I turned my naked back to the mirror.

"I have to change my bra."

"You should wear it." Lily took the chair at my vanity.

"It isn't too tight?" I hadn't worn anything that tight since high school. Even then, it was denim jeans, covering my whole leg. The dress was tight everywhere. "I don't look like a slut, do I? The back makes me feel naked."

"Grace, don't over-think it. You have a great body, show it off a little." She smirked and shook her head.

"I'm going to a place I've never been, dressed in a way I'm not used to. I do not want to give off the wrong impression."

"Oh, honey, giving the wrong impression is fun," she sang, smiling brightly.

Lily was in full-on Barbie-play mode. After dressing me, she sat me down and started pinning my hair into a lovely chignon. Shoes were next—black platform heels she'd brought from her house. Slipping into them, I kind of felt like Frankenstein's monster. There was no give in my stride, so it took a few trips around the house to get a feel for them. I insisted on wearing a pink wrap around my shoulders to cover my naked back. I told Lily it was just in case I got cold, but she knew better.

We kissed the kids and repeated the babysitting rules to Noah before leaving the house in a taxi. It was only for a few hours, dinner and a drink, but better safe than sorry.

The place she chose was surprising. In Hollywood, on the Strip. A poorly lit English style pub with a clean kitchen that Lily swore was frequented by celebrities. She thought it might be fun if we happened to see one. Not that I'd recognize any. My knowledge of pop culture was severely limited by my preferable lack of exposure to the outside world. I hardly watched television, except old shows from the nineties, and most of the music they played on the radio held no interest for me. I was quite content with my old CDs and books.

We approached the bar since most of the tables were taken and sat to wait for Natalia, Lily's friend from work, who was running late. I was kind of glad. Natalia and I used to work together at the hospital. I liked her. Until she flirted with Sol. That kind of soured my attitude towards her. She knew he was my husband and acted like her advances meant nothing. But it was a long time ago, I reminded myself.

Lily and I ordered wine. After another twenty minutes, I got tired of waiting and ordered an appetizer. I couldn't drink on an empty stomach in those shoes. I'd tip right over.

"Geez, where is this woman?" Lily's head swiveled, her eyes panning the crowd. "Natalia!" She called over the music, waving her hand over her head, beckoning her friend in our direction.

I looked back and Natalia's eyes lit up. I smiled politely and welcomed her as she sat on the stool between us.

"I'm so happy to see you, Grace! I haven't seen you since—"

Lily's pointed boot suddenly stabbed the back of her calf. I looked to my empty wine glass, trying to politely ignore what I'd seen.

"Oh, let me buy you a drink. It's the least I can do." She offered.

I felt myself stiffen at the offhand reference and wondered at it while Lily dramatically rolled her eyes behind Natalia's back. I suppressed my grin, reminding myself of the new leaf, my pledge in the dark. Natalia was trying to be nice. The incident only bothered her now because he was gone—the same reason it shouldn't have bothered me.

I bobbed my head, enjoying the rock music playing a little too loudly to make easy conversation, and thanked God for small favors as the bartender brought another round.

"How have you been? Did you go back to the hospital?" Natalia asked, almost yelling in my ear.

I noticed I was slumping and sat up straight. "I've been okay. Taking care of the kids and house and all the normal stuff. I haven't gone back to work yet. How are you? How is work going?"

"Fine," she answered sweetly, but her face hardened as she turned to Lily. "I have to go to the bathroom. Lily, come with me." Before I knew it, she was stalking off.

Lily shook her head, getting up to follow, "I'll be back."

"What'd I say?"

"She's dramacidal. Hey, save our seats. It's getting really crowded."

I used my purse and pink wrap to mark their stools and guzzled the last of my wine. Waiting. Then, ordered another round for all of us. They could play catch-up when they got back. From the corner of my eye, I spied a couple inching towards the seat where my purse was set. They stopped to talk to someone, but I grabbed my purse and wrap to reverse their positions, keeping my purse closer to me. As I did, the warm rush of alcohol spread through me and I relaxed. I wasn't driving, so I snatched my glass and took a few more sips.

When I asked, the bartender assured me that my appetizer would be up any minute. As I stepped backwards, intending to plant my butt back onto my seat, it hit something. A quick look down and I saw it was a leg. The attached lap was currently parked beneath me. I flew away from the stranger's touch, and caught a spiky heel on something. I managed to catch myself before I fell completely, but still wobbled enough to cause catastrophe.

It moved like slow motion on the DVR. The wine glass flying, sloshing, building a wave of black-purple liquid that stretched until it found escape, up and over the rim. Splattering the shoes attached to the legs of the lap that had just stolen my stool. The glass smashed to the ground beside a pair of expensive, Italian leather shoes.

I gasped, "Crap!"

The wine was in his socks! I cowered in embarrassment, eyes glued to the escaped liquid drenching the stylish feet. A stream of profanity came from the direction of my victim's mouth. As luck would have it, there were no napkins on the bar. I grabbed the only thing I could think of—my silk wrap—and tried to soak up the wine from the offended feet, all the while blurting my shamed apologies over the ruined shoes and offering to replace them. The feet retreated in haste.

I looked up in time to apologize to the back of his head. "I'm really sorry!"

He waved his hand, dismissing me. I sighed, noticing the entire restaurant had stopped. Everyone had seen my faux pas. Heated chagrin washed over me.

"What did you do?" Natalia was suddenly beside me, her eyes scanning the splattered wine and glass on the floor, the stained scarf in my hand.

"I spilled my wine on some poor man."

"You can have mine. I have to go, anyways."

"You spent more time in the bathroom than you did talking to me. Natalia, if I offended you, I hope you would just tell me."

She shook her head, "No, I didn't really have time to stop. I've been running behind all day, but I wanted to see you and say hello."

"Well, I appreciate the effort." My heart warmed from sincerity. Or the wine. I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

"I'm grabbing that table in the back." Lily interjected, reaching between us for her glass. "Bye, honey!" She called, darting away.

Natalia looked to me, then toward Lily and back before leaning in. "Grace, I know it's too little too late. Lily didn't want me to say anything but I am really sorry about Solomon. He was a good man and I am sorry you lost him."

There. She said it.

"You know I'm not mad, don't you?" As I spoke the words, I realized how true they were.

"I thought you'd be upset that I didn't call you after, or go to his funeral. But I worried it would upset you more if I did."

"I wouldn't remember if you did." My hand touched my temple, remembering what a basket case I was those first six months.

"Your hair is pretty. You should keep it that way." She smiled and winked before stalking towards the door.

That wasn't so bad. It shouldn't have taken so long to get around to.

The restaurant was packed. Lily and I spent most of the night at our table in the corner, making conversation and eating an assortment of fried foods. She told me Natalia's sudden urge to pee was motivated by fear. She thought Lily spilled the secret that she was losing her job next month and didn't want anyone to know. Lily hadn't told me anything, of course. She was my vault, the most trusted secret-keeper I knew.

"I'm being accused, so I may as well be guilty." She smiled, "but don't tell her I told you."

We watched people come and go, hoping for a sighting of a familiar face. But there were no celebrities to be found, much to Lily's disappointment.

"Maybe we'll find one next time."

Lily answered with a smile as the taxi pulled up to take us home.

October 8th

The keys to the file room in Dr. Pataki's office were devoured by the couch monster. I performed a random cavity search when Lily called earlier in the morning. I had to drop them by her office, on my way to take the boys to school, before the days' patients started showing up.

While the car warmed up, the boys were getting loaded inside. I made sure Caleb was settled, then tried to text Lily to let her know we were leaving, but my cell battery's was nearly dead. I flipped the phone shut and rolled down the driveway. "Noah, text your Aunt—let her know we're on our way."

The parking garage beneath the office building wasn't open to the public yet, but Lily called the guard and told him I was coming. I drove in, looking for a spot near the central bank of elevators—the set closest to her office on the third floor, which was two floors beneath Dr. Lena's office. I'd never met with her at her professional office. We always met over on the other side of town, at my church.

After hopping out of the car, I called to Noah, but he continued bobbing his head to the beat of whatever song he was listening to. I waved my arms, hoping the movement would grab his attention. It did; he looked my way and took out an ear bud.

"I am going to give Aunt Lily her keys. I will be right back." I shook them in my hand for him to see. Glancing in the backseat; I saw Caleb had fallen back to sleep. "Please wake up your brother and tell him to eat his breakfast. Help him open his juice, too, please. I don't want him squirting it all over the car." He nodded. "A verbal response would be nice."

"Okay, I will." His tone whispered irritation. "Happy?"

"Yes, thank you." My eyes shrunk as I turned away. I could not wait until he has his own kids. Wait, yes I could.

The elevator opened immediately; I walked inside. Right before the doors closed, I noticed a man with a beard sitting inside a black SUV in the parking garage. He leaned his head against the seats' headrest, like he was trying to catch up on sleep. Briefly, I wondered why he was there. Probably for the same reason my boys were—waiting on someone inside.

The doors opened to the third floor. Lily's office was two left turns away. I pulled out my phone and checked the time, pleasantly surprised. Maybe the kids wouldn't be late for school.

Reaching the glass doors to her office suite, I knocked lightly. Lily's head, with her hair twisted back into a loose bun, bobbed up from behind the partition. She jumped up once she saw it was me, holding her keys to the file room.

"Where are the boys?" She asked, surprised.

"In the car."

"Why?" She was digging into the pocket of her gray scrub top.

"Caleb was sleeping—what are you doing?" My eyes grew wide as she dumped a fist full of Halloween candy into my purse.

"Give this to them, from me."

"They'll love you forever." I tucked my phone into my pocket to play with my belt loops.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm breathing." I responded without thinking, and realized how it sounded. "I'm fine. The kids are going to be late if I don't get out of here, though."

"Quick question: how would you feel about buying Noah a car for his birthday?"

"What?"

"He's going to be sixteen—"

"No way."

"But he'll have his license when he's done with that class and I want—"

"I can't talk about this now . . . I'm late."

She nodded and thanked me.

I practically ran back to the elevator and slammed the button. If I hit too much traffic, the kids would be late. As my stress level rose, I reminded myself to not worry about things I couldn't change and checked my phone for the time. The wallpaper popped up, distracting me. It was a picture of Sol and me at Pier 39 in San Francisco. I forced myself to avoid looking at his face—it would hurt too much—and drug my gaze to the numbers in the corner of the screen.

Stepping into what I assumed was an empty elevator, I bumped into something. A tall man dressed in black from head to toe. He was really good looking.

The thought surprised me because I couldn't remember the last time I actually longed for a man. Looking at his face didn't hurt, so I let myself stare. His hair and clothes were a mess, but he wore the chaos well. He was very clean and his skin looked soft. His features held an essence of Jim Morrison in his strong jaw line; maybe a little James Dean, too, in his hair and the way he arched his long torso. It wasn't a slump—more of a stance. One hand was set across his stomach as he stared at me in disbelief. I realized my shoulder was still poking his chest and stepped aside, into the elevator.

"Sorry." I flopped the phone into my purse and made myself look away.

"That's perfectly alright," he said, in a distinct English accent. "Going down?"

"P2," I glanced at the buttons. Mine was already lit.

"Well, there you go." He crossed his arms, bringing one hand to his eyebrow where the thumb and index finger pinched at the flesh.

Something about him was familiar. I knew I didn't know him, but there was a sense, a veiled awareness that I was missing something. "Have we met before? You look familiar."

He stared. "Yeah, I work in the building . . . uh, Repairs department."

Sol worked in construction and I'd been on-site enough to recognize the common solidity a man acquired with the labor, the sturdiness it brought. This guy seemed too . . . genteel for such work. His hands were too clean. No scars or calluses. I also used to buy Sol's clothes. This man's sport coat looked tailored and the rumpled shirt underneath bore a designer insignia that screamed expensive. His jeans, worn a little too tight and a little too low, looked like they cost around seven hundred dollars. Finally, my eyes fell upon his shoes. They were worn-looking but also expensive. Not that it was any of my business.

I wiped the skepticism away and turn my attention to the numbers over the door. The needle stopped on the P that marked my level. I stepped forward and waited.

And kept waiting.

"Why isn't it opening?"

"Give it a second," he soothed.

His inflections rang sweet in the quiet space, calling my attention to his lips. Not too thin, not too full, perfectly proportioned to the rest of his face. It was oddly engrossing, watching them pull into a slight smile as his long fingers swept through his unkempt hair.

"Any moment, now." He smiled, turning back towards the doors.

I had never heard such a charming English accent. It wasn't cockney; his enunciations were too smooth. I wondered what part of England he came from.

And then the world turned black. The lights went out. It took about two hot seconds before I realized what was happening. "No, no, no!"

My senses charged into overdrive and muddled together before I could think of what to do. My mind went blank like the slate of coal surrounding me. Anxiety reared up as I dragged my phone from my pocket.

"No signal," the cruel screen read.

I hated the confined space. There wasn't enough air.

Taking several deep breaths, I tried to calm down. Telling myself that all this was temporary, and I could handle this. But nothing mattered more than getting to the opposite side of the metal doors that refused to open. To be safe, I sent a text to Noah. If I could just let the kids know what was going on, check on them somehow, then everything would be okay. But the possibility was slim. Again, my breath faltered, and I gasped for air.

The dim screen gave little promise on the prospect of communication. I moved the phone up and down, as high as my arms could take it and as low as the floor allowed, searching for any microscopic space that might offer a bar of hope. All I needed was one bar, one half of one measly bar! The icon in the corner of the screen said I was out of luck, but still I tried, stepping forward and sideways.

The man just moved, doing his best to dodge my chaos. Occasionally, he was too slow. If the contact upset him, he wasn't saying it. I supposed my panicky reaction said enough.

I was still breathing too quickly and tried to concentrate on slowing down. Long, deep breaths: in the nose, out the mouth. It kept me from getting lightheaded, but I couldn't relax. My heart still hammered, pumping adrenaline through me. Too bad it wasn't enough to create the mysterious super strength you sometimes hear about. The type that helped a mother pull a car off the ground to get to her child underneath. Despite the relaxation exercise, I felt myself tensing again.

I couldn't be the first person to get stuck in an elevator. There had to be some sort of safety measure in place.

"Don't tell me you're claustrophobic." His voice sounded through the dark beyond my pale shaft of light. "What are you doing?"

"I have no bars."

"Care for a smoke? It may help calm you."

"What?" The word was more of a bite than a response and I regretted it immediately, but his question was so far away from where my thoughts were—he sounded ludicrous. In an effort to remain coherent, I concentrated on his words. Once I recognized he was trying to help, a reasonable response was managed.

"No. Thank you."

Sudden hope seized me when I remembered that Sol's old phone—my phone—was an outdated piece of junk! If this guy's expensive clothes were any indication, I'd bet his phone was expensive, too. Newer cell phone equaled better reception.

"What about your phone?"

I turned the dim light of my screen in his direction. He pulled a large smart phone from his jacket pocket and looked for a second, tapping the screen. "Sorry, no signal, either."

I whimpered.

My children, all alone in the car, wondering after me. My imagination ran wild.

I pictured Noah, irritated that I was taking so long. Would he get out and go look for me once he realized he couldn't call? Would he take Caleb? He wouldn't leave him alone and vulnerable in the car, would he? Any stranger could come along and snatch him or steal my car with my baby asleep in the back seat. God knows what they would do to him!

My heart raced as I thought of how frightened Caleb would be. I tried to block the images of him being dragged away by a dangerous escapee from a mental hospital for the criminally insane.

No, I told myself. Noah would never leave Caleb alone. He knows the rules. They stick together. And odds are against an escaped lunatic or anyone wanting to take my old ride.

But, what if someone spotted them alone in the car? A kind stranger, maybe the man in the SUV, was watching over them, making sure they're okay while I'm stuck in this dungeon of an elevator. After awhile, the man might wonder where the parents were. He'd be so critical of me. Would he think I abandoned them? He didn't see me walk in. Would he ask Noah or just call the police? I couldn't stop the heartbreak as I considered of the range of possible repercussions.

"Try to relax, please. You'll hyperventilate or something."

"What?" I snapped, again, as the sound of his voice pulled me from the nightmare.

He chuckled. "Uh, imagine you're in an open field. I've heard that works."

"I'm not claustrophobic. I just—" what was I going to say? That I left my children unattended in the parking garage? "I need to get out of here. Are you sure you don't have service?" My quivering voice begged him to check again.

"No, I don't."

"God, help me. What am I going to do?"

"It will be alright."

"You don't understand. My kids are in the parking garage. All alone! They're waiting and I'm stuck in here!" I kicked at the doors, feeling the waterworks in freefall. When the light on my screen went out one last time, I dropped the useless thing in my purse and sank into the corner. A blubbering heap of self-pity.

"There's an emergency phone. We could ring maintenance."

My head snapped up, blind eyes following the sound of his confidence. There was a light, much brighter than mine, but plainly from a cell phone. He was using it like a flashlight. Genius!

"The red phone." I slapped my hands together, clenching them fervently towards the hidden sky. "Oh! Thank you, God!"

There was a muffled clatter and his voice. "It's ringing . . . won't be long, now." A moment later he spoke again, clearly not to me. "Yes, we seem to be stuck in the lift." Pause. "The one with the doors that won't open, hence my use of the word 'stuck'. Could you send someone round to fetch us out, please?" Pause. "We're on parking level 2. But the doors won't open and the lights've gone out."

The pause was longer this time. He waited, impatiently moving the light around the small space, flashing my face. My pupils ached and shrank, shocked by the power of the tiny spotlight.

"What kind of maintenance?"

My stomach tensed, waiting.

"I'd prefer another method," he said and halted. "Yeah, I don't care about that. Let's go with that one."

The commanding tone indicated he was in control. Maybe he did work in the building. I listened while the one-sided conversation continued. Some moments were calm, during others he asked questions that implied he was running short on patience. All the while, he remained courteous.

"Another problem, sir, the woman in here—she has children in her . . ." His tone changed as he asked me, "How many children?"

"Two boys," I inched towards the lighted screen.

His voice changed again. "She has two children in her . . ." he paused mid-sentence and cleared his throat.

I guessed that was directed towards me, too. "1986 blue Jeep Cherokee."

"There are two children in a really old, blue Cherokee. She's worried about them, so if you could send someone round to check on them, we'd be grateful."

"No, no, they need supervision," I insisted, moving closer to grab his arm. If I could've seen his hand, I would've grabbed it to take the phone and stress the absolute necessity for personal adult management. As much as I hated having strangers around my children, the idea of them wandering off scared and alone was worse. Odds were against any of these strangers being escaped lunatics.

He must have sensed my desperation because his next words offered a solution. "Actually, I have a friend waiting for me in the garage. He's sitting in a black SUV. Tell him that Evan says to do what he can to keep the kids occupied. If there are any problems, have him ring me on this phone. There's no cell reception in here."

He remained polite as the conversation wound down to completion. I heard the click when he set the receiver down.

"He was very helpful." The sarcasm was unmistakable. My stomach twisted in knots. "I mean, he really was very helpful and your kids will like Marcus. He can be pretty entertaining when he wants to be."

The light on his phone dimmed as I settled back into my corner. He tapped the screen and took a spot beside me.

"How long?"

"He guesstimated twenty minutes. That isn't so bad, eh?"

I curled my arms around my raised knees.

"Could be worse. You could have them in here with us, right now. That'd be . . . noisy. Possibly smelly, depending on their ages."

His expression did not match the tone of playful optimism. He must not have been aware that, though the light was trained mostly on me, I could still make out his face and the charade he was putting on. I was not fooled, but appreciated the effort.

"Do you have children?"

"Not that I know of," he smirked.

"There's nothing worse than not being able to protect them."

"They're safe with Marcus and you'll be out before you know it. Do you mind if I smoke?" I looked to see his hand was open. On his palm rested a small, oblong cylinder. "Not the whole thing."

"Is that a joint?"

"No," he laughed, "Do you want to get high?" The light tilted as he placed the phone on his leg to search his pocket.

"No, thank you. I couldn't tell what it was. You go ahead, do what you need to." It was the least I could do. He'd already coordinated our rescue.

"For the record, I'm going to quit."

A flame flickered, illuminating his face. For an instant, I could see the perfectly straight slope of his nose. In the smolder of his long drag, I watched the smoke billow and float towards the ceiling. The burning red glowed bright, receding as the ashes grew on the fiery end. He flicked them into the opposite corner. Small flecks of red burnt out across the hard floor. The fumes were tolerable, though the space was confined. I watched the shaft of light move as he smothered the remnant on the bottom of his shoe. After, he shoved the scorched end in his pocket and started talking.

"It has been very difficult. Not with the addiction to nicotine, my issue lies in trying to find something to do with my hands."

He mimicked the motions and I laughed, surprised at how easily the sound bubbled through my anxiety.

"You should take up knitting."

"Ah, knitting. Now that is a good idea. One can never have too many mittens." His tone was so serious; it made the content of his words all the more ridiculous.

I giggled again, holding out my hand. "My name is Grace."

"It is nice to meet you, Gracie." Taking my hand, he placed it between his own in a very respectable, gentlemanly gesture that immediately put me at ease. "My friends call me Evan."

The moments ticked away as his hands encircle mine. But before I could get too uncomfortable, he released me. Must have been my imagination—time does stretch in the dark.

The light of his phone dimmed again, and he tapped the screen.

"What do your enemies call you?"

"Family." The retort was quick and lacked irony. Before I could decide what to make of it, he negated. "No, I can't say in the presence of a lady." He laughed, weakly.

Something inside me stirred and I wanted to know what made him speak in such a way. Humor or something more? But, if he wanted to talk about it, he would have left the slip-up open to response. Lily's nosiness was rubbing off on me.

"Thank you," I whispered—probably the result of all my probing. I don't know why I cared so much. I didn't know him. But I could not shake the sense that we'd met before.

"For what?"

"For being calm. It was kind of you to have your friend stay with my boys." It eased my troubled heart and mind.

"It was the only role left. You took 'the panicked woman' without even asking if I wanted it." A light chuckle sounded.

"Does your friend have children?"

"No, but he's very immature."

"That's comforting." The nerves came back, settling in my stomach.

"They'll be fine, really." His tone conveyed a quiet assurance. It was all I had at the moment, so I clung to it. "Everyone likes Marcus. How old are your boys?"

"Five and fifteen."

The light he held, which was between us, moved to train directly on me. "You're not old enough to have a teenager."

"I started early."

"When you were five?" He laughed, centering the light between us again. "How old are you?"

"Haven't you ever heard it's impolite to ask a woman's age?" I tried to put on like I was offended, but just smiled.

"Right. Sorry. So . . . why stop at two? Didn't you want a girl?"

A lump tried to take up residence in my throat. I held it off with a hard swallow. "Two's enough."

"Do you plan to have more?"

I guess we'd passed idle small talk.

"We never planned; they were surprises." What surprised me was that I nearly mentioned how I suspected Solomon had a high sperm count because all of my pregnancies occurred while I was using at least one form of birth control. What a strange thing to bring up in a dim conversation with a generous stranger. Maybe it was easier to be open in the dark.

"Sorry, it's too personal."

I couldn't make out his expression but knew he saw mine. I wondered what he spotted that made him want to apologize.

"I'm not offended, but I am curious. Evan, can I ask you something?"

"Whatever you like."

"Do you really work in maintenance?"

He drew a deep breath and let it out with a quick raspberry. "No. I was, uh, visiting a friend," he slightly shifted his leg.

The phone moved again, lighting the air between us enough for me to see his sheepish grin.

"It's a little early for a social call." I heard my voice and it was patronizing.

"Yeah, but I was away, out of state for a few months and hoping to avoid the morning traffic. You know, I knew a girl named Gracie in primary school. She used to hit me and take my snack."

"She must have liked you," I pretended not to notice the sudden change of subject.

"No, I'm pretty sure she hated me." His words, though they sounded offhand, carried an element of something . . . truth, maybe? I wasn't sure, but my heart filled with compassion over the possibility. He was being so kind.

"My dad used to call me Gracie." Memories sprang up. Me, bouncing on his knee playing Buck the Bronco. My dad would twist his fingers around the back of my shirt—sending my mother into a frenzy over the stretched fabric that she swore would never go back into its correct shape—to keep me from falling to the floor while he furiously shook his leg, launching me up and down. I'd squeal, flailing, trying to hang on, and giggling the whole time. Dad would yell, "Hang on, Gracie! Don't fall, Gracie!" while he did his best to knock me loose.

"Did you have any nicknames growing up?" I asked.

"My mother's husband used to call me Shorty." The reference sounded like a curse word. "I was a tall, awkward child. That was his way of mocking me."

"That's awful." My own circumstances had shown me, through two generations of personal experience, how desperately a boy needs a father. My heart broke for him. Then, I grasped the tone he used was distasteful, loathsome, and guarded. The same way he referred to family as enemy.

"You should forgive him," I blurted, before realizing what I was saying and how rude it must seem; but when I felt the weight of the words, I knew I was right.

His leg started to twitch, shaking the light between us. But he said nothing.

Well, I already had one foot in my mouth; may as well shove the other in beside it.

"For your sake, not his," I added before guilt shook the sense back into me. "I know it's none of my business. Sorry, I have this bad habit where I say things . . . sometimes."

He pressed his lovely lips together, drawing the edges up into an awkward smile. "I, too, say things from time to time. I can relate."

"I mean . . . never mind."

"No, no, you've intrigued me. Please, continue."

"Have you ever felt a need to say something? Like a prompt?" I gestured between us, "Like, you have to tell someone something, even if it's offensive—as if it were the most important thing in the world for them to hear?"

His silence gave my answer.

"You don't have any idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

"I don't think I've ever said anything important. Much less needed to."

"I realize it's none of my business and you have every right to be upset with me for being so forward. But I just think you have more to gain through forgiveness. And I thought you should know that."

"How so?" His pitch went up, indicating genuine interest.

"When someone hurts you, ninety-nine percent of the time the actions stem from selfishness. So they're not sitting at home thinking about how they got over on you. And why waste your time and energy thinking about them? Forgive and forget so you can move on."

"Interesting," he said. "May I ask you something?"

"We're beyond the formalities, now."

"Are you married?" The light went dim. He tapped the screen of his phone again.

"Not anymore."

I looked down, afraid my eyes would give away too much. Since cleaning out my closet, I could barely keep them dry. Every time something sad, happy, or funny happened I was shredded. Tears at the drop of hat, no matter the reason.

"Are you dating anyone?" He hesitated. "You don't have to answer. I'm just trying for conversation. You know, to pass the time."

"It's alright. I'm not—" I struggled for the right words. "I don't . . . date guys." It came out wrong but I left it alone.

He placed his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. Crossing his feet, the phone slipped to one side. He caught it and the screen lit with his touch.

My thoughts flew up and away as my blank eyes became glued to one spot. His gorgeous face. I don't know how long I watched him sit there, breathing in and out, before I heard the muted thud.

The intensity of his sudden gaze took me by surprise. "You hear that? I think we're sprung."

Another thud sounded and Evan was on his feet, holding his hand out to me. The subtle contact made my empty stomach flutter, but it was nothing. The hand was offered, so I accepted. I offered him my thanks and he took it.

My feet were too far over when I stood, landing me deep in his personal space. I stared up while the light grew. He smelled like smoke and honey. I breathed him in. Chagrin heated my cheeks when he looked back and caught me. I turned to the wide silver doors as they inched open and back to Evan, who was staring again, or maybe he never looked away.

"Back away from the door!" The call shot through a thin crack in the passage.

We did as the voice commanded, moving until we felt the wall at our backs. We watched the metal arm appear between the door panels and slowly pry them apart.

"It was wonderful meeting you, Gracie." Evan offered his hand.

"It was nice meeting you, too. Thank you . . . you're my hero." I mimicked a bad southern accent, attempting a damsel-in-distress posture and batting my eyelashes. He laughed and I felt stupid.

The door cranked open, wider and wider, until there was enough room to pass through into the bright morning outside. I took my leave and headed straight for the Jeep.

Twenty minutes, my patooty! That was at least an hour.

After dropping the kids at school and sending word to their teachers that they'd be absent on Wednesday to observe their father's passing, I got home just in time to stop Arnold, Sol's big dumb dog, from chewing through a fence board. Once he was settled in his kennel, I fixed the board and made his breakfast. Some leftover brown rice and chicken broth mixed with his regular food. I set the bowl in front of him, told him what a good boy he was, and got started on the housework.

An hour later, I was done. I turned on some music and watched through the glass door as Arnold ignored the food in his bowl. Maybe he needed to work up an appetite.

The weather was cool and sunny. A light breeze drifted in from the coast giving the air a briny smell that melded with the scent of the surrounding trees. We headed down the road and jogged around the park, twice. Both of us were panting when we got back to the top of my hill.

After a shower, while raking the brush through my hair, I remembered my phone. The battery was probably completely dead. I reached for my sweatshirt and checked the pockets. Then, searched the jeans crumpled in the pile of laundry. I wanted to panic after the first sweep of my purse turned up nothing, and started emptying each compartment onto the kitchen counter. Out poured everything I anticipated, except my cell phone.

I perched on the arm of the sofa, trying to think. I asked Noah to get it for me, put it in my sweater pocket. I used it to check the time in the hall while I waited. The elevator!

I grabbed the house phone and called Lily. After explaining what I suspect had happened, she connected me to the maintenance office.

How could I have been so careless? The pictures! I'd never put them into the computer. Noah offered to do it a hundred times, but I refused, saying I would do it myself. Truthfully, I didn't like the idea of changing anything. I wanted the phone to stay the way it was when it belonged to Sol. It was the only thing that survived the accident. I had to get it back.

Nauseated and impatient, I waited as the phone rang over and over. On the fifth ring that felt like the fiftieth, a machine picked up. I left a message, automatically looking at the time. They had to be out for lunch.

On the way back to the parking garage, I couldn't let myself think about what it would mean, how much it would hurt to lose his cell phone. Instead, I concentrated on getting back to check that elevator as soon as possible. On the way, I was forced to stop at every single light in the city between my house and Lily's office. I got stuck behind the slowest drivers in the history of motorized transportation. When I changed lanes, a diesel truck ended up in front of me. When I tried to move around, a taxi cut me off. After that, it was a garbage truck. It seemed everyone was intent on making sure I had no access to lanes of moving traffic. I wanted to scream.

Finally, I saw the entrance of the parking garage. The sign out front read, "Lot Full." I fought back the tears and parked in the first opening I found out on the street, nearly two blocks away.

According to Juan in maintenance, the elevator had been running smoothly for over an hour and no one had returned or reported finding a cell phone. When he saw me fighting back the tears, he let me look through the space myself—the lost and found, too. But all I found were umbrellas, single gloves, and reading glasses.

Returning to my car heart-broken and empty handed, I was forced to learn another hard lesson. Parking by a hydrant was never as convenient as it seemed. I realized this as I watched my Jeep being hauled down the street by a tow truck. I prayed for strength and forgiveness, fighting the desire to curse the driver for refusing to let me drive away because my car was already chained.

"What does that mean?" I asked incredulously.

"It means too damn bad. You're blocking a hydrant and you're gettin' towed." He rubbed his greasy hand across his imposing waistline.

At least I had the presence of mind to take my purse. I tried to be thankful for that as I walked to the lone payphone that I knew to be operational a few blocks away. It was on the corner in front of a small French restaurant. I'd never eaten there, but the bright blue neon sign mounted over the phone booth stuck out in my mind. It was a marker to Caleb. Each time we passed it, he knew we were almost to Auntie's job.

I kept my eyes on a miserable pebble, kicking it down the sidewalk along the way. I could've used the phone in Lily's office, but the waiting area would be full of patients. No one ever went to the oncologist for something minor. Everyone within hearing distance would have either been seeking, in the midst of receiving, or just finishing cancer treatment. They didn't need to hear about my problems, so insignificant compared to theirs. I would have felt guilty for complaining and I really wanted to mope.

The afternoon didn't get any better. I never kept cash on me, so I had to take a taxi to the bank on the way home. The driver complained because of the slow-moving line at the ATM.

As the cab pulled away from my curb, Caleb's bus pulled up. Maria's grating voice was drumming from the answering machine as we made our way inside. I shuddered—mother-in-law problems—listening to her tell me she was coming over Wednesday to visit the kids. I ran to the phone to let her know I'd make myself scarce so she could visit. Of course, my voice was trembling, so she asked what was wrong. I knew it was only a formality, but told her anyway. She huffed when I mentioned the pictures. I really didn't feel like being insulted, so I made up an excuse and hung up.

When Noah came home, he immediately asked what was wrong. I assured him everything would be fine and went to bed early.

# October 9th

Tuesday was much the same. I spent my morning riding the bus across town to the impound lot. Thankfully, my Cherokee was considered undesirable; I could tell right away that everything was just where I left it. Even my registration stickers were intact. The temporary wisps of relief were replaced with guilt and dread as I tried, unsuccessfully, to gather myself before the kids came home.

Sol always had his phone with him and after, I always had it with me. I would scroll through the text messages, read them over and over again. It wasn't so difficult to accept the loss of the printed words. It was the pictures I regretted losing. Irreplaceable pieces of time, framed moments we spent together. Tangible remnants of happiness.

My eyes were red and puffy over an inanimate object. Strange how things could take on such immense value because of the owner.

I managed to keep up the ruse well enough for Caleb but not Noah. He never asked, but I could tell he was worried I might end up depressed again. I could see the shadows of my darkest days in his eyes when he looked at me. The days when all I could do was sleep. I gave him a reassuring pat on the arm when he offered to assist his younger brother with a bath and put him to bed for me. Though my heart ached that he would feel obligated to make the gesture in the first place, I took it.

I wanted to hide.

# October 10th

I accepted the phone was gone. The sentimental attachment was hardly worth the fuss I was making.

"Stupid plastic," I murmured, gazing at the bags under my eyes in the mirror. "It's just a piece of plastic."

Tears trailed the mascara down my cheeks and I gave up applying make-up. My hair was full of static, too, so I threw on a baseball cap. Maria would arrive soon and I wanted to be gone before then. I walked out to the kitchen, where Lily was sitting with the boys, having breakfast. My stomach growled but I had no use for food.

I turned on the small TV on the kitchen island and put in a movie for Caleb. Noah didn't complain when I kissed him which meant he was still worried, which made me worry, so I taped on a smile and made an effort to sit down and eat so he could see that I was really and truly going to be fine. I even made a little conversation, mostly shallow observations about the appropriately gray weather and my hair.

Lily barely spoke, wrapped in her own thoughts about the bleak anniversary.

When I heard the car out front, I grabbed my purse and made for the garage door. Turning to give a last goodbye, Noah shot me a half-smile as if to say, "Some things never change." Avoiding Maria was normal and he took comfort in that.

My feet hurt. I had seen every exhibit in the Science Museum dozens of times. There were several pictures of us in this place in the phone. Maybe that was what drew me there that day.

I chose a seat at a small table in the back of a café I visited each time I came. My stomach was growling. I set my purse on the other side of the table to fill the empty space and asked the punctual waitress for water.

I forgot my book of crosswords and had nothing to kill the time with. Adjusting myself in the hard metal chair, I felt the pinch of my bank card cutting into my thigh. While moving it to its' proper place, inspiration struck. There were dozens of receipts to account for tucked in my wallet, and with any luck I could fill the next hour calculating.

The receipts were organized by date, stacked on my right. I double checked that all of them had been added to my checkbook, and then took out my pocket calculator. Slumped over my work, deep into computations, I heard the sound of footsteps and cautiously covered my balance sheet.

A dark chuckle sounded directly behind me.

"Cheese and crackers!" My hands clutched at my heart as I turned.

It was him. Tall, slightly leaning, unintentionally handsome and looking right at me. "Hello, Gracie," he greeted me. The alluring accent lingered with his smile, enjoying my three-alarm surprise to his stealthy approach.

"You scared the crap out of me!"

"Sorry, but I wasn't sneaking up on you."

"It's alright, uh..."

"Evan," he reminded me, grinning.

"Evan," I nodded, "that's right."

"It is nice to see you again, Gracie." He took my hand between his, patting twice before he let go.

"How have you been?"

"I shouldn't complain. And yourself?" He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and cocked his head to one side.

I couldn't honestly say I was fine, and just forced an awkward smile.

"I'm glad to run into you. May I?" He gestured to the empty chair.

"Please," I scooped the pile of receipts into my purse. The mess would give me something to do later.

"Am I interrupting?" he hesitated, smoothing his hair between his fingers and hiding it beneath the hood of his sweatshirt.

"I was trying to keep busy. I hate sitting alone. It feels like everyone is staring."

His eyes scanned the area. "No one's looking now."

"Now that I have someone to talk to," my voice cracked on the last word. I clamped my mouth shut.

His hand was still stationed on the empty chair. He was quietly staring, possibly having second thoughts about socializing with a basket case. I wanted him to stay, to help me pass the time, to make my life a little more bearable for a moment with the balm of his company.

He just stood there. The silence was painful.

As I was about to let him off the hook, his face and neck flushed.

"I have an ulterior motive," he announced, setting a rectangle on the table. "I found this in the lift. I called your house this morning and the woman who answered told me you were here. I wanted to see you. To give it back."

"My phone!" I snatched it from the table and flipped it open. Immediately scrolling through the pictures, I landed on one of Sol getting a face full of snow during the weekend we spent at a mountain cabin. The image made my face pucker. I hid it behind my hands.

"I'd have had it back sooner, but the chargers for this model are obsolete. And I only looked through it to get your number. Have I done wrong?"

I took in a concentrated breath as he knelt beside me. His hood had fallen back from his head.

"You did perfect!" I squealed and excitedly shoved his shoulder. He lost his grip on the table and fell back on his butt. I covered my mouth, "Sorry!"

"No worries," he chuckled, rising from the ground to dust off his backside.

"Thank you so much, Evan. You have no idea how much this means to me!"

"I think I can guess." His handsome face widened with an amused grin.

"Thank you. So, so much. I was having the worst day."

"Want to talk about it?" His gaze grew intense, darting from left to right before taking the offered chair.

"No," I smiled, giving in to his bright eyes. "This was my husband's phone." I couldn't keep my lips from quivering. "How can I ever repay you?"

"Start by having lunch with me."

I agreed with a stammer, suddenly vexed. "I feel like such a baby. Every time I see you, I start bawling."

"Do I smell that bad?" He lifted one arm to take a whiff.

"Of course you do," I poked.

His eyebrows comically pulled together.

"Lunch sounds good, but I'm buying. It's the least I can do."

He shook his head. "No, it wouldn't be right if I let you, the woman, pay."

"I am paying and don't you dare argue with me." I cocked one eyebrow, giving him the look. It always worked on Caleb.

His constant smile widened. "Right. You win."

When the waitress walked over, Evan flipped his hood back up and looked down. I wondered, while wrangling between the chicken salad and the cheeseburger, if he knew her. I wanted the chicken, but the burger came with my favorite kind of sour pickle.

"I'll have the chicken salad." I could order one on the side to take home.

She turned to Evan. He was still looking at the table, tracing the floral patterns on the iron tabletop.

" . . . And for you, sir?" She asked.

"Cheeseburger, no pickle, and fries, please." He didn't lift his head.

"Are you sure about that?" I asked. "Because this place is known for their pickles." I turned to the waitress. "Just bring his pickle, I'll eat it." And to Evan, "that is, if you don't mind."

"I'm surprised you offered so quickly." He said, holding back a laugh.

At first, I didn't get it, but when our eyes met, I saw a spark of humor and repeated the exchange to myself, feeling the awkward awareness on my face when Evan started laughing.

Our little joke was of no consequence to the server. "Rhys Matthews!"

Evans bright eyes turned flat. "You've got the wrong guy."

"It really is you!" She spouted, more determined. "I'd know that voice anywhere!" She bounced and squealed with excitement.

He looked around the café, visibly annoyed. "Please, calm yourself."

The girl was probably about twenty and practically hyperventilating. Her shaking hands formed a fist around the tablet that held our orders. Her eyes were larger than her smile, which was enormous. She looked more like she'd won the lottery—completely taken in and utterly overcome with jubilation. It was very amusing and really strange.

Evan measured my reaction while his own held reserve and guilt. As we exchanged glances, the young girl started talking. Singing his praises while he adjusted himself in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

She gushed, "All your movies are my favorite because they're scary, but not too freaky. I have to be your biggest, most loyal fan."

My eyes leapt from her to him and back. When she complimented, he smiled, tentatively. When she asked questions, he responded with a question that was off topic, or said something completely ridiculous and she laughed.

She was bursting with curiosity. "Oh my God! What are you doing here?"

"I heard the service here was brilliant and had to see for myself." He winked at her and glanced at me.

"Are you and Gretchen still together?" She tossed a rueful glance in my direction, then added, "I hope so, because you two are the perfect couple."

"Would you like to take a picture with me?"

Her response was a rapid, violently excited nod. I was sure if I listened really hard, I would have heard her brain rattling against her skull.

She took out her phone and leaned down, placing her cheek against his. He compensated in a subtle way, slightly moving away to toss her phone to me. When he leaned back, he was close enough for the picture, but no longer touching. I caught the cell and fumbled with the buttons until the camera came on. Inside the tiny screen she smiled with obvious bliss while he struck a pose that looked quite natural. Calm and pleasing. I snapped the picture.

"One more. I blinked," Evan said. The girl and her grin stayed frozen as he slipped two fingers up behind her head and crossed his eyes. As soon as the click sounded he was nervous again.

Then, she was droning about how much she admired everything related to him. His clothes, his wonderful hair—oh how she's spent hours staring at it, longing to touch it!—and the way he set his hands on the table in front of him was so sexy. At that, he stuffed them inside his sweatshirt. I listened, in awe, as the girl made mention of a social networking site that built an entire marketing campaign around the question of what type of underwear he wore. Evan turned beet red.

"I didn't mean to embarrass you," she apologized, noting his change of color. "I mean, you must be used to people talking about it. It's been everywhere. I bought one of the t-shirts that had—"

"Actually," he interrupted, "I try not to pay attention to any of that stuff." His eyes met mine. "None of it's true." One hand rose up to pinch his eyebrow.

The girl stared longingly, waiting for him to return her gawk.

My stomach growled.

"Could you put in our orders, please?"

"Oh! Duh!" The waitress knocked the side of her head and glanced at her forgotten notepad. "Sorry . . . what did you want?"

"I'd like a cheeseburger, no pickle," Evan glanced at me from the corner of his eye, "and fries please. And I will have an Arnold Palmer to drink."

"We don't serve alcohol."

He shook his head. "Right. How 'bout this—can you fill a glass with half lemonade and half iced tea?"

"Yeah."

"There you go," he gestured grandly.

"I can make that!" She squealed, but didn't make a single move to fill the order.

I covered my mouth with my hands, trying to stifle a laugh.

Evan pointed to me with his chin. "She'll have the chicken salad and another water."

Finally. The young server took off toward the kitchen.

Maybe it was the unexpected nature of the situation, or the fact that I was overjoyed to have Sol's phone back. Maybe it was a combination of the two. Either way, it didn't matter. It was hilarious. As soon as she was out of earshot, I lost it.

"You find this funny? I thought her head was going to pop off."

I had a million questions—was his name really Evan, or had he made that up, just like his job in maintenance? What was this girl talking about? Who was Gretchen?—But I couldn't stop laughing. That waitress clung to every syllable, absorbed in him to the point of catatonic tendencies—what wasn't funny about it?

High on endorphins, lighthearted and giddy, I wiped my eyes as the girl returned with our drinks. She shoved a bottle of water in front of me. I'd wanted a glass, but bit my lip and watched. With Evan (if that was his real name), she lingered. Slowly placing the items one at a time in front of him. First the straw, then the napkins, the flatware, and last but not least, his glass. Her manner, obviously meant to exclude me, was overt. I laughed again, looking directly at her and not caring.

"Could you do me a favor?" He had her full attention so there was no need to wait for an answer. "Wait until after we've eaten to tell anyone. I'd like to have a quiet lunch with my friend, here."

The girl twirled around to face me. I was a bit surprised at the murderous fire in her eyes, but managed to keep my smile, part unwilling to allow her to stake whatever claim she felt she had on my company and partly because I wanted to be a stinker. The uprising came to an end. I kicked myself as she walked away. I had no more claim on him than she did.

"Pickles," he smirked.

I shook my head, feigning upset and reprimanding with my eyes.

His visage grew hopelessly innocent. "What?"

"You enjoy euphemisms?"

"I'm tremendously immature."

"So, your name is . . ."

"My friends call me Evan. The other—Rhys—I use for work. Keeps my life separate so I can breathe."

"You're so jaded. 'Wait until we've finished eating to tell people.'" My mock was laughable.

"I had to." He leaned across the table and spoke low. "She might have ratted me out, otherwise. You have boys. You've no idea how some girls can get."

I theatrically bit my fingernails and waited.

He sighed. "What do you want to know?"

"You're an actor?"

"That is what they tell me."

"You could have told me, you know. But I probably wouldn't have believed you. You don't look famous."

His eyebrows rose. "Really? What does a 'famous' person 'look' like?"

I shrugged. "My ideas are probably stereotypical. What kind of movies do you make?"

"Hopefully, the good kind."

"Do you like them?"

"Eh, they pay well enough."

He didn't want to talk about it, but I persisted. "How many have you been in?"

"A few." I waited. "Mostly what they call 'teen horror.' They call me The King. King of what, I'd like to know." His tone implied contempt for the label. I must have looked confused because he explained. "They're more psychological thrillers, targeted at a teen audience. Propaganda, really. Nothing too deep or engrossing. PG-13 stuff. It's a series of films which, thankfully, ended last year. More recently, I'm working against being typecast."

I nodded, deciding to drop the shop talk because he seemed irritated. But I had to know one minor detail. "Is everyone so weird around you?"

He laughed. "It's women, girls mostly. It's ridiculous. Have you ever tried to talk with someone who does nothing but mindlessly scream at you?"

"One-sided conversation?"

He laughed, opening his mouth wide and showing off a set of flawless, perfectly white teeth. "Exactly. It's bizarre." His strong brow furrowed, looking genuinely perplexed. "When they actually speak, it's loud, almost always invasive. It's this creepy . . . veneration, a falsehood deemed divine. They don't know me, yet try to kiss me or propose marriage, and almost always grab at me. And from time to time their boyfriends want to kick my ass." He paused when I gasped. "It's always awkward when met outside of the realm of an organized event. I expect it, then."

His gaze shifted to the left. "You see those girls over there?" He gingerly raised one finger set in the general direction. "Don't look."

"How am I supposed to see?"

He indicated with a slight tilting of his head. "Be casual about it." I turned again and he scoffed, "Oh, that really needs work."

Decidedly ignoring the superior criticism, I caught a glimpse of the intended group—there was at least five. All around thirteen, maybe fifteen—and turned back. "I'm no good at stealth?"

His corresponding smile was short-lived. "If any of them recognize me, we have to leave. Experience with that age group tells me one or two may be fine for about five minutes. Any more than that and things get quite hairy, very quickly, and I don't have security with me. Even if they're civil, they text like mad and before you know it, the place is crawling with maniacal pubescents."

"Maniacal?"

"Frothing at the mouth."

"The distance from abashed to boastful is very short, indeed."

He raised one eyebrow.

The server interrupted with our food and asked Evan to sign a paper menu. He complied, thanking her again in a way that politely closed the possibility of further interruption. She scurried off to her work station but did not look away.

I bowed my head and closed my eyes for a split-second and Evan was almost finished with his burger. As soon as the first bite of salad was in my mouth, he asked a question.

"Where's your husband?" I noticed his gaze was fixed on my naked finger.

I felt the oppressive weight of the past year come over me and struggled to chew. "He died."

"How?" The question bounced out.

"Car accident—one year ago, today."

"I assumed you were divorced. I should have guessed. It's obvious."

I acknowledged with a nod before I really heard. "Wait, what's obvious?"

"The dearth," he smiled gently. "It's in your eyes and on your shoulders." He gestured to my slumping posture. "I know how heavy it can be. My mother died when I was sixteen—cancer." He looked down at his plate.

What followed was silent understanding. We were reluctant members of a survivors club. Eventually, the understanding built into another conversation. I talked about my love of nursing, and my boys when he asked. Evan wondered why I drove a car older than he was.

"The eighty-six is a classic," I teased, and then gave the truth. "It was Sol's first car and I can't bring myself to get rid of it. Maybe Noah will get it one day."

Evan kept track of everyone—the nervous behavior became progressively evident as we ate. When I took a swig of water, his head snapped from one side to the other before turning to me.

"Are you finished?"

I set my fork down. "Do you want to leave?"

He smiled in a soft, strange way. "We're toast, dear."

He tapped the table with a pointed finger—my silent instruction to search. I turned my eyes towards the same group he referred to earlier. Instead of them talking casually amongst themselves like before, their faces were all keyed up. Some were whispering, while others held their phones in our direction. Two of the young girls were very clearly making plans and dialing. Calling their friends, just like he'd said they would. A third looked to be texting. A few started to approach, then others filed in behind. The group had tripled in size, with more coming into view from around a corner—all frantically looking around until their eyes landed on him. My stomach plunged, seeing the voracious airs of hunger. He was toast.

As I snatched my purse from the table, Evan tossed some wadded bills onto the plates. We dashed away in the opposite direction.

"Come on," I pulled him up alongside me. The museum had a strictly enforced safety policy of no running in the corridors. But right then, with no security in sight, I started to jog.

"Put this on." I yanked off my black baseball cap and handed it to him. He smirked, adjusted the Velcro backing, and set it on his head. As we rounded another corner, he took off his sweatshirt. I glanced back in time to see two girls had made their way around the last corner. We had a good lead on them, but my hair color stood out.

"This way," I flung the heavy blue door open to inspect the area. It appeared to be empty, so I took a few more steps to look under the stalls to be sure. My calls echoed in the empty space. No feet and no answer. I turned around to speak with Evan, to explain the next part of my plan, and discovered I was alone. Flying back to the restroom door, I pulled it open to find him standing in the hall, looking dejected.

"Get in here!" I grabbed his hooded sweatshirt and hauled him into the ladies' bathroom.

He turned his worried eyes on me and relaxed. Then, noticed where I was leading.

"You realize they're all girls, right?"

"No one's in here, I checked. Get into the stall over there and put your legs up, those are obvious guy feet." Huge, black sneakers. I pointed to the first stall. Statistically, it was supposed to be the one used the least often. He wasn't moving fast enough so I shoved him in, smushing myself in behind.

"Up, up," I instructed.

He set his feet on the toilet seat and grunted a little, adjusting to the small space. There was no tank to sit on so he had to squat, setting his hands on the walls for balance. I closed and locked the door behind us.

"I thought you didn't believe me."

Even facing the door, I knew there was a gloating grin on his face. When I turned, it was obvious he wasn't expecting it. His eyes floated up to meet mine a second too late. I pulled the back of my sweatshirt down.

"I didn't, but when I saw their faces—they'll eat you alive and bury me in the desert."

"Why the ladies' lavatory?"

The question was simple enough to answer, but the context of delivery made me want to burst with laughter. It was tough, but I suppressed it. We were expecting visitors any second. "The men's room will be the first place they check."

"Why not make a mad dash to the parking lot?"

"If they're not already out there, they will be."

"What makes you the expert?"

"I used to stalk the New Kids on the Block." I smiled sheepishly, totally dating myself.

"Did they ever hide in the men's room?"

"I would have found them if they did."

He relaxed a little, though still clearly on edge—in more ways than one. I almost choked on my chuckle.

"You mind if I smoke?"

"What is it with you and smoking in confined spaces?" I teased, turning back towards the door.

"I'll share . . ." he offered, as if to tempt me.

A dull thump caught my attention.

"Shh . . ." I pressed my ear against the door.

Evan was frozen, perched on the ring of the toilet seat with his arms stretched between the partitions of the stall. If it weren't for the breathing, he could have passed for a wax figure. Then I noticed the beads of sweat forming around his temples.

"Don't worry," I whispered.

He was so self-conscious with the waitress. Every word of praise rolled right off. I don't think he was listening to most of what she said. He was looking at his surroundings, trying to prevent further disruption. He had to have known this was a possibility—well, probably not this specific situation—when he decided to bring me the phone, but he brought it to me anyway.

My stomach twisted in knots at the approach drumming of feet. It sounded like thunder, getting louder as the distance between us and the pursuing storm decreased. The main door creaked and the muffled racket became clear and loud. A group of young girls stopped in front of the mirror. Judging by the topics of discussion, it was the same troupe that spotted us in the food court.

I stepped back, supposing my feet should be nearest the spot they'd usually set when a person was doing their business.

Evan was as white as a sheet. I mouthed a reassurance, but he just looked past me at the crack in the door, then moved to hide his head behind mine.

Multiple conversations were going on; all centered on Evan, or Rhys, rather. One girl gushed over two others that were brave enough to search the men's room. I looked back to Evan. He covered his mouth, hiding a smile. Another exchange was a focused strategy session.

The other girls arrived, fresh from their search of the men's room with nothing to report. One remarked that she was texting her friends in the parking lot. A second teen commented that the girl from the café must have been wrong. Another chimed in, insisting she was sure she saw Rhys Matthews with her own eyes. He was her favorite actor, she had seen all his movies and every interview he had ever done, and she would know him anywhere because she was his biggest fan.

They decided to coordinate efforts using their phones and divided into smaller groups to search different exits and areas of the parking lot, but time was of the essence. They all agreed to text if one of them spotted the black SUV he was known to travel in, and search for his driver as well.

As they were about to take flight, one girl entered the stall next to us. The partition shook when she slammed the door, complaining she forgot to bring tampons. Others laughed as she begged someone to search their pockets for change to get one from the wall dispenser.

My eyes shrank in a hidden glare. I reached into my bag and took out two, holding them under the separating wall between us and the menstruating minor.

"Here you go," I whispered, waving my hand to grab her attention.

"Oh, thanks!" A pleased voice responded.

"You're welcome."

The sounds around us dissolved into a concentrated silence. I could tell from the look of reproach on Evan's face, my presence was not as soothing as it should have been. We were supposed to be hiding; instead, I was going to give him away with my feminine hygiene products.

Sweat ran down his temples as I imagined the worst. If one of the tiny sleuths were to slide her head under the partition and spot him, he would be caught inside the ladies' room, sharing a stall with a woman, surrounded by a bunch of underage girls. How could I have thought the bathroom was a good hiding place?

"I still say it wasn't him." A voice broke the dreadful hush.

Several girls rebuffed the remark, simultaneously arguing that they would know him anywhere because of . . . and then they started naming specific body parts. The first few, I completely agreed with. He had a gorgeous face, killer hair and smile, and a sexy walk. But the list went on, becoming ridiculously long and pornographic. They described, with cringing detail, certain acts—illegal acts because of their age—they were eager to engage in, should they get the opportunity. Some of the expressions they used, I'd never even heard of. I didn't have the courage to look back and gauge his reaction. I was pretty sure he'd rather I didn't. So, I stayed still and prayed they'd just leave.

Others urged the girl in the stall to hurry with the threat of being left behind. Some left, undeterred. Finally, there was a flush and the vague shadow of two feet sprinted from the adjoining stall. Water turned on. A second later, the pattering of feet carried into the distance, along with the sound of their voices.

Once I was sure we were alone, I opened the door and looked around.

"They're gone."

"Thank God!" he stood, stretched his long legs, and jumped to the floor. "I was sure I'd fall in."

"That was . . . educational."

"That was awful." He blushed.

"Those girls are too young to be thinking about such adult things. I wish I knew their mothers." I shook my head.

"When you find them, leave me out of it, alright?" He lit a cigarette.

I talked while he smoked, afraid to leave him alone. He thanked me for the hiding place and I apologized for almost giving it away. He accepted, with one condition: I had to go to the movies with him. I was reluctant at first, thinking, hoping he wouldn't be so bold as to take me to one of his movies. He laughed when I asked if that was the case.

"Do you really think I would subject you to such torture?"

It was the least I could do for the stranger who brought me my precious trinket, so I agreed. The only condition I made was paying for the tickets, since he bought lunch. I offered to drive, since his friend had dropped him off. But I needed to swing by my house to change my clothes and put on some make-up. Walking around with someone so recognizable made me self-conscious. Not to mention I was severely underdressed. Mostly, though, I wanted to show Noah I was okay. And have him download the pictures from the phone.

"So, I guess, it's a date?"

"Not a date." I shook my head, reluctantly grinning. Evan possessed a unique ability to drag a smile out of me.

# Terminal

Fear. Four short letters for something so crippling.

Facing death isn't the scary part. In the many moments I've spent pondering what it must be like to die, I've never considered the act more than simply going to sleep. It's the happening; the potential events leading to it that terrify me. I'd prefer fast and painless—faster than asphyxia or drowning. Once, I choked on a meatball when I was at home all by myself. A complete airway obstruction. I couldn't breathe and nothing else mattered when that next breath couldn't come. Inhaling reflexively, I remember the feeling of knocking my abdomen against the counter top until I threw up. I don't much care for being beaten to death, either, and I'm in no condition to put up much of a fight without risking him. And I will not risk him.

While praying for help, I am crushed by guilt for my trespasses. Mistakes I've made flash before me. My erroneous behavior that resulted in the video, my poor judgment, the petty thoughts and jealousies. My fights with Lily and Noah. What would Noah do without me? Neglecting Evan—I had so many chances to tell him and didn't. I lectured him about honesty and withheld my own truth—which is no different than lying.

Oh, God, I'm sorry. I need help. I will die someday and when that time comes I'll be ready, but not tonight, Lord. Please. Not like this. Protect me. Open my eyes to see a way out. Help me think through the confusion. Tell me what to do.

I think over the desperate prayer and realize I've neglected the most important part.

This is what I want, but You know better. So, let Your will be done.

I withhold the Amen, knowing I'm nowhere near finished.

When I blink, my lashes no longer press against anything. The blindfold seems to have slipped down over my nose, not all the way, but enough to see. It's still dark, but there's a shape to the darkness. A hysterical cry wants to escape, but something tells me I should avoid making unnecessary noise. I can tell through the trace amounts of dim light that filter through the edges I am inside a trunk, but not the kind I thought. It has sharp corners and a lid like a rectangular storage box. Where it has—I have—been stashed, I have no idea, but I know I'm travelling. I feel the twists and turns and hear the constant drone of an engine. There's also a muffled racket that sounds like it might be... rap music?

With a jolt my smooth ride becomes rough. A jagged pinging noise sounds from below as the swaying motion of turns becomes more frequent, near constant. We must be close to wherever we're heading.

As I think it, the motion of the car drags to a halt.

So does my heart.

Listening intently for any sign of my impending demise, my senses seem to sharpen. There's a muffled thud that sounds like a door. Silence. Waiting. Everything is dreadfully quiet. I can actually hear the stillness. Even my thoughts are a whisper, barely intelligible over the buzz in my ears.

The fear of whatever's coming has me imagining I'm someplace remote, probably a nearby beach or lake.

One of my earliest memories is of my big brother and me sneaking into a neighbor's swimming pool. He was going to teach me how to dog paddle. I can see little Ronnie, no more than five or six himself—which puts me between two and three—standing neck-deep in the shallow end, urging me into the water. He told me to wade in carefully. I leapt. I remember the terror when my feet couldn't find the bottom.

The car's moving again. My head throbs, repeatedly knocking against the wall of my container. Wherever we're heading, it isn't on a paved road.

I try, once again, to loosen my restraints. Beyond self-defense and running, I have no plan. There's not enough definitive information.

That day in the pool with Ronnie, I was sure to drown, but the neighbor heard us splashing. He ran outside and pulled me out of the water by my hair.

While half of me dives into survival mode, the other keeps praying for clear, concise, signs. The constant motion pulls. I think it means we're slowing again. I nod and press my cheek against the sidewall, working the cloth back up over my eyes, stopping when I can no longer see.

My feet. I'm not sure if they're bound, but I can't move them.

Amid the worry, a great sense of clarity comes, blanketing my fear. It says I need to be still. I cannot run, so I must be dead. It feels foolish, the complete opposite of what I want, but I repeat my earlier movements in reverse, settling into my original position. Then, close my eyes under the blindfold and wait. The air is stifling. Sweat beads against my skin. I'm stuck. Until the box is open—and I have to believe it will be—I need to be calm.

God, help me. If I sweat or breathe we're dead.

Working to control my gasping breaths, I slowly inhale and gradually exhale until my heart rate begins to slow. The familiar pressure in my head ebbs, though the pain of the blow is prominent. I force each muscle group to relax, calling to each individually, willing them to rest. I must look flaccid.

I hope she doesn't check for a pulse. There's no way I can fake that. I take one, concentrated breath and let it out slowly, counting backwards from twenty, determining that when I get to zero I'm going to be calm—no matter what.

20, 19, 18...

Worst case scenario: we're dead. My heart breaks at the thought of not seeing my boys grow up, but I can see Solomon and my parents again. Lily will get the boys and the houses. She'll tell Evan that I loved him until I took my last breath. God is sovereign enough to care for them in my stead. Best case: we make it out together. My arm strokes my pregnant belly. The only acceptable scenario is that we get out together—all or nothing.

The pain subsides a little, though the ride is really bumpy. I can't tell how far or fast we're going, only that it's off road. And towards a spot where I have no help and no control.

Merciful dizziness descends, disconnecting me from my body. I thank God, as my eyes roll into nothing.
October 10.5

By the time the tires hit the stone driveway I was a ball of nerves, wondering about Maria and dreading the possibility of an embarrassing outburst.

"Nice yard," Evan remarked in his cool, swoony accent.

A weak "Thank you," was all I managed. Normally, I'd brag a little since I did most of the landscaping myself, but the aching in my stomach was distracting.

I led the way up the path. Halfway to the porch, my feet suddenly felt like lead. Evan crashed into my back. His hands flew up to my shoulders as he steadied himself.

He chuckled when I turned. "You stopped short."

"I should warn you. My mother-in-law . . . well, Sol's mother, is probably inside."

"Do you need back up, in case a fight breaks out?" He jumped around with fists in the air, guarding his face like a boxer.

"You may not be far off."

He looked passed me at the front door and the sunshine hit him in a way that made me want to reach out and touch him, but I kept my hands at my side. He was beautiful. And his eyes were not brown like I thought when I first saw him in the elevator, like they seemed beneath the track lighting of the museum. His eyes were blue and green with large golden flecks in them. Evan had hazel eyes. His brow furrowed, blocking the delicate sun and darkening his features.

"Would you like me to wait in the car?"

"No," I scoffed. The very idea that I'd have to walk on eggshells in my own house—though I had for many years already—was suddenly insufferable. "I just never know what to expect from her," I explained. "Oh, and my sister-in-law, Lily, she'll probably recognize you, so be prepared."

"Right. Either a slap or a kiss." His face held a look of deep concentration, which gave way to an easy smile as he shook out his arms, pretending to loosen the muscles. I had no choice but to smile back.

Evan took a spot on the sofa in the formal living room while I continued towards the kitchen, the most likely place to find someone. I rounded the corner, passed through the vacant family room, and peeked into the kitchen. Lily was leaning into the open fridge. Several empty plates sat on the counter behind her. I guessed she was aiming for an early dinner of leftovers.

"Hey, girl!"

She jumped, tossing the Tupperware high into the air and swearing. With a quick flick of her hands, Lily caught the plastic tub before it hit the ground.

"Good catch."

She fumbled the food onto the counter. "Really nice, Grace."

"It was, wasn't it?"

She looked irritated for the slightest moment; then it was gone, replaced with more surprise. "How was the museum?"

"Good, actually. Remember how I lost my phone?"

"He found you!" She sighed in relief.

"How did you know?"

"He called and Mom told him where you were."

"Oh." I put my fingertip to my lips.

"She's not here. Been gone since three-thirty."

"In that case, there's someone I want you to meet." I turned, waving for her to follow.

Evan was resting his head on the back of the couch. His eyes were closed. I clomped my feet a little louder than necessary over the tiles. He opened his eyes, which appeared brown in the soft living room light and lifted his head.

"The coast is clear. She left an hour ago." I looked back to make the introductions, but Lily wasn't there.

He smiled, standing. "Would that be during or after I was stuck, hovering over a public toilet?"

The image of him sweating and squatting made me crack up. My stomach clenched so tightly, I had to bend to alleviate it. Evan laughed just as heartily, his volume increasing when I snorted.

"What happened?" Lily bolted through the entry, smiling curiously.

My brain registered her presence, but I couldn't react. I was struggling for breath. He was perched over that toilet like a bird over a nest of snakes. My eyes blurred at the comical imagery.

Evan gained composure before I did. "Hi." He waved with a subdued smile and Lily's jaw dropped.

I took several controlled breaths—my sides hurt, my cheeks ached. It was wonderful—I wiped my eyes and introduced Evan, my new friend, to Lily, my oldest and dearest.

"Well, you're a pile of gorgeous aren't you? It's nice to meet you, Lily." His attractive pronunciations chimed sweetly as he presented his hand for her to shake, but she was frozen. "We were in the lift... er, elevator together. I found the phone."

She was frozen, wide-eyed and speechless.

"Earth to Lily." I waved my hand over her eyes.

She blinked. "You're Rhys Matthews! Grace! You were in an elevator with Rhys Matthews?" Her focus shifted to me and back to Evan, her volume increasing. "Grace! You spent half the afternoon with Rhys Matthews?"

"He told me his name was Ev—"

"I am such a huge fan! So happy to meet you!"

She leapt at him, grabbing his hand and pulling him into an unexpected hug. Suddenly she was jumping up and down. I could not stop giggling—again, falling into full and free laughter when Evan started jumping with her. Lily never got excited like that. Over anything. Not even Dior sales at Saks.

The noise must have grabbed the kids' attention. Caleb wandered in and started laughing because we were, and Noah just watched, standing behind his brother, a smile peeking through his pursed lips. After we calmed down, I introduced them to Evan and he regaled everyone with the story of our bathroom adventure.

Noah seemed to enjoy my high spirits more than the story itself and it pierced my heart. I'd have to make additional efforts to be more even keeled.

I showed Evan to the couch in the family room and asked him to wait. He chose a seat on the fluffy, navy blue couch monster as the kids disappeared into their rooms, totally unimpressed. Lily had agreed to watch the boys for me—I don't think there was a chance that she'd say no—so I set off to get ready for the movie.

The image in my large mirror showed the face of a stranger. Her eyes were too bright, her cheeks too pink. The trace of an eager smile played at the edges of her lips. My hand touched her flushed face. It felt so warm.

I threw on the first dressy top I found and paired it with comfy, faded jeans and black flats. Casual. Then, I brushed my hair and set it in a loose bun to keep it off my neck. Next, I applied mascara. The chances of ruining my makeup were small, but I still opted for the waterproof, to be safe. I even splurged on eyeliner and a light shadow.

Caleb bounded into my line of sight as I entered the long hallway. He stood, leaning his little head back to stare. I made a silly face and he giggled.

"Please tell my guest I will be ready to leave in a few minutes." He agreed and took off.

Noah was on my mind. I knocked on the door and opened it after a brief pause—my usual entrance. He was so used to the intrusion that he rarely ascended to greet anyone on the other side. That worked exactly the way I designed it. By knocking, I gave the respect for his personal space; yet by opening the door myself, I silently asserted my position of authority. At least, that was how I like to think of it. In any case, he didn't seem to mind. I rested against the wall near his closet and looked around at the clutter on the floor and in the corners. He was sitting on his bed, studiously playing online video games.

"You need to vacuum this room, Noah."

He turned and his eyes perked up. "You look pretty, Mom." And back to the television.

I looked myself over, checking to make sure he was not being sarcastic, as there was always that chance and I wasn't catching on. Nothing was amiss. I decided he was serious. "Thank you. I want to ask you something."

"Shoot." He paused his game, giving me his full attention. Good kid.

"Are you . . ." I almost used the word 'okay' but that didn't fit. "Are you alright with me seeing a movie tonight?" At the last second, I decided to exclude the name of my company. It wasn't a date and I didn't want Noah to think it was. But if I explained that, he may have thought I was being too defensive.

"You mean am I alright with you dating? It's kind of a weird day to start, but no, I don't mind." A satirical smirk bent one corner of his mouth.

"This is not a date. It's two adults, who happen to be the opposite sex, enjoying each other's company and agreeing to go to the same place at the same time. There's nothing romantic about it."

"Then why are you asking me?"

"You've been worried about me. I want you to know that I'm okay. I won't get like that ever again, Noah."

The corners of his eyes turned down as my words reminded him of those first six months. "I know, Mom, and I'm glad you got Dad's phone back. It was nice of him to bring it to you."

"And that's the only reason I agreed to go to the movies with him."

"Is he taking you to see one of his movies?" He whispered, "If he is, you should take a book."

"I don't know what we're seeing." My voice dropped to a whisper. "Are his films really that bad?"

He groaned. "Ugh, so stupid and predictable."

"But he's a nice person."

"Yeah," he shrugged, "he made you laugh; that's got to count for something."

"You're a sweet boy, Noah." I grabbed his chin and quickly kissed his forehead.

"Great. Pink lip gloss." He rubbed the splotch away with the back of his hand.

On my way to the living room, the distinct sound of muffled chuckles carried down the hall. Ever the Nosey-Nellie, I stopped just shy of the living room entry.

"Let me see if I understand this. You're telling me that your mother told you to tell me to go pee?" Evan's accent was unmistakable. "It seems unlikely that she would direct me—a grown up adult who has successfully coordinated his own bathroom breaks for the past two decades—to tinkle."

I stifled a giggle and stepped closer to the mouth of the hallway.

"We always go pee before we leave. It's the rules." Caleb commanded.

There was a pause before Evan spoke again. "Cleaning house, eh? Oh, that cannot taste good."

I leaned through the archway into the living room, curious at his sudden change in tone. Evan was in the same spot I left him. The corner of the couch monster. Beside him sat Caleb, grinning. He held a large, green, gooey mass atop one extended finger.

Evan's hand went to his stomach. "I already ate." There was no trace of amusement in his pasty complexion. However, Caleb's sneaky grin told me he thought it was hilarious.

"Caleb," I gasped, "go wash your hands!" He jumped from the couch and ran towards me with his foul finger flying high like a patriot's flag.

"I am so sorry."

Evan chuckled, raising his palms to indicate no apology was needed and it made me feel worse. I grabbed the biohazard-bearing hand and led the attached boy to the restroom. Once he was properly chastised, cleaned and dried, I helped him blow his nose. The mucus was plentiful but clear. Probably allergies.

After one last look in the mirror and a quick talk with Lily—she had fed Evan some leftover enchiladas and was struggling with having to wash the fork—we set off for the theater on our non-date.

The house lights went down just as we entered.

"Perfect timing," I whispered.

Evan was carrying the largest bucket of popcorn they had as he led the way up the dark steps to the top of the highest section. I insisted on buying the snacks, since he sneakily purchased the movie tickets online before we left my house. I couldn't see anything except the lighted strips at the end of each step, so I held onto his elbow until we reached our seats in the center of the last row.

"I hope you like scary movies. This one is supposed to be really disturbing."

He settled into his seat and offered me the popcorn. I nodded and accepted though my hopes sank. Fear had never held much entertainment value for me. Not even as a kid. Anything remotely spooky sent me into my dad's lap.

The movie started after a solid fifteen minutes of previews, and that was the best thing I could say about it. There were a lot of previews.

In the beginning, things seemed alright until I felt something buzzing near my ear. I swatted and Evan flinched as my fingers caught the tip of his nose. I apologized and asked what he wanted to say, but he just shook his head and I was too embarrassed to pursue the topic.

For the next ten minutes, my eyes were glued to my lap as it opened with a gratuitous sex scene. As the film went on, it seemed that sex and violence dominated the plot, which was difficult to figure out. The only correlation seemed that everyone being killed was either naked or getting there. At some point I sensed I was being surveilled and turned to find I was right.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, why?" he whispered.

"You're staring."

He grinned awkwardly. "I was wondering what your natural hair color is."

"Dirty blonde." I knew the red locks were too bright to pass for natural, which was part of the appeal, but it seemed like a weird question, considering we were supposed to be watching a movie. He misunderstood my expression and discreetly popped a piece of gum in his mouth.

Determined not to waste thirty bucks, I really tried to watch the movie, but every few minutes there was something I found revolting.

An hour in, Evan offered an out. "Do you want to go?" His minty breath made goose bumps on my neck.

"Do you mind?" I asked, lifting my hand to rub them away.

He didn't hesitate to rise and lead us out.

In the parking lot, the night air had become unexpectedly cold. I walked straight to the car. Evan followed, blowing into his fists to stave off the chill. I opened the back hatch of the Jeep and tossed him one of Noah's jackets. He was apprehensive at first but could not argue with my rhyming reason.

"It's better to borrow than be sick tomorrow."

He chuckled and slipped on the fluffy down jacket. "Sorry you didn't like the movie. Next time, you can pick."

A lump rose in my throat, seeing him in Sol's old jacket; one he gave Noah because it was too tight across his shoulders.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine," I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.

"Do you want to watch something else or go somewhere? There's a great club not far from here."

I sat in the Jeep's open hatch.

"What would you like to do?"

"Don't you ever feel like sitting down and doing nothing?" It had been a long day. I was mentally and emotionally exhausted.

"Nothing is one of my favorite things to do." His eyes locked on me as he leaned closer, bending to flatten the blanket we were sitting on. "What shall we talk about?"

Despite the awful significance and craziness, my terrible day had turned out alright. Actually, it was the best one I'd had in a long time. "Today was fun. Thank you."

"Yeah, um, all I did was buy you lunch you couldn't finish, get you trapped in the bathroom, and take you to a movie you didn't like. I should be thanking you for putting up with me."

"That's not true. I chose the bathroom."

We both laughed heartily.

"Truthfully, Evan, I've had more fun today than in the past year, so thank you." I placed my hand on his shoulder, leaning in. I was planning a playful nudge, but, that's not what happened.

My whole life, I could never see what was coming until it was too late. That night was no different. The empty parking lot and emotion, it created an intimacy I wasn't aware of. And combined with Evan's proximity, his prowess, and good looks, it's no small wonder things advanced, but his reaction still came as a complete surprise.

He turned, his hands felt so warm, moving silkily and with lightning speed through my hair and down my neck. He drew one hand around my back and pulled me closer. I raised my own hands automatically, spinning as the feel of his full, soft lips prevented any use of the good sense God gave me. It was the awareness of his touch, the tingling response it provoked that jolted me back from the brink.

It was wrong. All wrong. My hands were touching a stranger. How could they, and so deliberately?

"Stop." It was just a whisper, but his grip on me relaxed.

He slowly leaned away. "That was . . . not a good idea."

I felt myself flinch at his admission and shook my head. "It's my fault. I send mixed signals." I covered my tingling lips with my hand.

"No, you're fine. Better than fine." He smiled, "I was the one. You were simply being nice and I took advantage, so I am, truly, very sorry."

We took turns offering apologies for the next few minutes before deciding it might be best to forget the whole thing. Evan thought the fault was his, but I knew it was really mine.

"In order to avoid the predictable, awkward silence . . ." he skipped over the unnecessary explanation with an ironic pause that made me giggle. " . . . I think you should tell me more about yourself." He grinned, expectant. And I smiled back

He had a talent for inflicting me with joy. There was no other way to explain it. I mean, here it was, the one-year anniversary of the sudden death of my beloved husband and high school sweetheart, and I had just been kissed for the first time, by someone that I was not Solomon. And we both agreed it never should have happened. But I needed to be sure that he understood.

"I need to explain something."

"Go on." He cleared his throat and took out a pack of cigarettes, presenting me with a look that asked for permission, which I granted, before he lit up.

"That—" I had no words for what just happened, so I gestured into the great beyond, "can't happen again."

"What exactly does 'that' mean?"

"I can't think about—I mean . . . jeez, this is going to sound bad no matter how I say it." I sighed, "I think you are really nice. You're super funny and handsome, and I like talking to you. We would probably be great friends, but—"

"You don't want to be friends?" His eyes seemed black under his furrowed brow.

"No. I mean, yes. Of course I do!" My objection came a little louder than I intended. I sounded like a petulant child. "But I—I can't offer anything beyond that."

"Understandable . . . and somewhat agreeable. You are a bit of a mess." He grinned ruefully, giving me a sidelong glance.

The look was so soft and sweet, it made my chest expand. And I laughed. "Okay, so we agree."

"Now, you were on the verge of divulging your deepest, darkest secrets?"

"Hey, you've been inside my house, you met my whole family. I say it's your turn."

His brow furrowed again, drawing lines across his forehead. "Where would you like me to start?"

"Where are you from?"

"Essex."

A world away. "I thought everyone around London spoke cockney. How come you have such a smooth accent?"

"I was told to work on it so Americans would understand me. Do you like my accent?" He smiled, raising one eyebrow in a way that made me want to relax every muscle in my body.

"It's very charming. Why did you leave Essex?"

"My mother passed, as I told you, and I came here with my good friend Marcus to try my hand at acting."

"Why acting?"

He shrugged. "She always told me I could do anything. She being my mother, Sylvia, encouraged me to try. I guess I wanted to prove to myself she was right." His eyes became wistful. "She thought very highly of me."

"Your dad moved halfway around the world for you?"

"No. He left when I was four, maybe five. I don't really remember him. I came alone, with Marcus."

"He sounds like a very supportive friend."

"He is." He flicked the ashes from his cigarette onto the asphalt. The breeze carried them away. Evan's eyes crinkled as he stared with veiled amusement. "You know, I have to be so guarded all the time, it's odd to simply converse with someone. I don't know how long it's been since I've sat with a person who knows nothing about me."

"Feel free to change the subject," I invited.

"The fact that you don't mind makes me all the more comfortable. I never get to meet new people or sit and talk. It's nice—this 'normal' you've got going on."

"Normal is all I've got," I shrugged, "if you call scatter-brained and half-crazy normal."
October 17th

Clips of his movies played in loop on the giant televisions in Costco. He was all over countless magazines near the checkout aisles at the grocery store. That signature messy hairstyle and strong jaw line were plastered across billboards on the sides of the road, on busses and buildings. Talk shows casually dropped his name in their 'what's hot' segments. YouTube had thousands of hours of interviews and clips showing him being stalked by dozens of strangers with cameras.

He was literally everywhere I looked. What hole had I been living in that I never noticed?

I enjoyed Evan's company as much as he enjoyed my tedious meandering. His deprecating charm was just what I needed. It turned out that we had a lot in common, too. I loved cooking and he loved eating. He was very funny and I loved to laugh with him. He hated running but loved kickboxing, which I could not get into. Who wanted to get hit when they were working out? But we both loved to watch boxing and Chris Farley movies.

The other day, he went with me to walk the dog and retched as I scooped up Arnold's poop. I laughed at how easily he became nauseated. Everything grossed him out, whereas nothing got me.

Anytime we'd run into one of his fans, he was friendly and utterly charismatic. Unless they got creepy, which was 50/50. In the last week, I'd witnessed at least a dozen marriage proposals. Some were clearly kidding, but a few seemed completely serious. Everyone had to give him something. And he took it, without hesitating, even if it was weird. He received dozens of scripts from hopeful writers, flowers, cards, tons of dirty pictures, and several locks of hair. The only refusals went to one girl who tried to give him her underwear—she took them off in front of us!—and another who tried to give him a charm necklace that held a small vial filled with her own blood. Other than that, it was nice to see the interactions with his admirers and how deeply he appreciated their support. I always offered to take the pictures and even started carrying a black marker.

Evan liked to play combat games with Noah on the Xbox and taught Caleb how to tie his shoes. Actually, he thought he taught him how to tie his shoes. Caleb was pretending; the product of pure laziness.

Marcus, Evan's best friend whom he also employed as a personal driver, had latched onto Lily. He was clearly infatuated from their first meeting and she seemed to think that Marcus was worth getting to know, too. I liked him. He was very sweet and level-headed—the perfect best friend for my dramatic Evan. The potential for happiness bubbled in my stomach.

I'd invited the three of them over for a barbeque that evening. The fall weather was too lovely not to take advantage. I smiled to myself, because it wasn't even lunch time and Evan was already here.

Bright beams of sunlight shone through the sheer curtains of my bedroom window. Just beyond them, to the left, at the edge of what used to be a gaping hole sat a silhouette. Evan was in the back yard, examining the tile work of the new swimming pool. His position, casually leaning to one side, resting against his arm, reminded me of last week, when I brought him home before we left for the movies.

While I was getting changed and easing my conscience in the heart-to-heart with Noah, Lily was feeding Evan. She was excited and babbling, suffering from a moderate case of hero worship, which led her to follow him out to the back porch. He to smoke, and she to make sure Arnold was shut inside the dog walk. She then proceeded to start a conversation, hoping to obtain some level of what she called chemistry. I took a small bit of umbrage when she told me, but made allowances once she apologized. He was her secret celebrity crush after all.

She described the encounter as Evan sitting on the bench in the backyard, leaning on his arm, flicking ashes into the dirt, much the same way he was slouching outside near the empty pool. She sat next to him, purposely invading his personal space. As her shoulder brushed against him, he got up and walked to the edge of the patio, asking about the giant hole in the dirt. She took the hint and gave up.

A smile crept to my lips.

To alleviate her bruised ego, Lily introduced him to Arnold, my bull mastiff, whose sheer size was intimidating to many a pet owner. She opened the gate, releasing him from the dog walk, while Evan asked her not to. He shoved himself back inside, only to be assaulted by Caleb and his hyperactive mucous membranes.

It was like being sucked in by a tractor beam—I couldn't help how much I wanted to be near him. I strolled back to the kitchen, playing casual as I cleared the table, holding in my extreme delight while Lily and Marcus chatted on the living room sofa. Once the breakfast table was cleared of plates, I stepped out to the backyard.

The sound of the glass door had Evan turning his head. He watched me make my way over with a small smile. The sun was shining brightly on him, highlighting the copper tints in his brown hair. Sitting close, purposely invading his personal space, I rested my head on his shoulder and stared out at the empty pool. "It's going to be ready the day after tomorrow."

He rested his head against mine, placing an ear across my temple. "Good." My stomach jumped as he stretched his arm around my waist. "Do you mind that Marcus is here?"

"I wanted you to invite him to the barbecue today, remember?" I lifted my face towards the sun and closed my eyes. "It's so sunny." The air was chilled, but the clear sunlit sky rained down my joy from above.

I peeked at him. "Doesn't it seem like we've known each other longer than a week?"

"It feels like much longer." His expression turned to exasperation but his voice held sufficient humor. I shoved him and he laughed.

The glass door opened. Lily asked if we were interested in going out for lunch. I wiggled my arms under Evan's, cuddling around his waist. "Do you want to?"

"Off we go," he answered and tightened his hold on me.

I told Lily we'd be in as soon as we were done talking, and then realized that we weren't really saying anything.

"We'd better go in before they leave without us."

"I am kind of hungry." He smirked.

"What's with the mischievous grin?"

"You're awfully affectionate today," he noted, using his elbow to nudge my clasping arms.

I was doing it again—sending out those signals. My stomach knotted and I scrambled up, taking a hurried step toward the door. Evan swooped in front of me. His long legs reached further than mine as they swung around in front of me, blocking my path. I looked up as he arched his neck. He stopped at the sound of my gasp, but didn't pull back.

"I have no idea what I'm doing." One side of his mouth curled up.

"Me either."

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but . . . I'm mesmerized. By everything you do and say, the way you are with your family—it provokes me. You're gravity, Gracie, and you're pulling me in."

It was poetry, the way he spoke sometimes. Storybook confessions splashing their unreal colors onto my drab little page. I felt the cool air in my mouth and closed it.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not." He flashed an award-winning grin and took my hand. "Off we go."

That first night after the movie, when we sat in my car, that fire . . . the nonsensical effects . . . I wanted to push him away, but froze like a deer in headlights. Now I'm holding him—pulling him in?—and totally unprepared for the result.

No one had touched me before or since Solomon. I'd never really thought about it until I touched Evan and I wondered if that was something that bothered me all along. The lack of physical contact. I hugged my kids. Lily. My dog. Once in a while, I'd run into someone from church and shake hands, but that was it. The other day, our fingers touched when Evan passed me a napkin—I had to leave the room. Every tiny encounter with him felt so intimate. My stomach twisted into wonderful, terrifying knots.

After dinner, during post-barbeque clean-up, as Evan dropped a pile of plates in the sink, he whispered in my ear, "You look beautiful."

A well of emotion pricked the backs f my eyes as I thanked him quietly. He simply passed into the living room.

A second later he came back. "Do you mind if I leave these here?" He set a paper grocery sack on the counter.

I glanced inside. "Wow. That is a lot of liquor."

"I'll take it when I go, if you don't want it in the house. I know you aren't a drinker."

Something in the way he made the assumption ticked me off—though it was more true than false. "I didn't know you brought it or I would've served drinks with dinner. And who says I'm not a 'drinker'?"

His overall tone implied that I was uptight. Now, I've been many things in my life: naïve, lonely, slightly weak, perpetually forgetful, over-confident and extremely self-conscious. I'd even admit to being a life-long prude, but I'd never been uptight.

"Please," he scoffed, raising his voice to make sure everyone heard, "I know a lightweight when I see one."

Lily and Marcus walked in from the living room where they'd spent the last half hour sorting through the CD collection. Mary Wells played softly in the background.

Marcus cheered, "Tell'm, Ev! We are English, our forefathers invented binge drinking. We've been laggered since nursery school."

"Is that a challenge?" Lily cast a loaded glance.

"I hope it is." I thanked her with my eyes, grateful for the times she'd forced me to practice her favorite game. Although, we usually used apple juice. "You know, Lily and I were playing a drinking game just the other night."

"With what, grape juice?" Evan tucked an arm around my shoulder, clueless at how close he came to the truth. "Tell us about your little game." His patronizing tone was equally parts humorous and irritating.

"Quarters," Lily bubbled. "I've been playing since eighth grade and I'm undefeated."

She was bragging, but rightfully so. Any woman possessing as much beauty as Lily had to know how to handle booze and men. She could hold more liquor than anyone I knew and she was excellent when it came to quarters. In all the years we'd hung out, I'd only seen her lose once. It was New Year's Eve, about six years ago. She played against Sol, who'd taken advantage of the fact that she wasn't quite sober when it started. Lily never counted that as a loss.

Marcus greedily rubbed his hands together. "Right, then. I don't know what it is, but I'm sure Evan and I can out-drink you two."

I had no doubt about that, either. "As soon as Caleb goes down for the night, it is so on," I announced. Lily chuckled and gave me a high-five.

I rushed to finish cleaning up while Lily assisted Caleb in the bath. When Noah returned from his friend's house, he decided to go to bed early. His allergies were bothering him and the pills he took for the symptoms made him sleepy. I kissed him goodnight, tucked Caleb in his bed after prayers, and turned on the night-light. When I emerged from the back of the house, everyone was already gathered at the dining table.

My mouth pulled into an unwilling smirk. "Are you two ready to lose to a couple of lightweights?"

Evan's eyes sparkled. "If there's anything I can do better than anyone on this planet, it's drinking. If I could act half as well as I can tolerate alcohol, I'd be the best that ever lived."

"That's pretty big talk. Let's hope you can back it up." Lily's unassuming tone was highlighted by the look she gave Marcus.

The smack talk intensified as I set up the game: one quarter and a shot glass in front of each of us. In the center of the table, I set the double shot glass. Normally, we'd shoot the coins into the standard size, but the guys were beginners. Lily shook her head at the unknown charity.

"Nice set," Evan remarked.

"Thank you, we got them in Vegas a few years ago. Remember, Lily? You and Sol and I went up there for a boxing match? What was the name of that guy?"

It was about four months after her divorce, and the memory of that trip made me want to laugh, though it was a bit of a nightmare to her. She met some guy, and by the end of the first day she hated him. It might have had something to do with him not mentioning that he had a girlfriend. They had a huge fight in the middle of the casino. She almost got arrested and Circus Circus banned her for life.

"Loser was his name. Big. Fat. Loser. Don't laugh. It's not funny." She pointed accusingly at my smile and giggled.

"I have to warn you, I'm pretty good at this." I patted Evan's shoulder and sat beside him. "Boys against girls?"

"That hardly seems fair. You ladies will be passed out before ten." The look on Evan's face said he was very pleased by the possibility.

"Don't worry, I won't take advantage of you." Marcus nudged Lily's arm.

She was about to offer a nonverbal retort, but I intervened on her behalf to keep things civil. "You guys have no idea who you're talking to. She's my ace in the hole. In fact, I'm so sure you two will lose—should we give them a handicap, Lily?"

"Hell yes." Lily raised her shot glass and I met it with mine. We knocked them together and shouted "Salut!" in unison before gulping.

"Good, you can swallow. Now, how do you play?" Marcus snickered.

Evan erupted at the euphemism.

I shook my head. The strong burn of whiskey kept me from responding verbally.

Lily threw Marcus a knowing look that said she intended to make him pay in other, more amusing ways. "The rules are: each player gets one chance to toss the quarter into the glass at the center. You have to bounce it—only once—off the table. If I make it, you drink," She pointed to Marcus. "If Grace makes it, Evan drinks, and vice versa. If you miss, you drink the shot yourself. We keep going until you guys need to stop."

They asked a few questions and took a few practice shots. Then, we flipped a quarter to see which team would start. Marcus won the toss and decided to go first. He barely missed the glass and had to drink. It was Evans turn next. He made the shot, but didn't bounce the quarter and had to drink. Lily took her turn. She made the shot and pointed to Marcus, he took another drink.

Then it was my turn. I carefully placed the quarter between my index finger and thumb, adjusting my grip. If I missed, I'd have to drink. I could already feel the effects of the handicap shot. Maybe it wasn't such a great idea to use the double shot glass.

"I'll put you to bed," Evan smiled.

I bounced the coin. It hit the table and leapt in a perfect arc, soaring into the small glass at the center. The quarter jingled into the bottom of the cup—it was a beautiful melody, proudly singing my victory.

"I made up the guest bed. It's a full size, so you two can share." I pointed to Evan with satisfaction. "That's your drink, dude." He rolled his eyes and tossed it back.

After a few more rounds, all of which are split between our opponents, Marcus and Evan were getting pink cheeked. Though it was not hot, I opened the back door. After a few more rounds, Marcus' movements started to slow. His head bobbed as he asked for coffee. After I put on a fresh pot, Evan invited me outside to talk while he smoked.

We stood on the patio and I watched the smoldering billows of smoke waft in hectic circles around his attractive profile.

"You weren't kidding about a high tolerance. You guys are nearly on the second bottle."

"All in a day's work, my dear," he bragged in his usual pleasant manner. "You Americans think you're so superior. You may have won the war, but that's all you'll win."

We laughed together and talked about menial things until he was done. He smothered the burning end in an ashtray I'd picked up on my last trip to the store. "It was kind of you to get this for me."

"How do you know it's for you? Maybe I'm thinking of taking up smoking." I simpered mischievously.

His smile slackened. "Stop looking at me like that. I need to concentrate on winning." He kissed my forehead and slipped into the house.

I was alone in the cold, wondering what look I'd given him until I remembered it didn't matter. He may have been composed enough to carry on a short conversation, but he was well on his way to inebriation.

Back inside, Lily was busy coaching Marcus on how to hold the coin at the proper angle to get a nice curve on it. I guessed by that point, she knew we were so far ahead and they were so far gone, it didn't matter. We'd already won.

When Evan returned with coffee, the game picked up again. Despite all the training, Marcus was hopeless. Evan did get lucky and made a shot. I reached for the glass but Lily swiped it.

"Finally! A girl could die of dehydration."

One round later, Evan asked for a break. We told him to take all the time he needed. He got up and staggered with Marcus to the sofa. Just as Lily and I were considering cutting them off, Marcus' eyes rolled back and closed.

"Do you hear that?" Lily asked, leaning over him.

"Hear what?"

"It's the sweet melody of another clean victory!" She clapped her hands together and raised them over her head.

Her shout was acknowledged by Marcus's head, followed by his body, rolling onto the floor without so much as a grunt. We laughed while enjoying a victory shot.

"I hate losing," Evan grumbled.

"Well?" I sat beside him on the small couch, waiting for the concession speech.

Lily was behind the sofa, doing her victory dance. I was sure if Marcus could've heard, she'd sing.

Evan scooted to the edge of the couch, placing his hands on his knees. As he hoisted himself up, he timbered to one side.

"I got you," I swooped in to help.

"I ge'the bed," he slurred. "The pansy keeps ass out here."

"Okay," I soothed, not quite sure what he was saying, but wanting to remain agreeable. "That last shot was the killer, huh?"

I escorted him to the guest room at the end of the hall and set him gingerly on the bed. A misguided elbow knocked the lamp on the nightstand but I caught it before it fell. His eyes were slightly drooped over his amused smile. He was a very pleasant drunk. When I asked him to wait while I snatched some Gatorade and ibuprofen, he grinned dizzily and folded his hands across his lap.

I ran full-tilt to the kitchen, fumbled around and leapt back, hoping to make it before he passed out. When I barreled into the room, he was still sitting up, dreamy-eyed and grinning, his hair a beautiful mess.

"Here, take this." He grabbed the bottle after I opened it for him. "This, too." I held out the tablet. He opened up wide and I set the oblong pill on his tongue.

I heard the swirl of liquid as he gulped. "What was it?"

"Pain reliever. Drink as much as you can and your liver will thank you in the morning. If you stay hydrated, maybe the hangover won't be so bad. It used to work for me when I partied."

"The responsible you. A party girl? I'd love to see that." He spoke slowly, carefully enunciating.

"Maybe you'll get lucky. I'm getting you pajamas. Be right back."

Creeping into Noah's room, I pulled an unused pair of sweat pants from the bottom of his dresser. I bought them a little too big and was supposed to return them, but kept forgetting. On my way back to Evan, I clipped the tags off with my teeth.

"Here, change into these." I tossed the sweats and they landed, folded, on his lap.

"How did you win?" His shining eyes held as much awareness as the liquor would allow.

I smiled, pleased with myself. "I said you were going to lose to a lightweight, and you did. Big time. I only got the one shot, before we started."

He complained, indecipherably, leaning back onto the pillow—gorgeous, smoothing his chaotic hair with his fingers and blinking slowly. He had very thick eyelashes.

The taste of victory was sweet, though I did feel a little guilty about the method. He had to realize winning was entirely dependent upon dexterity and not the highest tolerance.

"I'll tell you a little secret." I leaned over and whispered, "I'm almost sorry."

His strong hand pressed on the back of my head. His lips made several landings along the side of my neck—every cell in my body exploded with heat—before I reacted.

"What are you doing?"

The stupid question was barely out of my mouth before being muffled by his. Despite the sudden nature of the exploit, his touch was gentle. That bursting heat coursed through me as I feebly pushed against him. His hand disappeared from behind my back and resurfaced beneath my shirt. I gasped and leapt away.

Across the room, as I struggled to regain composure from the unexpected assault, Evan seemed quite pleased with himself. Of course, he had just polished off a pint of whisky, so he had an excuse. Once my labored breathing leveled-off, I made for the door.

"I've wanted to do that since I saw you at the bar."

"Good night, Evan."

Lily was babbling about something on the news as I sat down beside her, taking in my surprise. Not at what transpired, because that was totally my fault—I got too close—but the way I felt about it. I didn't want to push him away

I'd been readily convinced that that part of my life was over. No more butterflies for me. No longing glances from devoted eyes, or cold nights spent curled up with someone to keep my feet warm. I was alone and ready to deal with it. I'd only gotten as far as I did because of the parameters of my carefully prepared routines.

Then he hit me with this curve ball! That kiss . . . oh, that kiss. It wasn't like the other and I couldn't ignore it. I should've been angry. He had no right to touch me like that. I wanted to be mad. Maybe I would have been if he hadn't felt so good. What was he doing to me?

I coaxed the hairs on my arms down with my fingers, thinking of his silken hands and rough touch, his beautiful lips. "Evan kissed me."

The first time, Evan and I agreed it was a mistake. It wasn't going to happen again. I tried to forget, telling myself it made no difference. No need to tell Lily.

"Details!" She squealed, excitedly grinning, and pulling her feet onto the couch to avoid Marcus' head on the floor.

"Is he alright down there? That can't be comfortable."

"He's fine—tell me."

I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. "Well, I showed Evan to the room, gave him some Gatorade and ibuprofen—"

"Yeah, yeah, for the hangover. And . . . ?" She muttered, cuing me to get to the good part.

"Well, I was apologizing for getting them wasted and he kissed my neck."

"He kissed your neck?" Her eyebrows shot up.

"Then my mouth. And put his hand up my shirt." My face was burning red.

"Hmm . . . a boob man." She smiled wickedly. "What did you do?"

"I got the heck outta there. But he did mention something about seeing me at 'the bar'?"

"You met him in the elevator, right?"

"Yeah," I muttered.

"Maybe he got you confused with someone else. That would explain him being handsy."

I followed her as she got up. Along the way to the kitchen, her comment sank in. I didn't grumble like I wanted because I was sure Evan knew who he was talking to and getting upset over a simple comment seemed asinine. But it bothered me.

"He knew who he was talking to."

Lily rolled her eyes. "Of course he did." Her version of a retraction.

I poured a shot for us both after we cleared away the traces of our impromptu party. When I knocked it back, my thoughts wandered towards the guest bedroom. My lips tingled, my mouth watered and burned.

"Ugh, this is terrible." Lily squinted, leaning in. "So, you liked the kiss," she surmised, and followed up with a surprising question. "Why didn't you let him feel you up? Mama needs a little fun."

My shocked laugh startled us both. "Shoot! I don't know. It scared me. It's been too long. And not long enough."

I touched my neck again and looked towards the clump of flesh out cold on the family room floor. The volume of his snore was escalating so I moseyed over and tucked a decorative pillow under his head.

Lily and I talked until the shot kicked in. I gave her my bed and took the chaise.

As I sat on the end, unfolding my blanket, the feeling of Evan's palm brushing sweetly against my bare skin overwhelmed me. The feeling was so strong, like he was in the room with me. The feeling evoked a strange anxiety, too—shock at being touched with such familiarity—because his hands did not belong on me. I curled up under my blanket and tried to forget.

# October 18th

I woke to the sound of my alarm blaring and smashed the top of the clock. Hobbling out of bed, I felt anxious to shake off my strange dream. I was riding the city bus all over Los Angeles. Solomon was the bus driver who wouldn't let me off. He kept telling me if I wanted off, I'd have to jump. But the bus was moving so fast and the speed scared me.

I made my coffee, took my vitamins, read my devotional, and hit the treadmill. The list of things I needed to accomplish—costume shopping was a must—was clouded with thoughts of Evan and his manicured hands. After a shower, I got the kids up. We kept quiet for Marcus, who was still sawing logs on the living room floor.

Once Caleb and Noah got off to school, the house was filled with glorious silence. Everyone else was still sleeping and I felt like cooking. I took out my ingredients and got to work on country potatoes, eggs with bacon, and fluffy pancakes. Contentedly craving carbs, my light mood made me go overboard. By the time Lily woke up, everything was done. We sat at the table and talked over breakfast.

"Don't you think Marcus is a nice guy?" She asked.

"Yes. He's cute, too, despite the full beard."

"Yeah," Lily sighed, resting her index finger on her bottom lip. "I'm going to ask him to trim it. I keep wondering what the bottom half of his face looks like." And then she started blabbing on about upcoming Halloween. I tried to pay attention to what she was saying, mentally reiterating as she spoke.

"Want to go with me to get the kids' costumes? I saw some cute ones in the window of that Halloween store downtown."

"We should try there first," she agreed.

It didn't mean anything to him so it shouldn't mean anything to me.

Forcing my scattered brain to focus, I worked through ideas for Caleb's costume. That week he wanted to be a cowboy or a soldier, and before that it was his favorite yellow sponge. Probably anything familiar would do. He was far too excited about Halloween candy to care much about the attire. Noah swore he didn't want to dress up—said he was too mature—but I planned to pick up something in case he changed his mind.

I wondered if Evan would want to go trick-or-treating with us. If he would expect me to invite him, or simply show up like he had been doing throughout the week. I hoped he would assume he was invited, but—

I gave a frustrated sigh. It seemed impossible to put him out of my mind. Wherever my thoughts started, no matter the subject, he was somehow interjected. The first and last cognizant thoughts I had yesterday were about him.

"Can I ask you something?" I interrupted Lily describing the costume she planned to buy herself. "What am I supposed to do about Evan?" I didn't really want to ask, but I had no experience. His actions may have meant nothing, but they sure felt like something.

"Grace, you're uncomfortable with his attention. You have to tell him. You can't let him chase if there's no chance of catching you." She said it so plainly—simplifying my conundrum while sipping her coffee.

"That's the problem; I'm not uncomfortable. But I think I should be. I really like him, Lil. I like his odd sense of humor. He's always making me laugh. How long has it been since I really laughed?"

"You do find him very funny."

"And his accent . . ." I sighed. "Just talking about him gets me all squishy inside." I felt the blood rushing to my cheeks. "I have so much fun with him even if we're just sitting around talking."

"Then what's the problem?"

"What would Sol think?"

"He'd hate him for wanting to date his wife."

I rolled my eyes at the poor humor. "And the boys? I don't know if I'm capable of, you know, having another man in my life. And Evan lives in a very big world. There are a million reasons why I shouldn't be with him."

The logical side of me said to back up, while the other, goofy- girlie side—the side dominated by Evan—told logical me to get lost.

"Tell him you aren't ready—we both know you're not—and send him on his way. He'll understand. Besides, you're making too much of it, he probably won't even remember last night. Get over it and move on."

"What do you mean? What is there to 'get over'?"

"What do you mean?" She raised her brows, studying my face. "Grace, you're leading him on."

"No, I'm not."

She scoffed. "He's been making up reasons to come over here every day, making friends with your kids, offering to do things for you, working his way into your life—"

"That is not true."

She sighed, tapping her fingernails on the table. "I'm not saying he's a bad guy. Maybe he has good intentions, but it worries me that you're getting so close. I can't knock him for having good taste: you're single, attractive, smart, and funny. It's only natural and—"

"You really think he's attracted to me?"

"Obviously." She rolled her eyes and began laying it all out for me. "The fact that you don't fall all over him probably makes you all the more desirable. But you have to ask yourself, 'what's the purpose of his interest?' Is it the conquest or you? And is it in your best interest to encourage him? Is there potential for something substantial or just a fling?" She sipped her coffee again, speaking directly to my logical brain. "I mean, every woman he meets is ready to jump in the sack with him except for you, and he wants to sleep with you. But you aren't a casual girl, Grace. You've never actually dated anyone. I don't think you know how."

Disappointment sank in as I gathered the dishes. She was right, and it made me more upset than it should. More than I'd ever admit.

Evan was young and successful. He had a whole world of opportunity before him. Women lying at his feet. And even if he liked me, he wouldn't want to be in a serious relationship—which is what I'd need. Not that I was able to handle any of that at the moment. The timing was altogether terrible. It was my loneliness—my neediness—the way I latched on that gave him the wrong impression. Over and over again.

What I needed to do was correct the situation; push him away before things could get more complicated on my end. The only problem was my extreme desire for the opposite. The more I thought about it, the more strongly my heart repelled the idea.

The familiarity in circumstance worried me, too.

Solomon was once-in-a-lifetime. He didn't notice me until six months after we met. But after our first phone conversation, I knew he was the one I was destined to be with. I left myself behind and morphed into one half of our whole, a transition that left me unhinged when he disappeared.

I was barely learning how to be me again. I didn't need this wonderful distraction. And I knew Dr. Lena agreed with Lily. When I saw her at my last appointment, and told her all about my new friend, her advice was, "Remember, Grace, you have to be able to stand on your own before you can stand with someone else."

"And how do I do that?" I'd asked her.

"Self-examination," was her answer.

In my case, that was much easier said than done. It seemed like my mind was always two steps behind my emotions. I never figured out how to stop them before they started. It made things more complicated where Evan was concerned. I lost my senses around him. When I looked in his hazel eyes, reason went out the window. All I could think of was being with him in the moment. He reduced me to a giggling school girl with a smirk.

"Grace, are you okay?" Lily's hand was on my shoulder.

"I'm just thinking," I shrugged, bent over the sink. "What time do you want to leave?"

"I'm going home to get ready. I'll be back by eleven." Her hand was already on her purse.

I'd done nearly all the housework, except vacuuming. Marcus snored with the fixed rhythm of a freight train as I sat, legs folded, watching him. The fibers of the shaggy area rug swayed back and forth with each breath. He intermittently grumbled as he scratched his beard, turning his face into the front of the couch. Then I was staring at the back of his head, finding patterns in the flattened matt of curls in his dark hair.

I snatched my iPod. The drums crashed, the bass thumped, the guitars and electronic keys screamed and my mind was finally free to think. I tapped my lips with my fingers. Then shut off the music, deciding to put the thinking on hold. Self-examination was highly overrated.

Guiltily, I slunk down the hall, telling myself that if he was asleep, I'd leave him alone. I knocked lightly and pushed the door open.

Evan was awake and preoccupied. He was sitting on the poorly made bed beside the still-folded sweatpants I'd given him the night before, looking down on Sol's guitar across his lap. Lightly plucking the strings, he listened and made adjustments to tune it. I froze in the mouth of the hall, watching as he started to strum. Seeing Sol's instrument in someone else's hand was strange, but not upsetting. The melody was soft and broken. I closed my eyes to listen.

The music abruptly stopped. When I looked again, Evan was staring.

I held out the cup of coffee. "I wasn't sure how you take it. I guessed and added milk and sugar."

He hurriedly set the guitar back in the corner. "Thank you," he said, taking the cup and a small sip before setting it on the nightstand. "You guessed right."

"I didn't know you played."

"Marcus is the musician. I can't really play anything."

"Are you hungover?"

He was staring down at the carpet. "No, but I'd like to talk about last night. I may have made a fool of myself."

"You didn't—"

"No, I did." He paused, meeting my gaze while running his fingers through the chaotic mess on his head that somehow made him more attractive. The way he leaned to the side when he combed through his locks with those long fingers . . . My heart drummed out a strange new rhythm.

"I heard you and Lily talking." One hand moved from the back of his neck to the eyebrow. He nervously tapped it with his index finger.

"Oh?"

He stood beside the bed. "Let me explain."

I nodded nervously, unable to recall exactly what Lily and I divulged.

"This past week, I've been a complete ass. She's right. I have inserted myself into your life without your permission, and I'm sorry for that."

"Evan, I like having you—"

"No interrupting." He moved closer, staring into my eyes. It made my insides twist in wonderful knots. Both his hands fell to my shoulders. I tried to ignore the sudden heat his proximity inspired.

"I'm not sorry that I've spent this time with you, only the way in which I went about it. Perhaps I should've explained my intentions. I thought, mistakenly, you would've realized. It's not like I've been so secretive."

"You don't have to say anything." I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to hear what was coming.

If Evan said he wanted me, I had no idea how I was going to deal. If it turned out he didn't, I had no clue how to handle that either. I could work around it as long as he kept his feelings to himself.

"Grace. The problem is, aside from the fact that I find you beautiful inside and out—" I put my head down, embarrassed and relieved at the compliment. He touched my chin, pulling it up and forcing me to look him in the eye. "Really, Gracie, you have no idea what those eyes can do." He sighed. "Beyond that, though,"

Ah, God, here it comes.

"...I never thought about what my intentions were, until yesterday when Lily asked."

My heated excitement and icy dread melted into confusion. "What?"

"Don't be upset; she was only looking out for you. Besides, the talk helped me understand things I didn't before."

"You talked to Lily?" I thought for sure, when Lily stuck her big nose in my business, she'd at least had the courtesy to tell me. But she didn't. "About what?"

"How self-absorbed I am."

My eyes widened.

"I'm sure you've noticed, Grace, though you're too polite to say anything. But there's never been anyone else for me to think about. I've always been the center of attention in my life, my career, since childhood. Everywhere I go, everything is about me first, and then others. It takes effort to keep proper perspective. Except when I'm with you. Yet, all my attempts at typical wooing have been wasted; therefore, I will be blunt."

He stopped, letting his words sink in. "As I said, I don't want to push, but that can't be helped. I want to know you. As much as you're willing to tell, and I want you to know everything about me. And if, after that, you still want me around, I'd like to take you on a proper date. Unless you prefer to get to know one another while dating—that's my personal preference—and take things from there. That's why I'm knockin' about all the time. Not because I'm bored or haven't got anything better to do."

As my brain absorbed the simplicity of his point, he leaned closer. The surging energy was irrefutable.

I laid my palm on his chest. As happy as I was to know how he felt, I couldn't . . . "Please, don't," was all I could choke past the worried lump in my throat.

"I'm not some random guy looking for a one-nighter." His hand clutched mine, holding it to him. "You've struck me, see?" After measuring my reaction, he asked. "Why?"

"I can't give you what you want, Evan."

"Can't or won't?" He gripped my hand tighter against him.

"What if I did? What if we went out and—and you just changed your mind . . . what then?"

"You can't punish me for things I might do. In any case, I can't imagine that I would ever want to change my mind."

"And I don't want to punish you," I sighed. I wanted to save him the trouble. "You barely know me, Evan. But I know that you are someone I could really, easily become attached to. I also know I'm all wrong for you."

"Shouldn't I be the judge of that?"

"I'm weak and you have no room in your life for weakness. You require someone who can put up with the absurdities of your life. Someone who can tolerate the inconveniences of your career, the size of it. I could never be that person."

He took a small step forward and I moved back.

"You're afraid of me."

"Of course I am. You have the most potential to hurt me."

"Do you think I would?" He stepped forward once more, his hazel eyes burning into me as his free hand gripped my waist.

"Not intentionally."

"Gracie, you forget that I have spent nearly every minute of the last eight days with you. Watching you deal with the absurdities of my life. I know what you've been through. I also know you are far stronger than you think."

"I'm a wreck." His penetrating gaze held a strange, dramatic power. I couldn't look away.

"I disagree. Besides, I'm not asking for perfection. Just a chance." His neck stretched.

Grasping now, my excuses became halfhearted. "You're too young for me." Six years was nothing to sneeze at.

"No, I'm not." His voice was a seductive whisper.

"I have kids."

"I love your kids. I got Noah's permission yesterday, and Caleb likes me as well." He was smiling, brimming with confidence. "You're running out of excuses."

It took a second to recover before pressing on. "I'm not ready."

He moved closer. "I'll wait." His hips brushed against me. The heated look in his eyes made my mouth go dry.

"It's only been a week and you're already impatient." I answered without thinking and managed to stumble upon the first decent reason.

"You're no good at pretense."

"Pretense? I don't know what you're talking about."

"So, you don't 'really like' me? You don't want me around? Did you lie to Lily?" His questions told me he heard everything we talked about, and his posture said he knew all the answers.

"I do not lie."

His handsome face broke into a full smile that melted my heart. "Not even for Father Christmas?"

"There's no Easter Bunny, either."

I smelled the mint, felt the cool of it on my cheek as he laughed. He must've found the toothbrushes in the guest bathroom. Before I could offer further objections or think of backing away, he moved through the last inch between us. I almost maintained and pushed him away, but the feeling of his warm lips bearing down overwhelmed me. The fire shot to my knees! His tongue parted my lips, sending shivers of forgotten pleasure down my spine.

The pressure reversed. Instead of pushing, I was pulling, pressing into him. His arms wrapped around, cradling me. My stomach fluttered, compelled by something deep inside. Intense heat coursed through me. I was floating when he took my hips and pushed firmly against me, fitting our shapes together, deepening the kiss. My hands ran through his hair, gripping it between my fingers. It was so much softer than I imagined.

When I needed to draw breath, his lips gently caressed the line from my mouth to my jaw and down my neck. The hairs on my arms stood at full attention as his breath grazed my skin.

When I stepped back, the light feeling was washed away by surging guilt.

"Gracie?" His index finger pulled my chin, making me meet his eyes. His breath caught, "You're crying? Aw, shit! I thought you wanted—damn. I will never, ever do it again."

"How many times are you going to break that promise, Evan?" I chuckled, wiping my eyes.

The biting wit of the moment left me volleying between tears and laughter. I was consumed by conflicting elements. Fiery desire and icy fear. My precious wound throbbed, cracking the edges of my joy. I wanted to hold it against me—keep the pain because it hurt so much to let go. It felt like letting go of myself, my history. The hurt was engrained and as long as I felt it, I knew where I was and what to expect—at the same time, I longed to be freed from it. My hands trembled, coming to grips with the sensations.

"You're confusing the hell out of me." His hands released me.

"I don't know how to explain."

"Isn't it better to rip the bandage off quickly?" He sat back on the bed.

"It feels like I'm doing something wrong." I confessed sitting beside him. "It's strange to be . . . intimate with you."

"It was just a kiss, Gracie."

The words stung. It felt like more.

"Why are you moving away?" He gripped my arm. "I meant it was only a kiss—nothing to feel guilty about."

"It wasn't just a kiss." I repeated the minimization. "It was a milestone. I kissed someone else. I've never done that before," I marveled. "You made my head spin. I think—I think I want to do it again." My hands flew up as he lunged forward. I wasn't finished explaining things to myself. "I haven't even considered the prospect of anyone else. I didn't know it was possible."

It was hard for me to open up, barely knowing him for eight days. It was difficult enough just with Lily. I'd always been sort of closed off; never telling people what I really felt or thought about things since my mom was alive. She was the one I opened up to. Evan's way of making me talk was weird.

"I'm not sure how to define the boundaries," I confessed. My lack of skill was pitiable. Dating was a foreign land. I met my soul mate at fourteen, had his child at sixteen, and married him at eighteen. We never really dated, we were just inseparable from the moment he noticed me. Limitations were never established. Everything came naturally.

This was so much more complicated. Evan was different, a tumultuous whirlwind tossing me around, making me lose my fragile sense of direction. How was I supposed to get my bearings? How could I fight against something that came at me from all sides? In his unexpected storm, my potential for loss was terrifying. But the gain of his friendship had become especially valuable. He had been a help to me in many ways and I had so few people in my life as it was. I couldn't bear to lose him.

He gently caressed my hand. The warmth of his touch smoldered. He kept his heated gaze fixed on me, leaning in his unique way. The top of my head barely cleared his chin. I straightened the slump from my spine as he pulled me into him. Closing the distance, we kissed.

Unwilling to stop myself, I reveled in the burn. Fighting required too much resistance against someone so dependably irresistible. His hands caressed my back, moving slowly up. I felt them tangle into my hair. The strands pulled gently as Evan moved my head back. He planted three sweet kisses along the length of my neck. Goose bumps sprang up everywhere. The passionate flame blazed against my icy fear. One could hold out against the other. I teetered on the brink of wanting all of him and being unable to handle anything more.

He made me crazy.

"Thank you for clearing that up," he breathed into my skin. "Don't be afraid to tell me anything. It won't hurt my feelings if you want to talk about him." Lifting his head, he wore a huge, satisfied smile.

"Can I ask you something?" I hesitated. His grin reminded me of the night before.

"Of course." He stood and pulled me to my feet.

"Last night, you mentioned seeing me for the first time in a bar." It wasn't exactly a question, but he looked like he knew where I was going. I smiled as he stretched his hands around my waist.

"Yeah, I lost the filter."

"The what?"

"Sometimes when I drink, my brain stops the filtering process and words fly out unedited. Thus, I remark on matters I, normally, never would. So, now you get to learn something I never intended to tell you. The lift was not the first time I saw you. It was in a bar, down on Sunset the night before. You were there with Lily and some Russian girl. Wearing an outstanding black dress. You spilled your wine on my shoes." He dipped his head and his ears turned red.

I gasped. "That was you?"

"Sadly, that was my pathetic attempt at persuasion. You were the most beautiful thing I laid eyes on and I hadn't even really seen you."

I ignored the overdone compliment. "Why didn't you talk to me?"

"The closer I got, the harder it was." When I looked down, he pulled my chin back up, silently demanding that I look in his face as he praised me. The move was becoming routine. "Then, I saw your ass when you stood. I was hooked." He smiled. "I snuck up behind you and stole your seat, half hoping you'd sit on my lap. But then, I thought about how that gesture might be perceived and I didn't want to offend you. I decided to get up a little too late."

"I ruined your shoes!" I playfully punched his shoulder.

"And your duster," he added with a laugh, turning away from the blow.

"Seriously, you were never going to tell me?"

He shook his head, confirming my suspicions. I smiled. He really wanted me—for what exactly was yet to be determined, but I didn't care—it felt good to be wanted. Fear tried to rear up, but I tamed it down. Over-thinking would not help. We were only getting to know each other. I would move forward one step, one moment, at a time.

"I made you breakfast." I walked out of the room, tugging Evan along.

Stealing a glimpse back, I saw he was watching me walk. I should've been offended, but it was flattering. I spent hours every week on the hill and the stupid treadmill. It was nice to have someone appreciate the rewards. With my free hand, I yanked my t-shirt down.

After he ate, we stepped out back. Evan straddled the bench, facing me. It was quiet. The only sound came from the drag of his cigarette. Gray billows wafted from the burning embers and disappeared in a mild October breeze.

"My dad used to smoke." The thought was out of my mouth before I realized I was talking.

"Really?" He cleared his throat—a smoker's cough in the making. "When did he quit?"

"He didn't. When I was thirteen, he and my mother died. My dad fell asleep driving."

His forehead creased. "So reticent, yet peaceful." He held the hand with the cigarette aloft and hugged me to his chest with the other. Upon release, Evan set a sweet peck on my cheek. "I'm going to quit. I've wanted to for some time. Maybe I needed inspiration." At that, he tossed the half-smoked cigarette to the ground and smothered it underfoot.

The sentiment made me feel important. Even if he had no intention of following through, and my gut told me that was likely, but I didn't care. It was the gesture.

"What else don't I know about you? Tell me everything, anything you want."

His soft eyes focused on me while his hands rubbed along the outside of each of my thighs. The sight of his light skin was a stark contrast to Sol's melanin-rich complexion. I was shocked at how coolly I responded to the change. Never in a million years did I think I'd be sitting like that with someone else.

"You're cute when you're nervous. I confess I find it exciting that you're so timid," he mused, grazing my jaw with his knuckles and sweeping down along my neck. The goose bumps rose on my arms as he played with the thin hem at the top of my shirt. Though he wasn't touching my skin, the small gesticulation felt very intimate.

I was caught off guard when he grabbed my arms and lunged. The move reminded me of a lion tackling its prey on a nature show. Instead of being maimed, I was accosted by a rough, openmouthed kiss. The other times had a slow build-up. This time was different. It came in forceful and demanding. An active pursuit. I responded with enthusiasm to my favorite kiss so far; wrapping my arms around his neck to hold his head His hands, greedily kneaded at my waist, cradling me against him. It was a powerful exchange. I took in all the heat and passion he created, letting it course through me. And gave it back, with everything I had. I was panting when he pulled away, staring with a wry smile.

In the hazy morning light, Evans reflected the neutral tone of his shirt, appearing light brown. "Would you tell me about your boys' father? I know it was an accident, but what happened exactly?"

"Um, okay. He dropped the kids off at school for me." I cleared the sudden lump from my throat. "It was really foggy that morning. Even if I wasn't sick, I would have asked him to take them. I hate driving in the fog. And he was a much better driver." My fingers dove into my belt loops. "He was a very determined man. Very smart."

I took a deep breath. "A few hours after he was supposed to be at the office, the doorbell rang. There were two policemen; one was holding his hat in his hand." My face wanted to crumple. "My first thought was the kids. Maybe Noah was ditching school. I almost expected him to be sitting in the back of the cruiser. But then I really looked. Their faces were so serious, you know. Big eyes, too. Both of them looked like they were disappointed I opened the door. They asked to come inside to talk. I think I knew right then."

I took one more deep breath and pushed it out. "He was alone, passing through a four-way stop a few blocks from the high school. Got hit on the driver's side."

Evan touched my cheek with his warm hand. All I saw was compassion. I pressed my face into his palm. "You were happy with him."

"I wasn't unhappy."

Those last few years with Sol I was happy, but I didn't appreciate it. Neither of us did. We were too busy trying to raise kids, trying to create the future we envisioned and assumed that the other person would always be there.

It felt like forever since I had something just for me and I wanted to keep it. I wanted to be with Evan more than I could recall wanting anything in a very long time. His pull, the undercurrent was so strong. I'd have to let it take me; face it head-on with all my flaws, with nothing to offer. He thought, for some strange reason, that I was special. He had no expectations, no problem accepting me. There was something very natural about the way we were together. I could see myself with him without even trying.

I invited Evan, and Marcus respectively, to go costume shopping. Evan was sure it would be alright with Marcus because Lily was going.

The topic of costumes got me thinking. "Do you want to take a ride? I just remembered I need to drop off some boxes." I'd completely blanked. It was something I should have done weeks ago.

"Um, yeah, but let's get crackin'. Lily will be back soon."

Evan looked out at the forsaken neighborhood marked by iron fences and reinforced windows. Most everything, including the sidewalks, was covered in graffiti. There was a distinct clicking noise as he locked the passenger door.

"Where are we going?"

"To a homeless shelter. I like to donate clothes and things that the boys have outgrown. I have some costumes from last year that we didn't use in a box in the back." My thumb pointed over my shoulder. "I wanted to bring them down last week, but forgot. A kid shouldn't have to worry about whether or not he's getting a costume."

"I used to make mine. My mother said it wasn't worth the expense since I'd only wear it once."

"You celebrate Halloween over there?"

"Yes," he rolled his eyes, "We did it long before your country was even thought of. You must think we are all animals or something."

I laughed, "I never thought about it."

Passing the other missions lining the rugged avenue, we saw people lying on the ground, covered in layers of dirty clothes and newspapers. They didn't bother to look up at the passing cars.

The donation area I was accustomed to using had boards over the windows but it looked like the main entrance was open. Evan surprised me by helping to carry my donations inside. The way he reacted to the neighborhood, I was sure he'd want to wait in the car.

We crossed through the entry into a front office absent of people and furniture. Ever the gentleman, Evan grabbed two folded chairs that were leaning against an otherwise empty wall and set them up before plopping heavily into the nearest seat. It teetered momentarily before settling back on all fours. He stretched out his long legs and crossed his feet. He was so handsome, which made him easy to watch.

"What is your all-time favorite movie?" He asked.

Anything River Phoenix ever made. I've always loved Dog Fight A lot." I thought more carefully. "My second all-time favorite would have to be James Dean movies. I'm more of a person-fan than film."

"You're a Dean fan?" He gave a half-smile.

"Isn't everyone?" I sat down in the chair beside him, wondering if anyone had ever told Evan that he had a similar rugged sexiness. I turned to stare at the opposite wall, thinking. Well, it wasn't going to be me.

Evan offered me a piece of gum, which I declined, as he explained his interest in all things relating to movies, save the notoriety. "I love what I do, but the rest...no thank you. One day, the fans will grow up and walk away. I don't want to be that person who can't get on after."

As we hunched together talking, a closed door flew open. A thin woman passed by, locking eyes with me—she looked so sad—as she made her way out the front door without a sound. A moment later, an older woman with gorgeous coffee-toned skin and tight, curly hair walked into the waiting area and set her kind gaze on us.

Her name tag said she was Evelyn, the Women and Children's Shelter Coordinator. She showed us into another office. More like a storage area, where we were to leave the two boxes. As I sorted the holiday pieces, I came across a red foam clown nose and mindlessly put it on. It was part of Noah's costume from last year. Next, I took out the giant furry jumpsuit with a hood and antlers to fold.

"That look really works for you." Evan teased. "What on earth is that?" He pointed to the long furry blob I held.

"Technically, it's a deer jumpsuit." I reached down into the box and pulled out the green collar with small silver bells on it. "Noah wanted to be a reindeer last year." I reached up and plucked off the red nose. "Rudolph, actually."

He'd put a lot of thought into last years' costume. He was going to the high schools Halloween dance and planned on winning the costume contest. But then, everything with his dad happened and none of us could stomach the idea of dressing up. Part of me hoped he would reconsider this year, so I stuffed the red foam nose into my purse.

Evelyn apologized for the shelters current state, explaining that the main drop off area had been vandalized a few nights before and they were having trouble funding the repairs. In the meantime, all donations were going through the front office.

Evan surprised me once again, when without a word, he calmly pulled out his phone. I wouldn't have paid any attention to his conversation, except that I heard him use the shelters name and address. While I got information about food and Christmas donations, he arranged to have a crew come out and fix the broken windows and repaint the vandalized area. My heart melted.

A clamor arose from a long hallway. It sounded like a door slamming. Evan leaned forward, one hand crossing protectively over front of me.

A crying woman charged out, screaming. Evelyn, Evan, and I moved off to one side of the room to continue our conversation. I tried, and failed, not to listen to her ranting as she paced in the waiting area outside the office. From what I gathered, she had lost custody of her daughter and could no longer stay in the shelter since she had no child in her care. She was raving over the injustice, blaming the centers poor legal counsel. She spewed accusations about the fathers overbearing behavior during her daughter's birthday party. Pointing out a history of physical abuse she had endured while they were together, naming the old scars that marked her arms.

Just because he never hit her didn't mean he never would. She insisted it was only a matter of time. The worker, who'd followed her out of the hallway, insisted the decision was granted by an impartial arbitrator who was looking out for the best interest of the child.

The woman's focus shifted, now questioning the arbiter. That man never liked her. He knew nothing about her life or what she had been through. Who was he to keep her from her own child? She referenced past addictions, only to maintain that they were completely under control. I glanced at her then, noting the obvious needle tracks in the crease of her elbow as she insisted she was a different person. She was clean and there was no reason why she should not be allowed to keep her little girl. They would find a home as soon as she got a job.

The worker gave her to the option of calming down or being thrown out. I was taken aback by her indifference as the belligerent woman chose the second option—understanding that she was being forced to leave the next morning anyway—and marched out the door, sarcastically thanking everyone for ruining her life.

The office was suddenly quiet again as the disgruntled worker shook her head. Thinking she was alone, her façade cracked. Her shoulders dropped and I knew she was not indifferent at all. Her hopes were trampled with each step the woman took out the door. Then, she turned towards the office, seeing the open doorway and all of us inside.

She stood up a straight. "Sorry about that."

On the way home, Evan drew my attention to the Walk of Fame as we passed over.

"Nope, never stopped there." Not in all the years that I'd lived in southern California.

He told me I was obligated to visit, being that we were officially dating and he was determined to get a star of his own someday. He said it was my duty as the supportive girlfriend to go with him, so he could show me the best ones. I agreed, as long as it was on the nice end of the walk, away from the 101. A man was recently murdered down there and the idea of walking through the area for pleasure didn't set well.

When we barged into the family room, Marcus was still snoring. The sound was like a freight train fighting a chainsaw. We sat at the table, sharing a bottle of water. I watched his lips—the way they moved while he spoke was captivating.

"Lily will be back any minute. I should wake Marcus so we can leave when she gets here."

"I'm nervous."

"About Lily?" He asked. I nodded, confirming. "She's your friend, not your warden. Besides, we haven't even had a first date."

"I'll tell her later, after you guys leave."

Something about her attitude earlier made me think she would not respond as calmly as I'd like. She could be a bit over-protective and she'd definitely be surprised at my about-face. Lily had always thought I should be more judicious and made no secret of it.

"You know, we're going to have to keep this under wraps, anyway—telling only the people closest to us—the fewer that know, the better."

"Good thing I don't know anyone." I smiled, but nerves triggered in my stomach.

Evan's actions were a lucrative topic of conversation. His personal relationships seemed to be a matter of sheer importance to news agencies and adolescents across the country, and I had an innate dislike for attention. Unless it was Evan's. That was just fine. But the situation was nothing to be taken lightly.

The "gossip mongers" (as he liked to call them) still had him and his ex-girlfriend linked. That was the reason every single tween girl that came across us tried to give me the stink-eye. I don't think he noticed. In any case, I wouldn't mention it. It would sound like a complaint and Evan tried his best to please me, which made me never want to protest anything.

"Why did you and Gretchen break up?" He never talked about her.

"It was, well, let's call it a difference of opinion."

I waited for the explanation.

"See, she thought I was insane for being upset that, when she found out she was pregnant, she had an abortion without talking to me. And because of that, along with many other menial decisions she'd made over the course of the relationship, I am of the opinion that she's a horrible person."

He announced it so smoothly, I was staggered.

"It wasn't so much that she didn't want it—it's not like I'm in a hurry to have kids—it was more that she didn't respect me enough to talk to me. She just did what she wanted and told me after. Worse yet, she was surprised I got angry."

"You didn't want her to have it?" Evan was gorgeous. He'd make pretty babies.

"I don't know. But t'was not meant to be."

There was a short rap at the door, followed by keys rattling.

"Lily."

"She'll know something's up if you've got the jitters." He laughed.

"She'll know, anyway." Obviously he hadn't figured out that I couldn't keep anything from her for long. I strolled to the couch at the same time she walked into the great room.

"He's still sleeping?" She pointed at Marcus.

"I'm up!" Marcus yelled, suddenly erect.

I wondered how long he'd been awake but it didn't matter. Everyone who needed to know would by the end of the day. Lily proceeded to encourage Marcus in waking up by beating him with decorative pillows while I headed back to the kitchen to get him some pain reliever and coffee.

Evan was already pouring a cup. "Where do you keep the sugar bowl?"

That small moment of domesticity sent my heart into double time. I understood very clearly why the young girls went crazy over him. Maybe part of it was the characters he played, as he insisted it must be. But he really did not understand his own draw. He had a way, a charisma and magnetism, a presence that sucked people in.

Like a compass must point north, I could not look away. He brought an element of excitement to my practicality. Maybe my best days weren't behind me, after all. Maybe, just maybe, there were a few nice ones ahead.

I reached into the cabinet and handed him the small covered bowl.

Evan gave a quick wink that sent a jolt of electricity through me. I licked my lips, unable to control my anxious mouth when he turned towards me. My breathing picked up in delightful anticipation. Already, there was familiarity to the novel action. I watched him slowly move, unsure of the timing, maybe. I thought I heard Lily come into the kitchen. She was probably standing right behind me, but when Evan looked at me like that—with his eyes gleaming, his lips curved in a wry smile—nothing else mattered.

My fingertips pinched his shirt. The sensation was dizzying. The quiver in my knees found its way into my chest. Something about this guy . . . Every minute with him had me enraptured. I had no capacity to think or measure any type of action or reaction; I was in it, not beyond it, and I didn't care about anything else.
Waking

My eyes fly open when gravity disappears. After a moment, I find the floor again with a rattling boom.

Trace amounts of light slip through the cracks of my compartment. Long scrapes vibrate beneath my prison in uneven intervals. After a moment, the scraping repeats and stops again. Occasionally I'm dragged over some sort of stumbling block. The hard bottom of my box bulges from whatever's beneath it, digging into my side. Then, a small ascension before the plunge. Each landing thrusts my head back against the seeming rock wall of my tiny cell.

I'm at my limit, praying, struggling to control the sobs as I'm taken closer to the unknown.

When the raised end of my compartment drops, I know—one way or another—it's going to be over soon.

My mind scrambles, struggling to recall the things I know to do. I touch the blindfold, making sure it's set in the right spot and set my arms to one side, shoving my neck back into the kinked position I woke up in. The straining motion makes my head want to burst open. I ignore it, unable to afford the distraction of self-awareness. With eyes loosely closed, resting the same way I've seen corpses on TV shows, I work on tapering my labored breath to one long, slow, pull.

The stuffy air is suddenly cool. I stop breathing.

I feel a tug on my blindfold. Thankfully, my head is turned, or else my pupils would give me away. I concentrate on keeping still and pray she's satisfied.

As a gloved hand works across my throat, fingering every inch from one side to the other, I start to panic. We're dead.

A sudden peace descends, a nonsensical tranquility, that helps me understand why I need to stay calm and play dead. The way my head is set, coupled with my crooked neck and this gloved hand—there's no way she's getting a pulse.

My mind wanders after the pronoun. I know it's a she, but can't picture a face.

She picks up my hands, stretching my arms out and running one finger along my crowded wrists. The support disappears. I let my captive limbs drop like weights. A moment of absolute stillness passes before a loud clattering echoes nearby. The sudden noise makes me want to jump, but the strange sense of peace is holding, keeping me calm enough to think through the terror, and I don't react.

The pain in my head screams. I wonder if she can see my temples throbbing.

Something crawls along my skin around the raised sleeve of my sweatshirt. It's icy and hard—an unforgiving edge that blindly drags along my arm, digging into my flesh. I can't tell if it's cutting. Tremors inside me try to resurface as the cold edge stabs into my shoulder. The instinct to fight isn't so difficult to ignore. But it takes everything I have not to clench my jaw or bite my lip.

I think of my birthday, when I fell asleep. Lily's hand on my shoulder, shaking me from a dreamless slumber.

This is just another test, like dropping my hands and the crashing sound. If I move, we really are dead.

The pointed pressure, spearing me, withdraws. A pause, then a sudden, deep lunge. The acute stabbing rips through my thin veil. My covered eyes fly open. The stinging pierces my deltoid, pressing and grinding down into the tissue. I feel it touch the cartilage before the pressure withdraws.

I need to scream but hold it, thinking clinically over the possible extent of the injury, calling to mind charts of the rotator cuff and tendons at the joint. My mind's in a flurry, but my body remains oddly limp, while I choke on my howls.

The merciless tool reappears, this time on my thigh, inching up and over my hip, scraping along the mountain that holds my son. The cold metal turns in a circle, tracing the circumference of my belly while I wrangle with what to do.

React? Fight? Ignore? Pretend? What? I'm going to lose it!

There are nightly stories on the news, faces on flyers. Missing people, young and old, who disappear without a trace. Will my face be just another picture on a poster at the supermarket? People will shake their heads and think, 'what a shame,' as they carry their groceries to the car.

Righteous anger charges me. Protecting him is all there is. If there's any pressure at all—

Before I finish the thought, the light is gone in a thunk. My trunk is shut.

I send a million thanks to heaven as stale air wafts, shoving away the panic. My shoulder's screaming, but Baby's fine. I listen to the muffled sounds of feet shuffling away.

An overwhelming urgency rises within me. This is my chance. I can't move my throbbing shoulder, but have little choice. I stifle the cry and work around it. Biting my lip and twisting my upper body, trying to create the space to move my knees and hopefully free my captive feet.

Open it Lord, please, open it, please, please, open it.

My prayers are answered when I realize there was no click. I distinctly remember hearing the rattle of what I assumed was a lock before the trunk opened, but now there's only the retreat of footsteps, followed by the crinkle of the tarp as I maneuver. With surprising dexterity, I make the half turn in a matter of seconds. Both knees hurt when they break free from the wedged position, which in turn, frees my tangled legs. I suddenly feel the sneakers on my stinging feet as blood rushes back into them. Glorious pins and needles.

This is going to work. This has to work.

I'm face down, giant belly set between my knees. I lift my torso, raising and curving my spine to press my back to the top of my box. To my utter amazement—since I'm convinced I am somehow wrong, in too much of a panic to really hear anything beyond the constant throbbing in my skull—the lid lifts.

Not far off is a sickening sound of scraping metal. I recognize the thin, hollow clanging of a shovel being thrust through compact dirt and rock. I know the sound too well to be mistaken.

I arc my back . . . just a little more. My coffer opens minutely. I have to angle my head around my swelling shoulder to see. At the small, open line of my trap, only a few feet away, I make out what looks like the base of a grouping of trees or shrubs. They're brown and green. Crickets chirp. No other sounds of life, no cars, or even the presence of lights anywhere. There's nothing to indicate how far the makeshift grave is, though I can guess the general direction. Other than the steady clamor, there's no sign of my captor.

The fixed noise stops, abruptly cutting off with a clang. Footsteps start. I sink slowly down, creeping in measured amounts towards the bottom of my hole. I can't move. If I turn over, the tarp will rattle and it will be over.

I shut my eyes and pray, thinking of my family. And Evan. Every moment we spent together is fresh in my mind.

# October 19th

I've met many people in my life, almost always followed by an awkward, second meeting when they had to remind me that we met once before and then repeated the introductions. But Sheri Barry—despite the funny rhyming sound of her name that she did not find humorous—was someone I could never forget.

She had a sweet face, slender and soft with high cheek bones. Her eyes were light brown like her bobbed hair. Her frame was petite, offsetting her demeanor, which was largely self-assured. There was probably much more under the surface, but it was not evident during our introduction. Maybe in time I'd differentiate personality from brimming confidence, but at the moment, that's all there was—confident silence. Because she seemed to always be thinking. When she spoke, it was voluble and with poise, in the manner of someone who knew what she was doing and had no trouble executing. Confident and articulate, a deep-thinker. She spoke about work—well, Evan's work, which was to be expected. His career was the focal point of her job—but I could not make out any more to her personality . . . maybe because she was working. Yet there was something about her, a bearing or vibe that held a rigid cynicism. I found it repellant and was glad she was ignoring me while spouting instructions to Evan, who just smirked and rolled his eyes.

She came by to drop off a few scripts she wanted Evan to look over, but those were sitting on the sofa when he softly kissed me before leaving with her. She was dropping him off at his hotel to get ready for tonight.

Ready for our first official date as a couple. I was ridiculously excited.

Lily said it was foolish to get attached, but that wasn't stopping me. That sudden onset of desire or infatuation, or maybe it was just the newness of it all—bottom line, I liked the way it felt to look forward to something and didn't want it to go away. There was nothing I could say to clearly express my connection without a reprimand from my surrogate protector. I was fully aware of how imprudent it seemed on my part. I barely knew him. The trouble was, I felt so sure of what I did know, it made the risks seem, oddly, inconsequential.

We'd squawked back and forth a little—mostly because Lily was worried about me. Evan's personal relationships were news, which meant turbulence. And I was fragile. But so long as no one outside my house knew about us, everything would be fine. Still, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared. Evan said I shouldn't worry; that it was the glare on him that would increase because I was not a public figure. He was willing to take it, too, even though he already lived in an intense spotlight with decoy cars and body guards. I supposed that I was bound to catch some glare, but hoped to blend into his shadow, just the same.

Lily didn't quite understand, because I'd always hated attention. And that kind of irritated me. She was pretty sacrificial herself when it came to love, but I had to cut her some slack. Evan wasn't her brother and that had to be weird for her. Still, she knew I needed all the support I could get to navigate the uncharted territory of a relationship. The crux of the matter was a simple difference of opinion. Lily didn't think Evan was worth the risk and I couldn't convince her that she was wrong.

I thought about all of this while stuffing myself into an old pair of leather pants. I'd had them so long they were back in style. I sucked in a deep breath and yanked up the zipper on the seam, then let out a huge sigh, thankful I could relax without busting anything. They were not the type of clothing I usually sported, but I loved them. They went nicely with the old band t-shirt I wanted to wear, too. I rolled up the sleeves and tucked in the hem, then turned, examining my reflection.

"That looks awful," Lily remarked from the doorway.

"What does?" I turned around again as she yanked the shirt out and twisted the bottom into a knot at my waist.

"My skin is showing." I tried to pull it away from her.

"Don't touch," she instructed. "It's sexy. And you have to wear heels."

Reluctant, I did as she said, donning a reasonably comfortable pair of black pumps and checked the mirror. The knot wasn't as revealing as it felt, but my top was now skin tight. But the way it pulled and scrunched around my middle made my waist look smaller.

I moved on to the next step: makeup. That, Lily would not let me do alone. She'd shown up thirty minutes early just to do it for me.

"For my first red carpet event, I'm hiring you as my makeup artist." I teased. I'd been invited, but the prospect scared the crap out of me and I wasn't sure about accepting.

"Yeah, I better be attending, too."

My eyes watered as I stuffed the thin post of the earring through my eyebrow. I hadn't worn any jewelry in awhile, and a first date was as good a reason as any to get back in the habit. I parked at my vanity while Lily applied what felt like layer after layer. Concealer, foundation, liner, blush, bronzer, eye shadow, etc. Amazingly, when she was done, I looked as if I was wearing hardly anything. My skin had a healthy glow. Lily insisted it was the sparkle in my eyes that clinched it.

She shook her head. "He really does bring out a shine in you."

The doorbell rang. I gave myself one last glance in the mirror, then checked my pockets for necessities: lip gloss, driver's license, and emergency cash. Everything was where it should be.

"You're not supposed to answer the door."

I heard the familiar voice from around the corner and peeked to see Evan crouching down, looking at Caleb's round face, smiling. He patted his head, smoothing down the matted hair in the back that made my boy look like he'd just hopped out of bed. Caleb shoved his finger up his nose, trying to get a reaction. Evan shook his head, reminding Caleb he was not to pick his nose, either.

"Ready." I called from across the room, stepping out from my hiding place.

"Very fit. Very rock and roll." He congratulated me with a covetous look of approval.

When I reached him, Evan pressed his lips to my neck, sending shivers down my spine. I took in a deep breath, savoring the scent of him. A slight tinge of smoke weaved through the wonderful, sweet smell that was Evan. He wore no cologne, but used a hair product made from bees wax. It left his unruly hair soft and shiny. I ran my fingertips up the back of his neck to feel his sexy mane without mussing up its' imperfect perfection. Suddenly Evan was holding a single, long-stem red rose. His free hand grasped at the bare skin of my waist.

"Blatant provocation," he whispered in my ear, shaking his head.

Heat rose in my cheeks. "You don't look so bad yourself."

I eyed him, appreciating his stylish but simple gray and black ensemble—a nicely fit thermal that turned his glowing hazel eyes a smoldering gray. Over that, he wore a black sports coat, paired with black jeans—slightly tighter than usual—and half-laced Doc Martens. It was the look of someone who'd dressed in a hurry, but coupled with the manner in which he carried himself, it worked. So very well.

I set my flower in a slender vase by the window in the family room and got a loaded glance from Lily. Marcus, who agreed to help babysit, was setting up a new video game system he'd brought for the kids. I covered my mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Marcus was obviously hoping to work in a little adult fun while the kids were distracted. I could tell by Lily's expression, he was getting no love tonight.

I kissed the kids and ran out the door.

Evan wanted to take me to a restaurant he'd made reservations at, but it was a good thirty minutes from the club and I didn't want to miss any of the bands in the nights' line-up. He caved when I whined and let me pick a drive-thru burger joint along the way.

We arrived at the club shortly after the doors opened and Evan looked nervous. The sparse crowds were slowly streaming in behind us. I did my part to help with the surveillance but was quickly distracted with the crews setting up the stage. After a solid five minutes of intense observation, he relaxed.

"You're just another face in the crowd."

"Not my demographic."

We decided to grab a few drinks before the show. I felt his hand on the small of my back as he pulled out a stool at the far end of the bar near the hall. It was darker there and most people were still near the door and stage. Later, he planned to take me upstairs to watch from one of the more comfortably concealed tables he'd put on reserve. I almost remarked about sitting in his lap, but decided to keep my mouth shut.

A fleeting look of recognition was all the warning I got. Evan roared, demanding to see a manager and banged a fist on the bar. His inflections reminded me of Scorcese's Raging Bull. The clamor made me jump. When I looked at him, he was holding out a hand, grinning. Instantly aware of my overreaction, I lowered my head.

"Rhys!" A man leaned across the bar and shook Evans hand. "Been a long time. How the hell are ya? Where's Marcus?" His voice was a loud, crackling bellow, rough like he had a sore throat. I wondered if his piercing volume was intentional or if hearing loss came with the job.

"He's on a date of his own tonight. Dave, I'd like to introduce you to Grace." Again, he placed his hand on the small of my back.

"Nice to meet you," I held out my hand.

"Pretty name for a pretty lady." He looked with unabashed flirtation, taking my hand and kissing it. The glint in his eye made me uncomfortable. I pulled my hand back and discreetly wiped it on Evan's jacket.

His nostrils flared and eyes shrank, shooting a hard look at Dave.

"I'll get your drinks." Dave skittered off.

Evan leaned in, "Sorry, he's not used to seeing me with nice girls."

He was not looking at me, but over my head and chuckling at something behind me. I had no interest in whatever it was, captivated by his brilliant smile and the accompanying sound. Evan had a great laugh. It was bold, given in successive bursts.

"You don't date nice girls?"

He moved closer, scratching at his lightly stubbled jaw. "Well, some were probably nice. You're the first I've bothered getting to know. Definitely the first I've brought here. Although, there are a lot of nights I can't remember clearly." He pecked my forehead before moving to the stool nearest me and took my hand. "Dave seems to fancy you." The last was a seductive whisper.

He wiggled his eyebrows as the subject returned with drinks. Dave set two dirty martinis on the bar. Evan slid both glasses in front of him. "A glass of red wine for the lady?"

Something in the way he made the statement irked me. Red wine was my usual and I wouldn't have minded having a glass, but I didn't like the presumption. As I was about to correct the order, his friend disappeared again. He returned a second later with a tall glass of wine and set it in front of me.

"I'm wearing leather. I should be drinking beer." It was the only reason I could think up through the petty irritation.

"A drink to go with the outfit?" One boisterous, "Ha!" leapt from his lips. "I love that you're offended. Well, tell us what you'd like, Gracie?"

"Any beer is fine so long as it's not too dark."

Evan ordered something I'd never heard of, then started a whole discussion on the qualities of good lager and stouts. The differences between them, the looks and various tastes . . . he was a veritable spirit-connoisseur.

"That's one thing I really miss about London. The breweries. That and the light. So many different types and tastes to enjoy in the misty sun." His eyes sparkled when he mentioned his home country, a place he obviously longed to go back to—or he was simply passionate about beer. I suspected both.

His smile turned to a reprimanding scowl. "I'm shocked at how unskilled your palate is. I'm going to educate you." He called for the bartender.

The moderate calm of the club was interrupted by the first sound check.

"Tell me something I don't know about you." He made the request in a raised voice near my ear.

"Just ask me what you want to know. I have no secrets."

"You're sure about that?"

"Fire away."

Dave returned again with six glasses. Each filled to the brim with a golden liquid, some clear, some cloudy. I chose one nearest to me with a slice of orange floating on top.

"Right. Let's start with the big one: how many?" He asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

I took a dragging sip of beer.

He laughed. "Come on. I'm dying to know your body count."

Taken aback by the new candor, I reminded myself that he warned me. Too bad my response wasn't going to be as salacious as he seemed to hope. Our earlier conversations on this topic should have given him the answer.

"Forget I asked." He sipped at his own glass of beer, a dark, frothy brew. "Or," his face lit up, "I could tell you mine first . . . if you care to know."

"Okay, you go first." I jumped on the offer. "How many?"

He took a big gulp of beer and set it slowly down. "Zero." I scoffed. He'd already alluded to countless affairs. "I've never been with a man before, I swear."

I laughed, "Touché. How many women?" I asked, closing the loophole.

"It would be ungentlemanly to count. Suffice it to say, a great deal. I'm a very rare, promiscuous Brit." He winked and grinned, but I couldn't tell if he was being serious. "I've been around the world a few times."

"So many women that you can't count? How do you have time for all that?"

The notion of casual sex, though not uncommon, was such a foreign concept to me. I couldn't imagine being brave enough to wear a two-piece bathing suit in public, let alone taking off my clothes in front of someone I was not fully committed to. The fact that he seemed so cavalier about it was fascinating.

"Give me a ballpark number."

"I really can't say." He tugged at the collar of his gray thermal.

"You're the one who started this game."

"Ballpark?" His brows shot up, making lines across his forehead.

I nodded. His eyes dropped, calculating while I waited. Patiently. Finishing my drink in the meantime. It seemed he was determined to take as long as possible.

"Between eighty and three-hundred," he finally answered. "That's the low and high."

The numbers were so much smaller than I anticipated. Girls were constantly throwing themselves at him. And when I Googled him, the first article that came up was titled, "Rhys Matthews: Serial Philanderer?" The three thousand that followed were all about supposed insights into his personal life from anonymous insiders. Apparently, he was known for having affairs with just about every woman he worked with. But, he had once said that none of that stuff was true.

"Is that everyone? Does that include all the oral? You wouldn't want anyone to feel neglected." I took a very serious sip of beer.

He threw his hands up, "What? Now I've got to start all over!"

The sullied humor had me dangerously close to spewing my drink. I had to swallow it down before cracking up. "You're a man-whore!"

He laughed, setting his drink on the bar. "Okay, now your turn. What's your number?" He pinched his thumb and forefinger together and tugged at the air, as if to yank the answer from my lips.

Pretending to think carefully, I ticked off my fingers and mumbled. "Carry the one . . ."

"What's that?" His forehead creased.

I ignored him and kept up the façade. Who's no good at pretense?

After another minute, I answered, "One."

He scoffed. "Sure you didn't leave anyone out? No one-nighters or forgotten frolics?"

"Let me think . . . Uh, yeah, only one."

He studied my expression.

"Evan, I met Sol when I was fourteen years old and we were together until last year. You're the first person I've had any interest in."

"Interested enough to engage in monkey business?"

I was smiling when he asked, but as my brain interpreted the silly expression, it faded.

He shook his head, as if to clear it. "Sorry. I've had a lot to drink."

"I know." Two martinis and I don't know how many ales.

The lights lowered and the crowd cheered as the first band took the stage. I stood up to watch. Evan pulled on me until I was standing between his knees and looked over my head to see. Wrapping his arms around my waist, he asked, "Upstairs?"

I shook my head. "This is fine." I turned and pecked his cheek, an assurance that I was not offended.

He smiled, whispering sweetly, "Thank you," and smoothed away the goosebumps on my arms.

While the band played, Evan signaled for more drinks and a bowl of nuts. He watched while I enjoyed the thrashing music. Well, I wanted to enjoy it. And I tried to keep an open mind when it came to music, but the sound was truly off. It was as if they were playing for sheer volume.

"Do you like to travel?" Evan yelled into my ear.

"Yes," I answered, turning, "do you?"

I watched his lips form the word as he gave an exaggerated nod. "Yes."

"They stink, don't they?"

"Yes!" He shook his head vigorously and leaned in again to yell another question. "If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?"

"Seattle! It's where I was born and it's beautiful there. You?" I yelled back.

His answer came in a whisper, so I couldn't be sure if what I heard was actually what was said. Shocked by the possible response, I turned around to face him. He was looking at the stage and didn't meet my gaze. Rather than asking him to repeat himself, I decided I was hearing things and turned back to watch the band.

As we waited for the first set to finish, I sipped at my beer and leaned on his shoulder. After several blaring arrangements, the first act was over. The sudden ring of silence made my ears buzz. Conversations around us picked up while the instruments of audible torture were carted away to make room for the hopefully better—at the very least, mediocre—second act. The headlining band was who I wanted to see, anyway.

I sat back on my stool and sipped at another cold, harsh beer. The color was a light gold but it tasted awful. I slid it towards Evan.

He grabbed the glass and took a sip. "You don't like IPA. Hey, I didn't know you had a tattoo." He pointed at my hip.

Just above the waist of my pants were the four small rosebuds I'd gotten a few months prior. A small bouquet representing each person I'd lost.

"You never asked." I pulled my pants up to cover it, before leaning forward to grab the bitter glass of beer and began drinking.

"How did he do it?" When I looked, he was staring with wide eyes.

"How did who do what?"

"How did your husband manage to only father two children with you? It'd be a shame not to pass your eyes to a daughter."

The sentiment was sweet and heartbreaking. Before I knew it, I was confessing. "I was pregnant when he died."

The corners of his eyes pulled down. "What happened?" He looked around us in several directions and leaned in to listen.

The fact that he didn't automatically apologize like anyone else would, ingratiated me. I disconnected myself and talked like it happened to someone else. "Miscarriage. The stress was too much." I looked into the half empty glass on the bar, thinking, twirling my hair behind my head. "That might have been my girl."

"Noah never told me."

"He doesn't know. Lily's the only one I told." The whole place seemed to quiet down with my confession.

"I was adopted." He sighed and shook his head, mumbling. "Can't believe I just said that."

"Really? Your life could have been very different, Evan." I spoke the thought, then wished I hadn't when his face soured.

"I'll never know."

"Your birth mother must have been very brave."

"Since when is cowardice considered bravery?"

A glint of the same strange anger I witnessed that first day in the elevator, the one that screamed 'red flag' was back, darkening his eyes. I should've left it alone, but was irked by his sudden callousness.

"Giving away your child is not cowardice."

The remark came out a little too loud. He was a bear at the business end of my prodding stick. Growing angry when he heard my response.

"It's bullshit," he turned his attention the opposite direction and stayed, facing that dark hallway.

For some reason, I felt the need to defend his biological mother, whoever she was, and no matter what her circumstances were. He was there with me because of her and he had no idea what it was like.

"You have to think about it from a woman's perspective."

He turned back, his jaw clenched. "Go on."

"Take me for example; I loved Noah from the minute I realized I was pregnant." I recalled with perfect clarity the fear and joy I felt. "Before you have kids, you can't imagine your life with them—how much it'll change, how much they'll mean to you. It's a kind of love you can't understand until you experience it. As terrifying as it is to imagine the responsibility of another human dependent on you for their survival—but once they're born, you can't imagine your life without them." I sighed, "To experience that bond, then, to give it someone else—it has to be the hardest decision. I know I wouldn't be able to. That's why I say she's brave."

"What about women who have abortions? Don't they form bonds?"

Ah, the ex-girlfriend finally got another mention.

"I can't speak for them. I can tell you that when I got pregnant with Noah, I was so scared. But I never considered it. Probably because of the way I was raised."

"Would you ever consider it?"

"I can't imagine a circumstance that would make me want to."

"Not even rape?"

"That's entirely different. Not a situation I want to think about."

"What about a woman who's raped and has the baby? Does that happen often?"

"I've never studied the statistics, but I don't think it's common. Why so curious?"

He shrugged, "Interesting topic. What time is it?" And looked away before I answered.

"About 10:00." The turn of conversation felt odd. I was annoyed by the way he prodded and withdrew. It could have been simple curiosity, but . . . "Are you trying to tell me something?"

He turned back to me, resting his arms on the bar, palming his chin. Beyond his strong jaw line, in the background, a partially obscured face came into view. At first, it didn't click. But then, it did. I knew him.

"What is it?"

"Gustavo," I said, but the sound was drowned out by banging drums. The second sound check.

"What?"

"He's too young to be here." I pointed to Gus at a table near the hallway. He was only eighteen and the bar was twenty-one and over.

"It bothers you? I'll have the bouncer toss him." Evan stood, looking around for the security guard that passed by a few minutes ago.

"No, don't do that."

"Do you know him?" He leaned towards me, taking my hand to catch my attention. His eyes were large and drawn together by a stressed line in his forehead.

"I need to talk to him." I prayed he wouldn't ask why. If I had to explain, I wouldn't be able to repeat it. I jumped from my seat.

Evan deflated with a huge sigh. "Hold that thought." Taking my arm, he tugged me back as I tried to slip by.

I pouted, "What if he leaves?"

"I don't understand your anxiety." He looked away. "Grace, we're being recorded."

"What?" The words were lost in the mic check.

He gestured with his chin, jerking it towards the left. I followed his bearing to see two girls about fifteen feet away. They were facing each other, faces favoring our direction. Casually, and slowly gaining ground. They were dressed in similar tops in different colors. The first one, tall and thin, looked a little angry. She was wearing pink. The second was shorter, decked in black and white. They both held cell phones in their hands. Their eyes flickered between the two of us and the screens of their smart phones. Just then, a very large gentleman stepped in front of them. His massive frame completely blocked us from view. Problem solved.

"He's going to toss them. Give me two seconds, Gracie."

I looked to Gustavo and back to Evan.

"Please, will you wait?" Looking in his pleading eyes, I consented easily and then wished I hadn't. He set me back on the high barstool, gently kissing the corner of my mouth. "I have to see what they've got. Pictures mean proof."

Our secret would be out. I had no idea what that would be like and didn't care to learn.

"Sherpa, hold on!" Evan stalked off.

Strange name, I thought, watching Evan make his way to the girls that were being shown the back door. The bouncer was an immense pile of muscle and intimidation . . . a Sherpa. Cute Evan, really cute.

When Evan caught up, the two men exchanged a few words before the bouncer nodded his head and moved about three feet to one side, scowling from a short distance. The girls' puckered faces turned to smiles.

My stomach knotted as I turned towards the small table where Gus was sitting all by himself. The only way to get through what I had to do was to just do it. I had to go straight up to him and say what I needed to. If I put too much thought into it, everything would come out wrong and what I needed to say was too important to foul up. From the look of the kid in the corner, he needed to hear it. The hurt in his face broke my heart. So forlorn. Big as he was, he seemed small, weighed down by sorrows. My fist clenched against my chest.

The music, though much better than the last band, was too distracting. I wished for a way to turn it down. I was not in the mood to rock out anymore.

My focus switched back to Evan—I told him I'd wait—and tried to concentrate on the movement of his lips as he spoke through a pasted grin. His body language suggested he was angry. His hands were tensed, his brow furrowed, he looks down and to the side. He pointed towards me, moving his hands to illustrate points I couldn't grasp. The girls nodded their heads—yes, then no. He shrugged, taking their phones one at a time, and took pictures with both of them. They talked for another minute as he signed various things, flyers, papers from their purse, an arm. One girl tried to pull her shirt down—a move I was beginning to recognize—to have Evan sign her chest. She was interrupted by the return of the bouncer. Evan waved, feigning disappointment as the two girls were shown out.

I was on my feet before he turned around. When he got within earshot I said, "Come with me."

I barely made out his response which sounded like, "Right behind you."

Impatient and somewhat befuddled, I turned towards the table in the corner to find its crippled warden. His large hands held a sweating, half-empty glass of beer. Gus' eyes were fixed on the empty pitcher. His dark brown hair was tucked behind his ears, falling like a curtain from under his backward baseball cap.

Gustavo Reyes was a starting defensive tackle his senior year in high school. Noah told me he was going to play for Cal Berkley. Last October, he was driving himself to school when he called his mother to let her know he'd be coming back home to pick up a binder he'd forgotten with last night's homework. His mother was upset because that meant he'd be late for class. Sometime during the conversation he must have lost track of how fast he was going. The fog was mostly patchy, but very thick in some areas. He didn't see the stop sign.

I could not stop the memories—the awful trip to the junkyard to get Sol's things from his car. Splatters of blood on the mangled dashboard. The small piece of his long sleeve shirt wedged into the metal on the passenger side. I tugged on it, wishing I could keep myself from imagining how it got there. He was struck with such force. The body I thought was so strong . . . the seatbelt locked, the glass shattered, the metal scraped and twisted. He was gone before the cars stopped moving. Gus lost two teeth and broke his nose when the airbag deployed.

Setting my feet apart, I knelt alongside Gus' chair and placed a hand on his shoulder. The pose must have seemed endearing, but I was only trying to keep the sudden lightheadedness from knocking me over. Evan leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the table, watching closely.

When Gustavo felt my touch, his head jerked up. His eyes widened as if he'd seen a ghost.

"Why are you drinking?"

Suddenly on his feet, Gus was head and shoulders above me. His large frame reminded me of what promise he'd held just a year before. He'd lost his football scholarship and now, here he was, furiously working on a beer belly.

He was trapped, just like me. Maybe what I had to say could free us both.

He huffed, turning for the door. I stepped to the side, blocking him and rose up on my tip-toes to get as close to his ear as possible. I didn't want a single syllable lost in the blaring music. As I did, his chest puffed out. He squared his shoulders. A menacing look appeared on his troubled face . . . Where did the boy go?

"Listen to me. You owe me that much!" I swallowed the lump in my throat. "I forgive you."

He tried to walk away again, as if he hadn't heard. I stretched my arms out on either side, pleading with him to stay and talk. Suddenly Evan was stepping in between us.

"He wouldn't want—don't you to stop living, too." I choked on a lump that tried to block the words. It was a great relief to speak them, like a heaviness had lifted and scattered. Then it clumped back together and settled on my chest. My fingers clenched at the invisible weight.

From the corner of my eye, a wall of flesh appeared. The bouncer. He moved to stand behind Gus and waited.

"You don't know that!" Gustavo's hardened expression disappeared. Pools of regret filled his eyes.

"Yes, I do. I'm sorry it took so long to tell you."

As I turned away, the music stopped. The crowd cheered at the end of another song. Evan was talking. His words sounded garbled at first, but I caught some.

"What did you do?"

His wrath was obvious. The answer was four, simple and terrible words. "I killed her husband."

The gouging meaning penetrated deep, paralyzing my lungs. I couldn't breathe. I turned back to see Gus being led away by the bouncer. Evan was leaning over, resting his palms on his knees like someone had knocked the wind out of him. I wanted to comfort him, but I had to get away from the oppressive, stifling crowd.

I couldn't remember getting into the car, but that was where I was, slumped over the steering wheel, when Evan found me. The passenger door opened and his legs slid into the seat beside me. I kept my gaze glued to the dashboard.

Of all the nights to see Gus....

"Do you want to go home?"

"Do you think he heard me?"

"Probably. But I didn't. What did you say that made him want to leave?" He draped his arm over my shoulders. My neck immediately gave way to his touch, head automatically leaning against him. As if my body had been waiting to hear his beating heart. It was so strong and steady.

I shrugged against his chest and told him every ugly detail. Gus wasn't friends with Noah, but my whole family used to watch him play on Friday nights. I told Evan about the accident, how I felt like I lost everything twice when I miscarried, hoping he could understand. It was an accident that seemed to stop time. Solomon was not the only victim. We'd all lost parts of ourselves and it shouldn't have taken so long for me to talk to Gus. "It was just a stupid, senseless accident."

"You forgave him? Just like that?" He snapped his fingers.

"But I quit being angry a while ago."

"How can you do that? I'm cross with him for what he's done. But if he hadn't made that phone call...." Evan sighed. "I wouldn't be sitting here. Look what it's done to you. I'm a terrible person and you—you're... incredible."

I met his eyes for a moment, looked into the obvious confusion they held, and took in his words. Yes, it was supremely selfish of him to even bring up his feelings and the tragedy that gave him the opportunity to sit and comfort me. But it was also a huge compliment.

"What kind of man does it make me? I am sorry for your children, for their losing a father, and...." His eyes clamped shut as he shook his head. "Not that I'm not sorry you're alone. I am. But Grace—"

"Don't." I touched his lips with my fingers. It was too much.

I clamped my own lips together and rested my head in the crook of his neck, crying into his shirt while he held me.

After a while, the silence gave way to a tangible relief, though I was more than a little shocked at the turn of events and probably looked like a clown, to boot. I used my shirt to dry my eyes, keeping my face hidden. Evan had to think I was a crazy, blubbering idiot.

"I'm sorry you're still hurting. I'd take it away if I could." He whispered gently.

His lips touched my hair, helping to corral courage. When I looked up, he was staring. My breath caught. The look in his eyes . . . I was frozen, stupefied by admiration. He mumbled something. It sounded like half of whatever he was thinking. I thought about telling him how terrible his timing was, but then wondered if he meant to say the L word out loud. As I sometimes mumbled my thoughts, I wondered if Evan was doing the same.

His hands caressed my arms, nudging me closer. I set myself across his lap. A magnetic pull drew our mouths together. My head was spinning, my stomach filled with butterflies, my heart seemed to roar. I raked my hands through his hair, holding him to me as his hands slid down my back to grasp my bared waist. His strong fingers kneaded at the flash of my hips.

The sensations were overwhelming and empowering. My confession made me light. And his made me strong. For the first time in a long time, I knew exactly what I wanted and there was so much freedom in it. No fear in the world was powerful enough to stop me from taking him. A new intensity arose inside; building on the connection I felt, strengthening the tie between us. Nothing else mattered, just him. Just us.

"We're missing your band." His words were muffled as he spoke against my lips.

"Do you care?"

He shook his head, "Not if you don't."

Trailing light kisses down his neck I inhaled his sweet scent. "I feel like dancing."

He held my arms and pushed me back. "You're in luck. I know a great club."

Inspired and wired, I squirmed back into my seat and quickly re-applied a little make-up. I felt as if I might explode with happiness.

"The rock thing really isn't my scene," he shrugged, almost as if it hurt to be honest, and smiled with heart-stopping coyness. His gorgeous face lit up the air around us.

I followed the directions he gave to a place in West Hollywood. It looked deserted from the outside, save a few people smoking on the sidewalk. Evan said it was a very good sign.

We parked in an underground lot and I followed him down a long passage, passed a line of people, to a large man with a velvet rope. The powerful, thumping bass surged through the stone floor once we crossed over. The music was a powerful force, gaining strength as we walked through a series of doorways, past several more intimidating people with earpieces. They all nodded to Evan, addressing him by his last name or 'sir,' as they granted access. I wondered if all doors had always opened so easily for him.

Inside the cylindrical-shaped club, everything below was dark, while the mega-high ceiling glowed with shifting lights. Various hues of reds and blues and greens scarcely illuminated the mingling crowd. I followed as he led the way to the third level, which was the least packed, but still quite full. Several heads turned to look, mostly gorgeous twenty-something's, but no one said anything or reached for their phones.

"Like it?" His eyes lit with the question. I forcefully nodded my head in approval. He laughed, raising an elbow. "Spank the planks?"

Evan was a wonderful dancer. He seemed to possess more than his fair share of natural rhythm. On top of his natural good looks and charm, it seemed entirely unfair. I worked extra hard to keep a steady pace. It had been years since I set foot on a dance floor. Much less a dance floor that was not prepared by committee for a school or work-related function.

The club was packed. Bodies were crammed everywhere above us and beside, sweating and grinding. I stuck close to Evan and he didn't take his eyes off me. The music was loud and wonderful, vibrating through my body. I lost myself in it, dancing without fear to strange rhythms I'd never heard, enjoying every misstep and off-beat hip shake. I used every move I was ever taught in dance class and, considering how much time changed the idea of dancing, I probably looked very silly. But I didn't care. He held my hips and my hands, guiding me through several jams that involved line dancing, which was apparently back in.

When the music slowed he took me by the waist, pulling me closer. The Cure's "Love Song" started. Evan locked eyes with me, filling my heart with the heat of his gaze, making the room disappear. His terrible compliment in the car came back to me and I knew exactly how he felt. As sorry I was that Solomon was gone from our lives, I could never be sorry for meeting Evan.

His hands clung to my back and hips as he mouthed the words to the chorus. When he pulled me into his chest, threading his fingers in my hair to hold me in place as he passionately kissed me in the middle of the dance floor, I was not thinking about all the people that might see us. I was thinking it was the most romantic moment of my life.

# The Box

There's an uncomfortable tilt and pull. The vibrating scrapes start again beneath me, then pause. After a minute, it starts and stops again. The cyclic tilt, scraping, and pause; it repeats over and over until I'm sure I'll go crazy. Finally, the raised end drops. The sound of metal knocks against the outside, stopping my heart.

That muffled clatter; the sound of a shovel scraping through dirt starts again. This time, it's loud and close.

"Things always work out, one way or another," Ronnie's reaction echoes in my head—his response when I told him what happened in Evan's hotel.

"Grace, if you don't make moves, you'll never progress," Dr. Lena told me on more than one occasion.

If I surrender to the fear wanting to cripple me, no one will ever know. I take several deep breaths, determining to focus on what I need to do.

When the disjointed shoveling sound works back into a steady rhythm, I swallow the panic. Slowly, so slowly, I raise my torso, picking up my elbows, lifting my body, fitting my back into the square lid. It inches up in precise, controlled increments.

Desperate, shaking, I keep moving, lifting it higher.

Soon, it's open enough to see a pair of legs no more than a yard away. They are thin, slightly bent at the knees, and draped in black. I widen the gap. She's shoveling, heaping piles of dirt, and scanning the surroundings. But she faces the trees, not me.

Speedily now, and with more stealth than I naturally possess, I manage to hold the lip of the lid to keep it from dropping. I silently set the lid behind me, my box now resting completely open.

Slowly, so slowly, being careful not to disturb the noisy tarp, I work my way to my feet and take a good look around, hyperaware of the threat at my left.

Maybe it's the fresh air or a surge of adrenaline, but my mind kicks into high gear, rapidly absorbing every detail with more clarity than I have had since I woke. It's late in the day. Near sunset. And there's no road, no buildings anywhere. Not even the hint of a trail to a road. Only the tracks of the vehicle that brought me here, crossing a wide field sprinkled with patches of brown and green. My Jeep sits off to the right. Drag marks stretch through the dirt from the open hatch to where I am.

To the south, surrounding my feet, is a camouflage trunk. Everything else is mountain and forest. I don't recognize anything.

How long have I been gone? My head and shoulder throb in unison.

My perpetrator, no more than a leap away, is smaller than the tyrant of my imagination. Short, actually. No wonder she took me by surprise. Clad in what looks like all black, she's still working, furiously digging my grave. Her head is covered, concealing any indicators—no hair color or visible skin, but I have a sickening sense that I've seen her before. I think I know her but can't place her.

My heart stops as she suddenly stands upright, glancing from one side to the other before bending back down to work. As she does, a dull reflection in the fading light catches my eye. I recognize the curved shape tucked into the back of her pants. She probably had it pointed at me when I was playing dead.

The scents of fresh earth and pine are strong. They clear the distractions from my head and I realize what I'm doing. Time is wasting. Opportunity is knocking. And I'm standing here like an idiot.

Go, a muted whisper speaks to my heart.

October 20th

It was after two in the morning by the time Evan and I got back to the house after my beautifully awkward date, which consisted of mediocre music, a near outing by wanna-be stalker girls and their sneaky photos, a surge of forgiveness for the unforgiveable, and way too many dances granted while wearing high heels.

My head was clouded and my feet hurt. But not too much to notice Lily's tone was unnaturally clipped while she gave me the rundown of the night's activities. The boys were altogether well-behaved, with the exception of an incident when Arnold was coaxed into the house, courtesy of Caleb. I chuckled as she explained that he was put on a time-out, and that was when he fell asleep, around nine-thirty. Noah went for a sleepover at a friend's house a few houses down, but would be back early in the morning to cut the grass, if it wasn't raining. Her attitude throughout the entire explanation was standoffish.

I was about to ask her to join me in the kitchen for some girl-talk when Evan tugged at my elbow. "Grace, may I speak to you for a moment?" He walked into the kitchen, expecting me to follow.

I looked to Lily. Her arms were crossed, her chin stuck out defiantly. She was glaring at Marcus' back as he unplugged the video game controllers.

"What is it?" I asked Evan as we entered the kitchen.

He hesitated, examining me carefully. "Yeah, um, I was supposed to ask you something the other day, but I forgot it until now. What's wrong?"

With volume, I replied, "Nothing," then answered quick and discreet. "Something's up with Lily."

He continued as if I hadn't responded. "Noah wanted me to ask if he could have a more mature birthday party with his friends this year, but we can talk tomorrow. It's kind of late."

He sweetly pecked my forehead and started to walk out. Dissatisfied, I stopped him and stole a long kiss. Once my mind was emptied of all logic and my stomach thoroughly knotted, he pulled away, chuckling darkly.

"You aren't ready for what I want, but have no problem making me want it."

"Sorry," I shrugged. "You mix me up."

"Gracie," he whispered breathily into my ear and held my hand, tugging me with him through the living room and out to the driveway.

"I can't remember the last time I had so much fun."

"I'll come by in the morning, first thing. What time do you want to go for breakfast?"

"Nine?" Leaning in close I offered, "I'll pick you up if you want."

It seemed like a good idea, since Lily and Marcus may not want to spend much time together in the future. The thought brought a twinge of sadness. They'd been getting along so well.

"You're hooked, aren't you?" Evan pointed at his chest and flexed. I smiled, staring at the ground. "It's alright—so am I." He murmured breathily into my ear and scraped his teeth across my lobe. The goosebumps didn't stay on just my arms, but spread out, all over my neck and back, too. He smiled with satisfaction. "Goodnight, my Gracie."

I watched him and Marcus hop in the black SUV. After the car was lost down the hill, I walked inside. Lily was on the couch, sulking. Her arms still doubled across her chest, her legs folded on the cushion as she glared at the wall.

I took my place beside her. "What happened?"

"Marcus is an ass! He thinks I'm interested in Evan." She turned to me and huffed.

"Why does he think that?"

"It's a misunderstanding."

I wasn't sure how to respond, so I stayed quiet.

"Oh! Come on! Not you, too?" Her perfectly arched brows crinkled in frustration.

"I didn't say anything."

"I would never do that, Grace!" She took up her dark, curly locks and tied them in a loose bun with a hair scrunchy she kept on her wrist. It was a move that said she meant business.

"But the first night I brought him over..." I reminded her, grudgingly.

"That was temporary insanity. And I told you about it right away."

"Yeah, you washed the fork, eventually."

"Look, I was asking him about Evan. I want to know if he's really interested in getting serious with you. Marcus got the wrong idea. That's all."

"I know you would never . . ." I let the sentence hang, unfinished. Lily was far too loyal to consider such a betrayal and much too outspoken to keep those considerations quiet. Even if she had those types of feelings for Evan, she would never act on them.

"So, this is okay with you, then?" I asked, alluding to my newfound companion.

She shrugged, "I still think he's gonna hurt you. In the meantime, you seem happy."

She explained the fight in more detail while I made us hot tea.

She started to notice Marcus's irritation around the third or fourth question. The movie star's faithful wingman was used to the overflow attention that came with being close to Evan. He'd seen it dozens of times. With the girls he really liked as well as the ones he could do without. He assumed Lily was interested in him for the wrong reasons. He did not yet understand that this was how mine and Lily's relationship worked. We protected each other. Lily thought Marcus just needed some time to come to his senses.

I told her about running into Gustavo. She offered her best wishes, saying it was my liberty to forgive him but she hadn't reached that point, yet. She harbored no ill will towards him—which was a big step in the right direction—but she had yet to disembark from that place of peace where she could truly forgive his careless mistake.

The discussion moved towards the club Evan took me to. Lily was shocked that I had the courage to dance in public. She knew how terrible I was. We both laughed as I demonstrated some of the more courageous moves I used. She was proud to see me coming out of my shell again and encouraged me to try new things and experiences while I had the opportunity, pointing out that Evan's time off would end after the holidays. The comment lulled the conversation to silence.

It was still months away, but just thinking about his leaving made me miss him.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you!" Lily almost squealed, "I met Sheri and she's a total bitch!"

There was a knock at the door. I ignored it. "I thought it was just me."

Lily rose from the couch, signaling for me to follow. "She came by to see you, I think. She was acting all condescending."

"Why would she do that?"

"Why do you think? She's got it for Evan." She paused before reaching for the knob. "Marcus introduced me as his girlfriend. Stupid ass." She smiled and shook her head. "Sheri perked right up after that. You cannot trust her."

Lily was usually spot-on when it came to character judgments. She and Solomon always had a knack for telling what type of person someone was, within five minutes of meeting them. But she had to be wrong about Sheri. If it were that obvious, wouldn't Evan know?

Lily opened the front door to find Marcus looking apologetic on the front porch.

"Well, it's about time." Lily observed, aloof as ever.

I looked around to see if Evan was with him, possibly waiting somewhere in the shadows. When my eyes found nothing, I waited, in hope that someone would answer my searching. But they seemed to be waiting for me to leave.

I dismissed myself without preamble. Lily called out before I reached the bedroom. She was leaving with Marcus.

After the door shut, I flew to the front window, peeking out onto the porch. Lily was kissing Marcus in a way that made my jaw drop. Her hands were all over him. When she pulled away, he rocked back on his heels, his hair sticking out in laughable disarray. He was helpless to follow as she seductively led the way to her car.

"Dirty slut," I squealed to myself. Lily would call me a prude and laugh it off.

My feet kicked against the mattress. I could not stop thinking about my strange date, my irresistible company, and how happy I was for Lily. My brain sizzled each time I thought about Evans' nibble on my ear and the sweet things he said.

Before I knew it, I was fully dressed. Dashing from my closet, I caught my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks were red hot. I'd have to roll down the window on the way. I threw my hair up in a messy knot and ran next door.

Ray's outside lights were on when Evan and I drove up earlier. They were still on when Marcus came back. As I made my way through the front yard, I told myself if his inside lights were on, I'd ask. If not, I'd go back to bed without a second thought.

The divine porch light was still burning, as well as the glow from the living room, visible through the drawn curtains.

Ray answered the door, still fully dressed, apparently cleaning up after a party. I strained to conceal my pleasure when he agreed to watch Caleb. He swore it was no trouble, that Nathan would be pleased to have a friend over. I dashed back to my house, swathed my little angel in a fuzzy blanket and carried him over to the neighbor's living room. I promised Ray and Sergio that I'd return the favor and swore to be back long before my boy was likely to wake.

"Tell him I said 'hello.'" The look Ray gave me implied hanky-panky on my part. But I assured him that was not the case. To which he replied, with his trademark flamboyant sarcasm, "Honey, it never is!" I chuckled and thanked him for the kindness.

I jumped into my Jeep and headed down the hill, anxiously closing the distance between me and the Beverly Hilton Hotel.

When I hit the freeway off-ramp, I started to wonder about Ray's comments. Was I giving the wrong impression? Evan knew I wasn't ready. Right? Just in case he needed reminding, I stopped at a 24-hour bakery for coffee and bagels. He did mention going out for breakfast and it was almost four.

Food in hand and heart in throat, I neared the wide door of his hotel lobby. A young girl was sitting beneath the wary glare of a uniformed employee, probably hotel security. The man appeared to be reprimanding the young woman, who could not have been much more than a teenager, and it was way past curfew.

Getting closer, I heard her beg him not to call her parents. She said no one was home anyway, and she was waiting for a ride to come get her. Suddenly, she pointed at me.

"See, there she is, right there! That's what took you so long? You stopped for food?" Her tone was playful with an edge. Her eyes were desperate, wide with a hope that begged me to play along.

I'd never been good at subterfuge, but I handed her my coffee. It pacified the guard enough to walk away.

The girl took me by the arm and pulled me in a quick pace back towards my car, like we were true friends, whispering, "That guy's a dick. Thank you!" She tried to give back the coffee but I told her to keep it. Her hands were cold.

After a short talk, I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and believe that she was really eighteen. When I inquired as to why she was hanging out in front of a hotel in the middle of the night, she quipped, "For Rhys! He's staying here and I'm going to meet him."

"How do you know?"

She ran her fingers through her short brown hair and smiled emphatically. "I saw you two leaving that club earlier and followed him here. What room is he in?"

I chuckled awkwardly and bit my lip. She begged for an answer and I shook my head, refusing.

Her face brightened. "Could you ask him to come down? Please? That way, you don't have to worry about me. I'll go straight home after, I swear!"

I told her I'd do what I could, but made it clear, I was not making any promises. She thanked me profusely and pointed to the spot where she'd be waiting.

After checking the security guard was nowhere in sight, I walked through the lobby, feet growing heavy with each step. The elevator ride gave me a chance to think.

When I reached to knock on his door, I knew I was making a huge mistake. Ray was right. A midnight run to his hotel? What other impression was there besides booty call? I withdrew after one rap, but it wasn't loud enough to be taken for a knock. I considered leaving the bagels outside the door for him, but I'd have to explain what I was doing there. Maybe the girl downstairs would want them.

Six steps into my retreat, I heard him clear his throat. I cringed and turned back to find him staring from the open door with his golden brown hair in a delightful chaos as he leaned against the frame, shirtless. Gorgeous. And smirking.

"I woke you, didn't I?"

"No, Gracie, I was having trouble sleeping."

"I brought breakfast." I raised the bag of bagels, shaking it. The sound made me think of Arnold, the way he came running when he heard the crinkle of the dog food bag.

Evan stepped aside and invited me in. As I passed, he took me by the elbow and cut in front of me.

The walk was slow going. Evan's room was a horrendous mess and not nearly as big as I'd assumed it would be. A single room with a king-sized bed, a large chest of drawers, a desk, and one chair. I determined right off the bat that I was not looking into the bathroom. He shoved a tall pile of clothes into the closet as we passed and shut the door.

"I refuse maid service," he explained, "can't risk a breach of privacy." The words were soft as he blushed and tossed on a t-shirt he picked up off the floor.

"It's a nice hotel." I looked up at the ceiling, the only area not covered in clutter, to admire the ornate tiles. "You know, you could wash some clothes at my house." My eyes set on another pile of laundry next to the bed. "I could wash them for you, or show you how."

"I may take you up on that. I'm running low. Oh, don't do that." He grabbed my wrist as I started to clear a spot on the dresser.

"I don't mind."

"But I do." He insisted, taking the empty cup from my hand to toss away without looking. The trash can was at capacity.

"Okay," I relented after a moment, "but we need a spot to set the bagels so we can eat them before they get cold."

I waited, eyes back on the ceiling, while he straightened the blankets across the bed. He invited me to sit while he shoved and maneuvered the rest of his clutter into anyplace he could find that was out of sight. I watched him squeeze the rest of the laundry into another closet and toss the remaining trash into the bathroom.

"I should've called."

"No, I'm glad you came." He took a spot on the bed, facing me.

As I spread the jelly on a bagel for him, his expression softened. The last trace of discomfiture disappeared.

"Gracie," he said my name so sweetly, "may I tell you something?" The simple words echoed a question I asked earlier in the night—one that was forgotten in light of other pressing circumstances.

"I'm sorry about the interruption to our evening." We were in the midst of a deep conversation before I got distracted and ran off.

"Don't apologize."

"You were trying to tell me something?" I hinted, wanting him to explain, but not willing to push.

His expression was suddenly pained and thoughtful as he looked away, rubbing his eyes. Before I had a chance to take the question back, he reached over, opened a drawer at the bedside table, removed a large manila envelope, and handed it to me.

I studied him, guessing that whatever was inside was something important. Evan was always so talkative. The quiet demeanor he'd suddenly taken on was disarming. Raising the envelope, I silently requested permission, and then opened it.

There were legal documents—a birth certificate, police reports, a death certificate, and a packet of information on someone named Jeffrey Poynter. I flipped through, running my fingers across areas that I felt held importance. Each document mentioned the same man. Reports of domestic abuse, an arrest record . . .

One police report detailed a call complaining of a foul smell. Apparently, a young woman, Elizabeth Poynter, had killed herself. An attached autopsy report declared that she had recently given birth. There was a letter from an investigator that reported the woman's husband, Jeffrey Poynter, was rotting in jail at the time of her suicide. She petitioned for divorce and hung herself that same afternoon. There was no note. Her death was recorded in late May, approximately twenty-six years ago. When I looked at the enclosed arrest record, one of the charges filed against the man was rape.

The facts were all there. Add that to the turn of conversation Evan and I had at the bar. Still, it took a minute to connect everything. I wondered what Evan thought he was showing me. The dead girl was married to this abusive man? She was pregnant when he went to jail? She had her baby, filed for divorce and hung herself?

I looked up to gauge his reaction.

"If it were that, do you think she would've gotten rid of me?" His voice was quiet, full of raw emotion. The bed moved almost imperceptibly as he subtly rocked back and forth.

I couldn't answer. I was still not quite sure what he wanted from me. I went over the dates again, making double sure of what I could tell at first glance. "Your birthday is in May."

"Yes."

"Evan, what do you think this is?" I held the first arrest report. His silence confirmed my suspicion. I shook my head in denial. "She was already pregnant, possibly two months along when this happened."

"Don't do that." He scolded, sounding disgusted.

"Do what?"

"Try to make me feel better." He looked towards the dark curtain drawn over the glass doors.

"It's logic." I said, "Look at the timeline, Evan. This," I held the police report, "is dated in November. The birth certificate—I assume is yours—says May. She was well into her first trimester, unless you were premature." I glanced at the birth weight for good measure. "8 pounds, 3 ounces? Highly unlikely you were early."

He was quiet, looking away in various directions.

"Why is the truth so difficult to accept?"

When he looked back, his gaze was cutting, slicing right through me. "Why don't you tell me?"

Acidic sarcasm. He brought it up and he wasn't ready to talk about it.

I reached out and took his hand, setting it on my heart. I wanted to tell him he was wrong, but how could I say for sure? He wasn't conceived in that manner on that night—that I was sure of—but I could not say that the incident was the first or only occurrence and that was what he needed to know.

I gave him what truth I could. "Evan. This does not define you."

His eyes looked blue over the navy t-shirt. The hard look they held softened and I tossed the papers onto the bedside table to hoist myself onto my knees. "Look at me."

He obliged with a small gaze, from the side, beneath his lashes. Almost a glare.

"Evan, I'm not sure why you're telling me this since I can tell you don't want to talk about it. I want you to know, it doesn't change the way I see you. Not one bit. I'm honored that you would trust me with something so personal. And I'm not going to ask you anything, and it's not because I don't care, but because I do. So much." My heart swelled with affection. "We can talk whenever you're ready and I'll listen, without judgment."

I stretched my arms around him, pleading him to accept the truth. He was more valuable than he ever imagined. His birth mother knew it. I knew it. How could he be so clueless? I almost wanted to smack him upside the head.

His only response was the slight motion of his hands as they caressed my sides.

"This is going to sound corny because I usually don't say things like this out loud, but Evan, before I met you, I was . . . stuck. I lived in the shadow of a moment that no longer existed. There was no one except my immediate family and I struggled with them. Then, you shined your light and made my shadows disappear." I couldn't control the smile. "Everything is different and better because of you. You are my gift; my present in every way."

His arms wrapped around me in a sweet embrace. Breathing on the side of my neck, he whispered those three words again. When he said it in the parking lot, I was sure he was only trying to make me feel better. But, there in his room, he spoke without warning—so unguarded and more vulnerable than I'd ever seen him—it was a tender and fearful side he was allowing me to see.

The words were a magnet, drawing me to him. I held him close, feeling his breath on my neck and taking in the monumental moment. He said it twice. That had to mean something.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking."

Irritation had me leaning back on my knees to slap his shoulder. "You're taking it back?"

He paused, wide-eyed and confused.

"Did you mean it?" Still, he sat. "Yes or no?"

"Y-Yes," He stammered.

"Don't be sorry." I mumbled, moving back in to bite his ear the same way he did mine. "Because I love you, too." From the very first kiss.

Finally identifiable, I was hopelessly unprepared for the sensations, yet stumbled into them despite myself. It was the reason I'd been so extreme. It was all or nothing with him and I must have all—I longed to be with him every second.

At my confession, he grew rigid.

"I scared you, didn't I?"

He shook his head, "No, Gracie, I'm scaring myself." His palms caressed my cheek, pushing my hair back. He looked deep into my eyes and I couldn't tell what emotion I was seeing in his. "You've opened this door and I can't shut it. I don't know what the hell I'm doing half the time I'm with you. I've never told a soul the thing I've just told you. You make me say and do things I never would, normally." He marveled, holding my face between his hands, "You're so unlike anyone I've ever known."

His voice, the look in his eyes, they beamed passion and confusion. His hands held my head as I lunged headlong into a deep kiss. Feeling his lips on mine was the world's greatest gift. He wrapped his arms around me and laid back, holding me to him. The brilliant burning ignited again, all over my body. I scrambled to one side, tucking myself beside him.

"Food's cold," he grinned against my lips.

We sat up and started on our bagels as if nothing had happened.

When we finished, I cleared the food away, placing the bag on the nightstand. "Tell me about yourself, Evan. I want to know everything."

He sighed and signaled for me to join him in a snuggle against the headboard. I took my spot alongside him and he wrapped his arms around me.

"It's kind of a boring story."

"Don't stop until you get to the part when you saw me at the bar. I want every detail."

He'd once told me he wanted me to know everything about him but, up until then, he'd been reluctant to say. Even as he sat beside me, possibly willing but still brooding, I figured I should give him a place to start.

"Did you always know you were adopted?"

He sighed. "No, and I can't be sure why my mother never told me, but I like to think she intended to at some point." He tilted his head back, looking up at the ornately tiled ceiling.

"Her name was Sylvia Matthews. She was Swiss and Italian, born and raised in London, and I look nothing like her. She met and married my delinquent father, Harold, when she was very young. When they couldn't have children on their own, they adopted me. The exact way, I'm not sure. They weren't what anyone might consider well-off, so I suspect they knew my biological mother."

His eyes held a faraway look as he went on, telling me how he wished his adoptive mother were able to see how her sacrifices had paid off. How he wanted to buy her a house and take care of her but the cancer . . .

"She went quickly after diagnosis. Almost as if the word was what made her ill. And I had no other family." He was going to be placed in a youth hostel.

"Being sent away alone frightened me more than anything. I was still a child, though I looked and felt man enough to care for myself. But what could I do without my mother?"

Tears pooled in my eyes, distorting his handsome face. I wanted to squeeze him tight enough to make the hurt go away.

He and his very best friend, Marcus, had a plan. They sold his mother's Beatles memorabilia to afford the plane tickets to Los Angeles. Not long after they'd arrived, he met Sheri, a waitress who was working her way through business school at the time. She felt sorry for them and took them into her studio apartment. When Evan actually started getting work, he felt obligated to repay her kindness. Sheri had been with him ever since.

"I think of Noah doing something like that and cringe. No wonder Marcus' parents still hate me." His brow furrowed as if the thought had just occurred to him.

I sat up to look in his face, remembering that day at the museum. He looked so uncomfortable with the attention. "Why acting?" I could see him with my waking eyes as he cowered away from the attention.

"Filming is everything. Something worth doing. I'm one small cog in a giant machine. My parts are no more important than anyone else's, but not every contribution is so easily observed."

No door was ever opened for Evan. He opened them all by himself.

"I have to ask you something and I'd like an honest answer." My serious tone caught his attention and he sat up.

"What is it?"

"What in the world possessed you to steal my barstool?"

His hearty laugh filled the room.

"Seriously, what were you thinking? I felt bad!"

"Actually, I was thinking, 'I want that.'"

"So I did look like a slut." I knew it!

He laughed louder, "No! If you had, there would've been no question. I would've walked up and told you what I wanted. Instead I was this muted stalker, standing behind you, smelling your hair . . . Creeping into your seat when you weren't looking." He laughed again, "When you sat on my lap, I'd just finished wishing for it."

"Why didn't you stay and talk to me?"

He shrugged. "Cold feet."

I giggled at the expression and recalled one other question that had been weighing on my mind since the first day we met. "What brought you to the elevator that morning?"

"Eh, it doesn't really matter." The non-committal sparked my curiosity. Evan was never ambiguous.

"Are you embarrassed?"

"No, it just isn't important."

"Tell me; I'm curious."

"You'll be disappointed," he assured, then shook his head. "I was in the building because Sheri sent me to a therapist."

"Really?" Doctor Lena had another office in the same building as Doctor Pataki, Lily's boss.

"Who?" I asked, burning with curiosity.

"You're favorite Head Shrinker. Ten minutes in, I left."

"Dr. Lena? Why would you—"

"Because I don't need guidance. I was just coming off the thing with Gretchen and had too much time on my hands. I wanted someone to listen, but she wanted me to get introspective and I'm not into that."

"Yeah, she does encourage me to think about why I do what I do."

"I don't need to question why I hate the circus-freak attention that surrounds me. It's bad enough I have to hear about it from Sheri. I figure, the more attention I lend it, the more sway it holds over me and," he shifted his weight, suddenly pressing it on top of me. Every cell in my body suddenly expanded with heat. His grip around me tightened. "I like being the one on top."

"I bet you do." I chuckled, feeling warmth flood my face.

"You know what she did?" His eyes grew incredulous as he righted himself. "She laid out piles of gossip rags in the waiting area—"

"Those are always there," I interrupted.

He smirked, not missing a beat. "She asked me to look them over and tell her about it. Seriously?" He asked rhetorically. "When everything in my life is ass-backwards—where the most menial act becomes the most significant to a public that doesn't give a shit about me? Talk about the attention that can make me afraid to move if I'm not careful? Explain that within five minutes of our first meeting? Not going to happen."

He straightened his shirt. "I fight it every day. The excessive admiration. The ridiculous stalking. It can make me believe I'm worth all the attention." His voice changed as he did an impression of himself: "Maybe I am the third most influential person in the world, two spots ahead of the President of the U.S. Maybe I am the sexiest guy in the world, this year." His tone was an obvious mock. "It's bizarre and pompous, and I hate it. Yet, I'm susceptible to it. Offer me one inch of pretension and I'll grab hold with both hands."

He ran his hands through his hair. "I must constantly remind myself that it isn't real. This business of entertainment is a propaganda machine, full of half-truths at best and the rest is all rubbish, anyway. Success boils down to asses in seats. Everything else that comes with it, I have to ignore."

His lovely face was filled with indignation. "And if that doctor doesn't get that already, then I won't be the one to waste my time explaining it to her."

"Let me see if I understand this—you didn't like her?"

His frustration faded into a laugh as he threw a pillow in my face. I giggled and tossed it back. He caught it and smiled. "That's one of the many reasons I love being with you. You don't care about any of that. I want to sit with you under your rock as long as I can."

October 27th

I was on a roll; eagerly charging into my future. Anxious for serious change. That meant getting rid of old stuff. Actually, I was taking the older, but still good furniture from the family room and swapping it out for the nice, lesser used furnishings in the formal living room. And then I was going to buy a new set of couches and end tables for the front of the house.

It seemed as good a day as any to start over. Besides, the Women and Children's Shelter downtown was in dire need of furnishings.

Caleb ran out the front door. I leapt from the back of the donation truck in time to catch hold of his shirt.

"Gramma!" He pointed at the street.

At the end of the driveway, Maria was parking what I guessed was a borrowed pick-up. The chosen spot—directly in front of the donation truck—indicated she had no intention of staying. That was good news. I had hoped she'd send someone else to pick up the chair. I was in far too good a mood to fight with her.

"Good morning, Maria," I called, as she walked slowly up the drive with a subtle limp. "Are you alright?"

"I'm old."

Stalking towards me, her arms opened wide. As her hands fell outside my peripheral vision, nerves welled in my stomach. I shifted to follow, wondering what might have set her off this time. But her hands weren't closed like I assumed. They were softly open. To my utter amazement, both of them were moving hesitantly, almost kindly, towards me. My posture remained unyielding as she drew close and hugged me for the first time in . . . For the very first time.

At her best, Maria had only ever been politely indifferent. At worst, well, there was a reason I wanted to keep an eye on her hands. I managed to return the unexpected affection with an awkward pat of her shoulder.

Caleb grinned as Maria greeted him, patting his back and head. "Why don't you get your Abuelita some of the tea she likes?"

"The diet ones, right Gramma?" He asked, making sure she knew that he remembered she was diabetic.

She smiles down at him and nodded. He skipped merrily into the house as she continued talking, curiously kind. "You look good. Lily tells me you are seeing someone?"

"He's inside." I left out the fact that he was sleeping off another loss. He really stunk at quarters.

"That's nice for you, then." Her accent was still prominent after all these years, probably because she spoke Spanish more often than English.

Noah was taking his time loading sofa cushions into the truck to keep an eye on our exchange. He hopped down from the truck bed and started toward us.

"Maria, what's going on? You're speaking to me, complimenting, and hugging?"

The creases around her lips stretched out smooth when she smiled, adding to my unease. "I'm sorry for the way I've treated you. I want to be with the children this weekend."

Noah kissed his grandmother's cheek in greeting and walked inside the house to get his dad's recliner. I had decided to get rid of it and Maria was the one who bought it for him, so it was only right that she got it back.

"Can I stay here with them? You can find someplace to go, right? You and Lily will go to see that fight together." She took my hand. The skin on hers felt paper thin.

There was a boxing match in Vegas that weekend. Lily had mentioned it a few times. She and I used to make a yearly trek up there, at Solomon's bidding, to watch whatever fight he wanted to see and do a little gambling. This season's match-up was a heavyweight bout. A highly anticipated re-match between two champs. I'd never be able to get tickets on such short notice.

"I don't understand." My brow crinkled.

Maria was always anxious to take advantage of the time with the kids, but an apology? And both boys for an entire weekend? The sudden kindness was off-putting. I wasn't sure what to make of it.

A layer of cool sweat formed over my lips. I felt the air from my nose breezing across it. "Are you dying?"

She chuckled. "Don't be silly. Is this him?"

Evan appeared beside me. His thick hair was wet and slicked back, revealing his handsome face and profile. I set my arm about his waist. The familiar touch did not escape Maria's attention.

"Maria, I would like you to meet my . . . boyfriend," weird! "Evan. Evan, this is my—Sol's mother, Maria Zuniga."

"It is nice to meet you, Mrs. Zuniga." He politely dipped his head and extended a hand.

Maria gave him a long, examining look before she took it. Evan set both of his hands around hers, softly shaking in a gentleman's fashion.

"So, you're the one who finally got this girl out of the house?"

He looked to me, asking with his eyes how to respond.

"Yes," I said.

"And what do you do for a living?"

"I work in film." He cleared the sound of sleep from his throat.

"Oh, that's right. Lily said you were some kind of actor. How is that working?"

When she used the word 'actor', the reserved tenor implied acting was not a viable career option. Most times, I would have agreed. But in that context, it was all I could do to keep from laughing.

Evan's brow gathered in a serious manner. "Well, it's not for everyone, but I guess you could say I'm doing alright."

My gaze shot to the ground, watching from the corner of my eye as Maria shook her head. My hand slipped from Evans waist. He grabbed it and held it to him.

"Grace, will you get the boys for me? I need to say goodbye before I go."

After a quick glance at Evan—he was smiling and appeared relaxed—I acquiesced. "I'll be right back."

Inside, the promised bottle of tea was sweating on the kitchen counter, but I saw no sign of Caleb. I called out for both boys to come say their goodbyes. Noah passed on his way out with the recliner over his head. I asked if he needed help but he refused, noting that he was big enough to manage without his mommy's help, and he hadn't seen Caleb.

I watched him walk by, the fluffy chair hiding his upper body. "You know I'm not gonna be around forever. And I'm rolling my eyes at you."

I heard him laugh on his way out the front door.

Caleb was in the backyard, playing with Arnold. When he saw me in front of the glass door, I saw recollection.

"Gramma!" he exclaimed, blowing past me in the open doorway.

I lunged for him, planning to give him the forgotten drink, but he was too fast. Before I could catch up, he was out the front door. When I reached the porch, he was already halfway across the yard. Evan and Maria were talking on the grass as Caleb ran roughshod towards them. The joy of having his grandmother around was evident in his stride. A few steps away, he leapt into the air, jumping at her with all his strength.

My heart stopped.

Evan took two steps and snatched Caleb mid-flight, tucking him behind his forearm. Caleb's little feet thrashed, Evan winced and worked the force into a spin before setting him back down in the grass.

As soon as it registered that Maria would not need to make a trip to the emergency room, I was teed off, marching towards them. Noah was already reprimanding his little brother. I silenced him and started my own lecture. Noah still chimed in when he felt it was appropriate.

Above the commotion, Maria fervently thanked Evan.

I explained to Caleb why his behavior was inappropriate and demanded that he apologize. As he obeyed, his voice sounded so sweet and small. Maria graciously accepted, "Mi Hijo, we all do things we wish we could take back."

I couldn't be sure, but I thought I heard a double meaning.

Evan had saved the day, but was disparaging as usual, saying anyone would have done the same. He was also upset with me for letting him sleep through the heavy lifting. "I don't like being treated like a guest. I thought I was more than that."

"You are," I smiled. "But you looked so peaceful." I loved watching him sleep.

"Next time, you better let me help." His thanks was a gentle kiss.

As we watched Maria drive away, I felt Evans elbow jab my ribcage. "So, what happened with the in-law? I thought she hated you."

I explained the unexpected apology, and he made no secret of his thorough surprise. Apparently, Noah had filled him in on all the dirty details of my former family problems. As we walked back into the house, Evan followed up with his extreme delight at my use of the term 'boyfriend,' so I abstained from mentioning my acute anxiety surrounding the expression.

We sat together at the table while he ate the breakfast I saved for him.

"So, you forgave her?" He scooped a lump of scrambled eggs in a piece of bacon. "Just like that?" After popping the bacon in his mouth, he snapped his fingers.

"Well I wasn't going to make her grovel." I closed my eyes, utterly thankful.

"You should've recorded it for proof later on. What made her change her mind?"

"I was too surprised to ask."

Evan looked curiously at me. "She's part of your family and that's the most important thing to you." He set his hand on mine. "Equally important is the small matter of what we'll be doing this weekend."

"I have to take Caleb trick-or-treating."

"But Grandma said I get to go with her." Caleb chirped, setting his cup down on the table. A pink semi-circle hovered over his lip, stained by the grape juice. He'd been so quiet I almost forgot he was there.

Hesitant to acquiesce, I reasoned. "But I always take you trick-or-treating."

"Please, please, please can I go with Gramma? Please, please, please!" He slapped his palms together in prayer.

I scrutinized his face, raising an eyebrow and giving him the look. "Grandma is not a jungle gym." He nodded, vigorously. "Can you do what she tells you the first time she tells you?"

"Yes." His eyes widened as he nodded his head ferociously.

"Do you promise?" It was difficult to hide my grin from his giant brown eyes.

"I will, I promise." He made a large cross over his heart in demonstration of his sincerity and willingness to comply with any mandate I might set. "Please, please, please . . ."

Unmoved by his pleading, my eyes strayed to Evan. He was in the exact same pose as Caleb. Both stared at me with pleading eyes, hands folded, earnestly petitioning for consent. I laughed at them both. Caleb scowled, Evan chuckled, but I didn't budge, decidedly letting them sweat it out a little longer. It was work to keep my face straight, staring at the two with more than two decades in age difference between them. Both boys begging for permission.

"Alright, you can—"

The room erupted with cheers. They high-fived each other and jumped around the table in a victory dance. When the enthusiasm died down a bit, Caleb ran off to tell Noah the news.

I sighed. My first holiday away from him and he was happy about it.

"So, what are we doing this weekend?" Evan repeated.

October 29th

Evan was crazed, wild-eyed at the idea of going to Las Vegas. He was making all the arrangements and insisted on paying for everything. He'd already gotten four ringside seats and didn't even flinch when I suggested separate rooms.

Boxing was one of our mutual interests. He'd been trying to get me into soccer and I could not stand it. It was like watching Pong on the Atari. Boring. We didn't share the same taste in music, either. We liked some of the same stuff, like Pink Floyd, but differed in the type each was most passionate about. He preferred a style my dad would've called "hippie music." He loved all things from the 1960s, and some from the '70s, but he had a serious weakness for '80s. I teased him for that one, but there wasn't much room to talk. Metal from the early '90s was all about power ballads. Evan hated metal, but still took me to a rock show. When I considered that, I guessed I could suffer through a short trip to Nevada.

It promised to be a good fight, but my anxiety stemmed from the fact that it was a weekend excursion. Lily and Marcus were coming along, that was for sure, but I still worried the sleeping arrangements would turn awkward once we were up there. Those two would want to be alone at some point and then what?

We were on our way to the furniture warehouse to replace the living room set I donated. We'd already dropped Noah off at his final Driver's Ed class—not before I informed him and Evan that they were my new party planning committee, officially in charge, and able to plan Noah's more mature birthday party any way they wanted. But they had to get busy; it was only five weeks away. Both seemed very pleased.

Noah pumped his fists in the air, chanting, "Yes! Yes!"

Evan's reaction was more subdued. "Tidy," he'd grinned, "I have all sorts of ideas." His accent sang amiably as he devilishly wiggled his eyebrows.

His hand was wrapped around mine on the seat between us.

Caleb was in the back humming to himself and staring out the window, offering no interest in anything we tried to engage him in. Occasionally he'd point out a road sign to show how he could read the words. I indulged him with compliments on his intelligence, though I was not sure if he was identifying by memorization or actually reading.

Stopped at a red light, Caleb yelled from the backseat. "Mommy!" His chubby finger excitedly pointed out the window at a tall street sign advertising a fast food restaurant. "That says Jack! It starts with J!"

"You are so smart, Caleb. Can you tell me what that sign says?" I pointed to the opposite side of the road at a small side street where there was a bright red stop sign.

"Stop. It says S-T-O-P!" He gloated.

"Hey Caleb, can you tell me what 'Yes' starts with?" Evan questioned, exaggerating the Y sound and repeating the word. "Ya-Ya-Ya-Yes . . . ?"

My fingers crossed as Caleb thought carefully. From his reflection in the rearview mirror, I watched his fingers touch his chin in a look of deep concentration.

"Can you tell me? What does Ya-Ya-Yes start with?" Evan asked, again.

Calebs face lit with excitement and I knew he had the answer. "Please!" He shouted, and I burst into a fit of laughter.

"Brilliant! It takes some a lifetime to figure that one, Caleb. You're a genius!"

It was in those moments, the ones filled with unexpected laughter, the ones that demonstrated the perfect innocence and childish reasoning, that I really felt Sol's absence. I half expected to hear him laughing, too. Normally, I'd call him at the office to tell him what a character his son was becoming.

"You miss him, don't you?" Evan smiled gently.

"He's missing everything."

"If what you believe is true, he knows."

On the third trip around the furniture store, Caleb started to complain about his feet. Evan volunteered to find a place to sit with him and the two took off. After I finally picked out the couches in the right color and style, with just the right fabric, I signed the papers. Then, it was time to find my boys.

Near the center of the warehouse, atop a large, wrought iron bed, I found them. Evan was sitting near the edge, pretending to be oblivious as Caleb was sneaking up behind him. The moment Caleb got close enough to pounce, Evan stealthily reached back, took him by the ankle and yanked. Caleb fell onto a mass of pillows accumulated from surrounding bed sets. He giggled raucously, then got up and begged for more.

I rushed over to let them know it was time to go, before the salesman that had been eyeballing them could say anything.

On the way out, I spied the most beautiful canopy bed and got distracted. It was gorgeous, stately, and enormous—like something that belonged in a palace. My hand moved across the four shining, carved mahogany columns, elaborately engraved in a spiral pattern, embellished with leafy vines and roses that climbed all over. It had long iron rods at the top on each side to drape curtains. It reminded me of the kings' bed in Ever After, one of my favorite Drew Barrymore movies.

"Are you buying a bedroom set as well?" Evan asked, taking my hand.

"No. Just admiring." The extravagant piece of workmanship was something I would have loved to have. Thanks to Sol's wisdom and stewardship, I could've easily afforded it. Still, it wouldn't have felt right spending that kind of money on myself. My fingers stroked the ornate post. "I do love the wood, though."

Evan belted a rolling laugh. "Well, that remains to be seen!"

It took a minute to realize what he found so funny. My color changed. It was the pickle all over again.

"Wooden furniture," I amended.

# October 30th

I was nearly packed. The reservations were confirmed for two rooms, each with two queen-sized beds for insurance purposes. Evan got us into the MGM Grand. Lily and I had never stayed there before and were looking forward to it. He also scored us tickets to the weigh-in on Friday night, so we needed to leave early in the morning to be sure we had enough time to check in and get settled.

Something was bothering me. I could not shake this ominous feeling in my stomach. I wasn't sure if it stemmed from unspoken expectations about the weekend, or something else entirely, and the closer we came to departure, the more expectant and troubled I felt. Lily promised not to desert me, though I was sure she'd back out once she had a few drinks in her. I was just finishing up, packing the last of my things for the trip, when the kitchen phone rang.

I hunched over and slogged toward the receiver. It was Lily, calling from work. Again. She'd been calling nonstop over the last few days, trying to coordinate outfits, making sure I was packing things that were interchangeable with what she was bringing.

"What now?" I answered, flatly.

"I can't go! Stupid Lydia was gonna cover for me, and she just left in an ambulance!"

"What happened?"

"Appendicitis! Oh, this sucks!" She shrieked into the phone.

"It didn't rupture, did it?"

"Grace. Did you hear me? I. Cannot. Go. Dr. Pataki says he has to have at least one of us here, and everyone else turned me down. I have to work tomorrow and Saturday."

"I'm scalping your tickets." I managed to sound disconnected, though the news sank my spirits like an anchor.

"Very funny."

"What about Marcus?" A third wheel might be nice.

"He can do whatever he wants, I don't care."

"This sucks."

"Thank you. I know. I've got to go. I'm trying to bribe Laney from Dialysis across the hall to cover for me. I'll call back on my break."

I hung up, knowing she wasn't coming. Laney was a sweet girl, but she was also in the throes of a long distance relationship. Highly unlikely she was going to sacrifice a visit with her boyfriend in San Diego for work.

Lily was out and that probably counted Marcus out, too. So, if we went ahead with the trip, it would most likely be me and Evan. Alone. The whole weekend.

I made my way to the guest bedroom to break the news. Everyone was supposed to stay over tonight since we planned to leave early. Marcus hadn't come back since he dropped off Evan, who was spending the day doing his laundry and trying to pack, though his duffle bags looked full.

He faced the opposite direction, hovering over the bed, sorting clothes. I leaned on the doorframe, watching. The sight was one I had no desire to see. Obviously, right now he was planning to go away with me, but soon, he'd be going back to work and my life would go back to the way it was. He and I had talked about the imminent separation. We both agreed it would be difficult but manageable. I'd been toying with the notion of visiting, but was worried it may be awkward. There were often groups of people gathered around the perimeter of the sets he worked on. And, if we were still unhindered by public interest, it might be too risky. Evan said I shouldn't worry, but he was used to people nosing around in his private business. He was supposed to leave for two days in November, and in December he had some promotional appearances scheduled. In between, he was going to be working on something called ADR at a local studio. After that, he'd start his next project. That was a sixteen-week shoot. I'd spent hours trying not to think about it.

I walked in the room when Evan turned, heart leaping as he looked at me with a subtle grin. It was as if I had no choice, I had to touch him. I shoved him back and he plopped onto the bed. I sat across his lap and stole a long kiss, raking my hands through his hair, loving the feeling of his full, soft lips on mine.

"Hello." He raised an eyebrow.

I stiffened, utterly confused at my sudden indiscretion—an impromptu make-out session—and said the first thing that came to mind. "Bad news: Lily's going to cancel. She has to work."

His face twisted into a smirk. "If this is how you deliver bad news, I'd love to hear your take on the world economy."

"Do you think Marcus will still go?"

"I'm telling him the hotel caught fire." He stretched his hands around my waist, planting a row of kisses on my neck.

Goosebumps plucked up all over both arms. "Could be a mistake. Going without them, I mean."

"Mistakes can be really fun, if made the proper way." His voice was smooth, his manner confident, forcing me to smile back.

The sound of Caleb's school bus barreling up the hill gave me the out I needed. I hopped up, excusing myself and the momentary lapse in judgment. Basically, running out with my tail between my legs.

Evan's humorous bellow followed me down the hall. "Let me know if you'd like to discuss world hunger? The health care crisis?"

October 31st

"I told you we left too early." Evan bragged, leaning against the counter in the huge hotel lobby.

"As if we'd have to wait for check-in time."

People could not wait to do things for Mr. Fred Rubble, one of Evan's pseudonyms. It was the actual name printed on the credit card. The concierge escorted us to our adjoining rooms, where we showered and changed before heading back down to one of the restaurants.

The hotel was gorgeous. And massive. I lost track of where we were going several times. We heard snippets of conversation as we passed chatty groups of casino patrons, everyone was buzzing about the weigh-ins later.

After way too much fruit salad and eggplant parmesan, we wasted time wandering from one casino to the next, doing a little gambling here and there, and shopping for souvenirs. I bought a set of shot glasses for Evan to practice his game on. And I am not sure how we got onto the subject, but somehow he roped me into buying a costume and then presented the action as challenge.

Evan's smile was huge as he explained. "Two rules. First, your costume has to be both, unique and cliché. Second, we only get an hour. We'll meet back in front of that fountain," he pointed down the wide corridor. We shook hands, synchronized watches, and headed off in different directions.

No doubt, I was going to lose. Not only did I lack the keen competitive edge that Evan had, there was zero selection in women's wear. Oh, there was a plethora of costumes, but they all carried the same theme—slutty cops, slutty nurses, slutty dancers, and easy mermaids. On my thirtieth trip around the last store, I found the perfect costume buried in a discount bin.

Fifty-eight minutes later, I was back at the fountain. Evan showed up with a whole minute to spare, laughing at my fluffy orange pumpkin suit. He was dressed in full Death Angel garb, including black and white face makeup, a scythe, skintight black bodysuit under an oversized, tattered cloak and for humor, a really bad '70s porn-star mustache.

"That's not very unique." I admonished.

He shrugged. "Well, it was either this or a giant banana and I've already got one of those."

"Oh, brother," I shook my head.

He stepped closer, taking the end of my floppy pumpkin stalk hat and f lipped it away from my ear. "Gracie, it's huge." He whispered.

I balked, my face heating as his breath raised goosebumps all over my neck. I looked away, suddenly uncomfortable.

"What?" He asked innocently. "I dressed as a giant banana last year." Then he smirked and took my hand.

We wandered into a small restaurant near the front of the hotel. The tables were full, so we took an open space at the back of the bar. Evan ordered drinks and appetizers while we waited for a spot to open up.

Several rounds later, we were still there and I was feeling light-headed.

"Have you ever thought of getting married again?" He was staring at a television mounted behind me. His face, painted to look like a skull, was cracking around his mouth.

"Why? Is there someone you want to set me up with?" I giggled, finding myself much funnier than he did.

Evan ordered more drinks and fries with gravy, and I knew I'd have to find the hotel gym in the morning.

Everywhere around us, people were dressed in a crazy variety of costumes—nuns, serial killers, showgirls, boxers, demons, Presidents, and hundreds of slutty cops and nurses—not a pumpkin in sight, but I did see a few reapers.

"We are in Las Vegas."

My mind wandered back home. I wondered what my boys were doing. Noah was probably filling up the candy bowl. Caleb was most definitely in his costume by now. Both would be snacking on the spoils made ready for the ten trick-or-treaters we got each year.

"Wait. What did you say?"

He shrugged. "You're single and I'm single. Give it a go, eh?"

"Sure, why not!" I chuckled at the repartee. Until Evans expression lost its humor. Now he had my full attention. "Tell me, seriously, are you kidding?" I swayed, ever so slightly, setting my drink on the bar.

His brow furrowed. "How shall I put this? You're like air for me—I can't be without you. Is that serious enough?"

His words made no sense when he put them together like that.

He smiled, coyly. "I can't believe I'm actually saying this with a horrible, itchy mustache glued to my face—it was probably made from rat hair or something—but I am." Suddenly his face was serious and he was looking straight into my eyes. "Marry me, Gracie, I swear I can make you happy."

My head was swimming and I reminded myself to breathe.

He leaned in close, "I am aware that my life is a direct contrast to yours and we haven't known one another long—"

"Barely a month."

"But we've spent every day together. You know me. I trust you. I'm ready for this. I'm not scared, I'm not worried, I simply want to make you mine. Right now. Today. I know you love me as well. Is it enough to marry me?"

His voice was soft, with a deep tenor of sincerity. I listened to every word; examined his expression, his eyes especially. They were earnest, wide and glowing. I knew the look. I'd seen and returned it for sixteen years. I kissed it goodbye after his eyes closed and yet, as impossible as it seemed, I was seeing it all over again.

"Do you love me more than anything or anyone?" I asked.

Evan sighed. "Frustrating, that is. Lifes' largest query looms unanswered as you respond with a damned question. Are you aware how maddening that is?" The tension made him sound irritated but I knew it was the excitement and not him. "Do you understand what I'm asking? You've had three beers—you aren't drunk, are you?"

Hundreds of thoughts swirled in my head, but I was hopelessly distracted by the look in his eyes and his diction. There were certain words that Evan used—words like water, premiere, and frustrating; especially frustrating—that, when spoken, made his accent more pronounced. The way he mixed the tenses of the words and exaggerated the long vowel sounds. They sounded beautiful. I could not help but swoon.

He didn't break the intense stare. I raised an eyebrow, waiting.

"I wasn't teasing when I said I wanted to live with you. I'm hopelessly yours."

That was his answer! The night of our first date, when I asked where he'd live if he could choose anywhere in the world, he'd whispered two words. "With you." I thought I was hearing things. Dramatic, life-changing things.

"Marriage is forever, through thick and thin. Death before divorce." I asserted, heart dancing in my chest. Because I knew, as unexpected as the moment was, it was not on impulse.

Evan hadn't gotten where he was in life by accident. His fame may have begun with an unexpected surge of popularity in an Indie film, but the staying power came from him. From his decision to capitalize on the moments he was given. No matter how spontaneous this trip seemed, I had a sense that each move he made was deliberate.

"I wouldn't want it any other way." His eyes shone with sincerity. The cloak he was wearing reflected a gray tone into them. When he put his head back, the lights hit them, and then I saw the hazel.

"Okay."

His mouth was open, as if he was preparing an argument. But when he heard my response he paused and folded his hands across his lap. "Could you elaborate, please?"

I supposed he needed a bit more assurance than a simplistic, wide scope acceptance. But at that moment, I had the strange sensation that I was sitting outside my body, watching the whole scene unfold. It was glorious.

The waitress set a plate of fries and gravy between us.

"Thank you very much," I directed the comment towards the woman without looking away. "Evan, you're my best friend. What else is there?"

The corners of his eyes fell a little and he nodded his head. I sensed an apprehension that made me wonder why he bothered asking if he was going to be so . . . Oh crap.

"Of course I'll marry you."

He leaned forward, examining my face. "This isn't the alcohol talking?"

"I am a little buzzed, but completely lucid." No matter if I had three drinks or thirty, the answer would have been the same.

"So, it's a yes?" His pasted mustache fell from one side, revealing a gorgeous, silly smile that illuminated everything in proximity.

"Yes!"

He jumped up, pressing his lips to mine and overpowering my senses. In plain view inside the little, packed sports bar. Gawking eyes be damned, I imagined him saying. Nearly everyone in there was dressed up like cartoon characters anyway, and we blended right into the madness. His throaty laugh sounded through my lips as I found myself jumping up and down.

"Can I get you anything else?" A flat voice asked.

He reluctantly let go, turning towards the waitress. Her irritation with our public display was unmistakable.

"The check," Evan said and bent to pick up my pumpkin stalk hat.

The waitress walked off.

He turned back to me with a smirk. "She didn't like that."

I laughed, covering my mouth to control the volume. I wanted to scream. If it was a dream, I never wanted to wake. Everyone loved him, especially me. And I couldn't see any reason to wait for something that would undoubtedly happen one day down the road. This was the next logical step.

Evan reached into his pocket, then set a wad of cash on the bar. Before I realized, there was a credit card in my hand. "Meet me in the Grand Chapel in two hours. We'll have a real minister in a real church."

I opened my mouth to object—I had my own money—but he raised his hand, silencing me. "I have things to take care of and you have to get ready."

"When did you plan this?"

He wiggled his eyebrows. "I'm very sneaky."

"What about the weigh-in?"

"Sorry to disappoint you, love, but the only naked guy you'll be seeing tonight is me."

He turned to leave. I grabbed his arm. If he thought he was getting away that easily, he was mistaken. He responded by praising me with his eyes, placing a sweet, small kiss on the corner of my mouth.

"Two hours. Don't be late, Mrs. Matthews."

His ring was a classic, platinum band. I guessed at the size, having nothing to go on except the memory of trying on one of Evan's rings by the sink in his bathroom. As luck would have it, that ring fit nicely on my thumb and so did this one. I paid, then ran off to find myself the perfect dress.

Every shop inside the gigantic mall-thingy surrounding the hotel carried some form of wedding gown. But the idea of wearing something traditional when getting hitched in Las Vegas seemed so . . . predictable, tacky. I pondered over the type of dress while paying a visit to the salon.

It seemed I needed a whole team. The stylist made me remove my pumpkin suit before brushing out my hair. So I sat in the green leotard as he rolled it up in several pieces and pinned them together on the back of my head. It looked a lot like a French twist, but better and prettier. While that was going on, another girl did my mani-pedi, and another still, worked on my make-up. They tried to talk me into a wax, but with my sensitive skin, I had to decline or I'd be covered in red welts for the next two days.

By the time I left the salon, I had exactly one hour to find a dress, shoes, a bouquet and get back to the chapel.

I wished Lily was here to help me. I fought with myself over calling her, but in the end, decided not to. She was going to be pissed when she found out, but she would have tried to talk me out of it and I didn't have time for a fight. I could put that off until after the ceremony.

Mrs. Grace Matthews. Mrs. Grace Zuniga-Matthews. That's better.

I squealed, internally, at the prospect, clapping my palms together. It was all I could do to keep myself from behaving like an idiot in the crowded strip full of strangers. It was just like Evan said, I wasn't scared or worried. I was dancing.

Passing in front of the last shop at the far end of the building, it looked like as good a place as any to try and find a dress. It wasn't a bridal shop and they had hundreds of lovely gowns to look at. I went straight to the salesgirl behind the register and told her what I was looking for.

"Something simple, but sparkly; sexy, but not too revealing; light tones, not white, but with a little color so my complexion isn't washed out when I have my picture taken. Oh, and I need it in thirty minutes, so there won't be any time for alterations."

I saw her mentally taking stock, measuring what I wanted against what she had on hand. She looked me up and down and guessed my size right on the money, then changed to a smaller number. I knew we'd get along just fine.

She dutifully walked towards a rack near the dressing rooms. I followed, staring at a dynamic display of shoes. My mouth watered when I spotted one pair that, if carried in my size, were so mine! I couldn't pronounce the designer's name, but the look was off-white, pearl-finished stilettos with a large ornamental bow affixed at the back. Delicate strands of pearls hung in tassels from the bottoms of the bows. I swerved to the right when the salesgirl went left, picking the first box with my size printed on it before joining her at a large circular rack in the back of the store.

She started sorting right away, asking, "What's the occasion?"

When I told her, she offered an empty congratulations and kept working, pulling out various gowns for me to approve. After I gave a negative response to the first three, she quit asking and started setting aside certain ones. When she had a nice selection, she showed me to the fitting rooms.

The horrible fluorescent lighting used in nearly every ladies fitting room makes no sense. It made me look old and green. One would think that they'd have fabulous lighting to make everyone look young and skinny, no matter what they were in. They'd sell more clothes that way.

The first dress was short with long sleeves, and white and purple accents. And too tight around the shoulders. I slipped it off and set it over the top of the door. The second seemed more 'me'. It was black and white, very long with bedazzled cuffs. When it came off the hanger and landed on my back, it looked awful. The fit was all wrong.

"Can I come in?" The salesgirl asked when I grumbled.

"Why not?" I sighed, unlocking the door.

She discreetly stepped inside. "Well, that's not the one, is it?" She clicked her tongue, then started on how tragic it was that some things looked fabulous on the hanger and terrible on a person, and how she wished designers would stop making clothing for hangers.

As she chattered, the second dress came off. She sorted through the pile hanging on the wall behind her, taking out one that I told her earlier I didn't want. She must have slipped it back in when I wasn't looking. As I tried to maintain a sense of dignity, she slipped the third piece on me, flipping me around to face her.

"Oh, now this is good." She touched my hips. "The fabric isn't gathering like the last one. Does it feel alright? The fit is great." She set my arms out at my sides. "The blue embellishments really set off your eyes, and the cream color should photograph well. It's the black I'm not sure I love." She shook her head. "Turn around for me."

The dress was strapless. Evan would like that. The sheer material of the bust line was tastefully decorated in delicate, beaded ropes of gold, blue and black, mimicked at the high waist. From there, the strip splayed down the back of the dress, flowing to the hemline. The form-fit was comfortable and lovely, feminine and not too restricting. It looked much better on me than it did on the hanger. And the overall look would match the shoes I'd chosen.

"I'll take it."

As I examined the intricate designs on the bust, her fingers slipped inside my dress. There was a tug and yank as she ripped my bra away.

"There, perfect," she said, before she seeing my top half had gone south. "I'll go grab a strapless push-up." She checked the tag of the one in her hand and crept out without another word.

I walked out in the dress, my green leotard and pumpkin suit in the shopping bag.

The first flower shop I found was, not surprisingly, near the chapel. I walked in and made my request for a small bouquet and looked over a glass case with several samples. I chose one with small white flowers and a single blue violet. It was exceptional. With no time to spare, I walked—tip-toe was more like, my heels were so high—to the chapel.

A guarded woman met me at the door to the sanctuary. When I told her my name, she let me pass and directed me towards the figures hunched together at the front of the church.

Everything around me floated away. The cascading flower arrangements at the end of each row faded, taking their lingering aroma. The muffled voices that could only belong to Evan and the minister fell silent beneath my hammering heart. The pulse beat in my ears. I closed my eyes, trying to focus as I took in the scent from my bouquet. Three deep, cleansing breaths.

When I looked again, my eyes locked on him. And there was only him.

Even with his back to me, I could tell Evan had forgotten to comb his hair. I smiled through the nerves, thankful for the faithful mundane. He looked divine, clad in a navy blue suit that fit like it was made for him. It was so unfair that he should have such a frame to look good in everything. A nervous chuckle bubbled up from nowhere.

Evan turned at the sound. The look on his face, in his eyes . . . He was the reason I had to do this. His lips puckered, forming a silent 'wow.' He smiled, brilliantly. I raised my bouquet, drawing another long breath and hoping the floral aroma would help make the transition from fantasy to reality. I was floating, barely making contact with the carpeted aisle as my pace quickened. The height of my heels brought me to almost eye-level. He smiled and kissed my cheek.

"I've chosen the vows for us." Evan pointed to the section I was to read from.

"Let me see," I snatched the paper. "Look at you, making all the big decisions without me. Marriage is a partnership, you know." The mocking reprimand was ruined by my uncontainable grin.

"You can change them if you want. I don't mind." He ran his hand through his hair as if he'd just remembered something.

I scanned the paper, eyes welling as I took in the lovely words. "These are perfect." Simple and beautiful—so fitting, they must have been written just for us. "You're very good at choosing scripts." He beamed as I stepped in and kissed his cheek.

"Now that we are all present and accounted for," the elderly reverend waved his hand around the empty room, "shall we begin?" He motioned for the witness in back to come forward.

"Yes."

"Yes." A quiver broke through. I put my hand to my lips.

The reverend cleared his throat. "If you two don't mind, I'll skip through the parts about the gathered family and friends."

"I'm fine with that if you are." It made no difference what anyone said, or rather didn't say, I had everything I wanted in front of me. Nothing else mattered.

Evan nodded in agreement.

And so it began.

"We are gathered here today to join Grace Rose Zuniga and Evan Rhys Matthews together in a vow of marriage, which is built on love. With love, comes faith. A faith that says you believe God has blessed you with the gift of the person before you. If your devotion to one another in love and faith is the foundation of your relationship, then it will grow from this day to the end of days." The minister's time-weathered voice echoed in the empty space, emphasizing the significance.

"I pray, God bless you with the courage to care for one another in times of trial and tranquility. May your love never be obscured by the familiar, and may you both find comfort in the faults that surface as time passes." He trained his gaze on Evan.

"My cue," he mumbled with a nervous twitch. He took my hand and cleared his throat. His eyes burned into me, through me, as he spoke. "I, Evan, take you, Grace, as my only love and my friend, to be with you, even when we are apart. To honor you, in good times and in bad, asking that you be no one other than yourself. Loving what I know and trusting what I have yet to learn."

"I give you this ring as a symbol of my vow to honor you with all that I am and all that I have, in the name of God and His son, Jesus Christ." He pulled a ring from his pocket and slipped it on my finger.

My ring . . . Holy Cannoli! I'd never seen anything like my ring—easily the most stunning piece of workmanship I'd ever laid eyes on. The stones, five emerald-cut diamonds surrounding a ruby, set flush into a thick platinum band. The gems were laid in the shape of a cross that wrapped around my finger, with the ruby at the heart. It was precious and breathtaking. I was flabbergasted by the enormity and beauty.

From the look on Evan's face, he was pleased with my reaction. I whispered a word of thanks before reciting my vows, which were the same, only not as eloquent as his. He spoke clearly, with conviction. I stumbled, struggling to speak through the tether on my throat, and came undone when slipping the band on his finger. It fit.

I thanked God for everything He'd given. Especially Evan and waterproof mascara.

The scratchy voice sounded again. "Evan, do you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife?"

"I do." He didn't hesitate.

"Grace, do you take this man to be your lawful wedded husband?"

"I do." My acceptance sounded just as choked as his.

The minister smiled, giving permission, "Husband, kiss your Bride."

It seemed my husband had been very busy in the last two hours.

The doorframe to our new suite surged within inches of my head. Evan seized upon me, sweeping me into his arms and nearly dropping me in a poorly executed attempt at romance.

"I'm dieting!" I hung on for dear life, squealing.

He steadied himself, adjusting his grip around my thighs and back.

"Never let my inability to comport the masculine tradition of carrying my wife over the threshold influence you into thinking you're anything less than perfect." The bright red filling his cheeks was either stress or chagrin. "I'm consistently awful at lifting."

We laughed raucously as he carried me into the luxurious, two-story space. I marveled at the plush carpeting sticking up between my toes once I kicked off my shoes. We headed out on the private terrace and turned on the spa for later. Inside the full kitchen, Evan presented me with a glass of champagne before I ran upstairs to check that our bags had been delivered.

Inside the master suite, the first thing I noticed was the enormous bed mounted on a platform in the center of the room. And my stomach plunged.

Typical me. I was at the precipice—jumping into the air—and suddenly worried about the consequences I'd increasingly enticed him with?

Decidedly ignoring my bubbling anxiety, I locked myself in the bathroom and turned on the shower, doing my best to be quick and thorough. Just because my stomach was in knots that felt like boulders was no reason to keep him waiting.

My husband is waiting. I bit my lip.

After, I slipped into the lush robe that hung near the shower. The fact that I'd neglected to pack anything for the occasion had not escaped me. The nicest underwear I had with me was the bra I'd just bought. All my bottoms were plain cotton. If I'd thought ahead at all, or had any inkling as to the way things could play out, I would've brought something. As it was, though, I had no plan to sleep with Evan and he gave no clue as to his intentions, so any thought of the necessity never crossed my mind beforehand, and when it should have after, it didn't. So, I was stuck with the hotel robe.

Thoroughly moisturized and sweating bullets, I steeled myself for presentation.

On the other side of the large white door was my new husband. I wondered what he was doing. One worry was that he'd be on the bed, sprawled out, naked as a jaybird. A grin crept in as I tried not to think of it. I wanted him to be waiting, of course, but the idea of something so cheesy . . . I'd probably laugh out loud and that wouldn't go over well.

I turned the knob and pushed.

Thankfully, the bed was empty. I searched until my eyes fell on him, slouched in a plush, two-tone high back chair across the room. A furnishing I'd missed in my passing inspection. He was in his dress pants and a tank top, salaciously holding an unlit cigarette between his lips.

My insides quivered as I sauntered forward. The closer I got, the faster my breath came. He stared at my fluffy robe, tied up nice and tight.

"Do you like my pedicure?" I asked, unsure, and stuck out my leg, baring just enough hip. My damp skin tingled in the dry air.

He ignored my feet. "Yes, very sexy."

Encouraged by his reaction, I dimmed the lights. "I didn't plan on needing any lingerie." My speck of confidence increased with the dark.

Evans stood and reached forward, landing a hand on the robes belt. Instead of pulling like I assumed, he hooked it, drawing me closer. "Would you like to dance, Mrs. Matthews?"

My name danced on his lips.

He raised a remote, pointing it at an iPod dock. The sounds of the Paper Tongues' "Get Higher" filled the room.

"I love this song," I whispered, as he led me in a sensual rhythm that didn't match the music. His hands moved up along my back, one twisted into my hair.

My insides squirmed with delight and anxiety. I hadn't let myself consider what we were about to do. If I had, I would've given in. Now, I would pay the cost for being an insecure prude.

"I'm—I mean, Evan, I've had two children. I'm not eighteen anymore."

He sweetly touched my chin, smiling. "You're nervous? Must I explain the nature of the heterosexual male? We don't run from naked women. We seek them out. Some of us are quite diligent about it. And, there's no rush, love. We can go downstairs, hit up the casino, or I could get you drunk first." The comical raising of his eyebrows made me relax. "Really, whatever you want. No rush."

Another song started to play. Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb". The sensual guitar work filled the atmosphere, stifling my nerves and feeding my growing desire for his touch. Evans lips skimmed the length of my face, from forehead to chin. He whispered my name, kissing my cheek, working his way down to my neck. Something he knew would drive me crazy.

"Why do you do that?" He whispered.

"Do what?"

He pulled back and set a hand over my heart. "Tremble when I touch you."

I shook my head, "I don't know." I never realized.

"Because you love me?" He pulled me back into his chest, his breath licking at my skin.

"Yes."

His long fingers stretched beneath the folds of my robe, setting my skin on fire. "Because you want me touch you?"

"Yes." My breathing picked up.

His eyes glowed with promise. "I shall give you what you want, then."

He planted a very serious kiss on me. His tongue parted my lips and danced in my mouth with frenzied fervor, worshipping me. His hands tangled into my hair, holding me to him, pressing me closer. In that moment, I knew. I made him just as crazy as he made me. We'd both been holding back. The force his lips exuded was grand and spectacular. It made the robe slip from my shoulders.

It hit the floor with a gentle thud and Evan stepped back, staring. The indulgent way he looked at me was usually a real confidence booster. But right then, his excited inspection seemed to magnify my weaknesses.

"You're so beautiful." He breathed, stepping back in to peel my hands from my chest. "Here, I'll hold these for you."

The unexpected humor made me laugh. I threw my arms around his neck as he effortlessly lifted and carried me to the bed. When I congratulated him on a job well done, he chuckled, urging me to hold off on the thanks.

He laid me down and stripped off his tank top in one, smooth move. His chest was beautiful. Soft and hard at the same time, with a perfect smattering of hair on the center. He seductively pressed himself onto me, and the bare skin of his stomach slid against mine. That's when I felt it. An awakening of something deep inside. It rumbled, tuning me into those dark, forgotten places. Every cell in my body was turned up in anticipation.

Evan's soft hands held my face as he looked deep into my eyes. "I didn't know love until the moment I saw you."

My heart expanded as he took my mouth once more. Fervent and with reverence. My fingers scraped the finely tuned muscles of his back and he groaned. The sound shook me to my core. That door that was shut so long ago flew open, suddenly blown off the hinges. I let myself feel the lovely ache, the wanton hunger, as I was consumed by his glorious lips moving in rapturous ways, seducing me. He whispered sweet affections in my ear, caressing me with his words.

He said he loved me and he needed me to love him, too. He'd planned to marry me since the first night he spent at my house. He told me that, though he was not one to pray, he'd begged God to make me say yes.

His thumb grazed the corner of my eye, wiping at the emotion he provoked. Then his soft hands were everywhere, bringing a new splendor all their own. Evan made love with his body and his words. The feeling was mesmerizing, intensifying my aching need. The hunger grew as we became a rhythmic tangle. And I could not get close enough, touch him enough, feel him enough. I was ravenous, an unwitting cannibal, anxiously devouring every part of him.

I reached for the bottled water on the nightstand as Evan took up a cigarette.

"Were you thinking about him?"

I looked back as he propped himself against the headboard. "What? No. I was nervous." And out of practice, which must've carried over. "I'll do better next time. Sorry."

I heard the release of air as he sighed. "If there's an apology to be made, it should be mine." His hand touched my back. "I shouldn't have asked. It's just . . . I don't think I've made anyone cry before. That usually comes after."

I looked up from the blankets to see his smirk. "I couldn't help it." Everything he'd said . . . the sweet words came back to me and I felt the lump rise in my throat.

"No, I couldn't help it—that's another reason to apologize. Though, you did make me wait a long time. So, I could argue that everything's your fault."

He smiled. I stared back, wondering.

"Don't make me say it out loud."

I thought about it for another minute before understanding hit. "Oh," I giggled.

"Penny dropped, eh?"

"You think you were a little . . . quick on the trigger?" He acknowledged with a red-faced nod. I teased, "Don't be embarrassed. I hear it happens to a lot of men."

He hid his face in the pillows and regret seized me. "Evan, I'm sorry, I was only joking—Evan, don't be upset."

I grabbed the large down pillows he'd buried himself under and pulled. His iron grip was unrelenting. I tugged, spewing grunted apologies with each jerk. My problem was a lack of leverage. After adjusting my position, I jerked the pillow again. It moved and he was suddenly looking at me with bright eyes, biting his bottom lip.

"Are you mad?"

He shook his head 'yes' but said, "No. I was actually thinking about flipping a coin to see which of us is going to buy more jolly bags." He wiggled his eyebrows.

"You remember that I take birth control, don't you?" This was common knowledge. Not that I'd made a formal announcement, but I took them every day—many times in front of him—along with my vitamins. Sometimes I even forget to put them away.

"Since when?"

"Since I turned fifteen."

"I thought you said I was the only one you dated?"

"You are, silly. That's not why I take them—how can you not know this? I take them to regulate my period."

"Why didn't you tell me not to use a condom, then?" He raised his voice. "These are things a man should know right out of the gate, not after crossing the finish line."

"I thought you wanted to use it—you just put it on without saying anything." I thought he was being responsible. I was actually a little impressed.

"I was trying to be helpful, and I didn't know you were on the pill."

"Well, you do now." I spouted, matching his volume, motioning the obvious with my eyes.

He was quick on the uptake.

# November 3rd

Intimacy. I had no idea how much I missed it until I felt it again—when he gave it back to me. Every time Evan touched me, casual or not, I had to have him. He loved my exuberant responses to his advances, or lack thereof.

The weekend had gone by much too quickly. And as much as I hated to leave the uninterrupted bliss of our hotel room, I missed my kids. Maria was probably pulling her hair out. Halloween had left the boys with copious amounts of sugar and energy.

While I made my last sweep of the apartment, to make sure we weren't forgetting anything, Evan was trying to close his overstuffed bag. I'd offered to help several times, but he insisted he could do it. When he grunted, exasperated with sore fingers, I offered my help once again. He stepped aside, cursing at the zipper. I opened his bag, took a few things from the top and stuffed them into mine, then closed them both.

"That's cheating," he scowled.

Leaving the fantasy land of our hotel room was daunting. Only because I hadn't spoken with anyone. I called the house a few times but no one answered. But they hadn't called, either. Evan said he spoke with Noah, so I wasn't worried. I'd decided that with Maria no news was good news, and set my mind to other, more impractical matters.

"We should get a new bed."

"I think we should get the one with the canopy you were looking at." Evan mused as he set the last of our bags by the door and fell into the soft chaise. I'd tested his endurance the last few days.

"Your taste is too extravagant for me." I sat across his lap, facing him.

"I thought you 'loved the wood.'" He smirked. "Turns out you were telling the truth."

I acknowledged the euphemism he was so proud of with a light laugh. "That bed was beautiful, but there's no way I'm going to spend so much on one piece when I'll want a whole set. That reminds me—the couches were supposed to be delivered yesterday."

"They were." He wiggled his eyebrows and that was enough. I leaned in and kissed him in a way that meant I wanted more than a kiss. "You know, we have to leave soon." He mumbled, but grabbed me when I started to pull away, stretching his arms around me. "But it's a long drive. Who knows how long it will be until we're alone again."

"We'll have the whole night." I reasoned, contradicting myself by removing his jacket.

After a quick shower, we dressed again and set out for the elevators with our overstuffed luggage. When the doors opened, we stepped in and I pressed the button for the lobby. Evan held my hand as we descended the dozen or so floors. My mind went back to the day we first spoke. A small moment in a place he had only been by chance—a moment that changed my life forever. He was no more than a kind stranger. I apologized for touching him. Now we were bound by rings that signified our commitment.

"Did you see the inscription?" He asked, noticing how I was gawking.

I pulled the ring off for the first time and inspected the band until I found the small elegant script.

Mon Seul Amor

"What does it mean?"

"'My only love,' which is what you are." He slipped the ring back onto my finger and kissed it.

Thankfully, the doors spread open after a loud chirp. Part of me, though grateful for my incarceration, was still spooked by the whole incident. Every time I got into one, I had to drive away the unreasonable fear of never getting out.

Against Evan's objections, I took all I could carry with me to the car while he checked us out. On the way, I had to refuse several employees who were trying to wrangle me into using a luggage cart. That was not going to happen. Evan would've considered it a potential breach of privacy. All bags had to remain in our hands at all times.

The tires hopped roughly over an unexpected speed bump and I could tell my Jeep was going to need new shocks soon. The jolt woke my new husband, who'd fallen asleep an hour into the trip. I laid the seat down and gave him Caleb's car blanket. He sat up and looked around, rubbing his eyes.

"Do you want some coffee?"

"Hell yes, I want coffee." He garbled through a huge yawn, stretching out his arms. His left hand swept across the front of my shirt, fondling me in a quick, fluid motion. I giggled, flattered and amused.

As we rolled to a stop in front of the drive-thru menu, it was payback time. I reached suggestively between his legs to pull the lever and right the passenger seat. It made a loud popping noise. I imagined a brittle spring bursting from the bottom as the back of the reclined seat flipped up and smacked him. The folded blanket he'd used as a pillow flew into the windshield. I laughed at his surprised expression.

"Actually, get a dozen scones, too."

"Hungry?"

"They're for everyone. You know, this is the first time I have a home to go to. There'll be people waiting for me—well, you and hopefully me."

A lump lodged in my throat. "Marcus might be there, that's one."

He smiled. "And Noah. He secretly prefers me, you know."

That might be true. Noah was very supportive of my relationship with Evan. "There's two."

A screeching voice greeted us through the speaker. I gave our order and pulled forward. Evan threw on a hat under his hood. When the drive-thru window opened, we were greeted with an ear-splitting squeal. I searched for the emergency, but all I found was a waify brunette with a very young face. Her gaping grin was streaked with fluorescent braces as she screamed into a green headset.

"Rhys! Is it true? You married Rhys Matthews!"

I looked to him and he looked back as she continued to ramble.

"Oh my gawd, you did! Oh my gawd! I'm—it—this is crazy! You're here! Is it true how much the ring cost? Oh my gawd, oh my gawd!"

She kept screaming at us and I could not focus enough to understand why. Then, Evan's demeanor changed, switching on the persona, Rhys, for yet another obvious fan.

All at once, I deflated. He tensed, his posture became erect, and he nudged me, giving a 'snap-out-of-it' look as he stretched towards the girl outside the window and shook her hand. I noticed the money was still folded inside mine.

He flashed an unnatural grin. "When did you see this latest story, out of curiosity?"

"Oh! Rhys! I've seen all your movies! She's so pretty!"

"Thank you," I acknowledged, remembering how I handled the waitress at the museum. "If it isn't too much trouble, could you get our things? We're sort of pressed for time." I was instantly repelled by her gawking and had to get away from it.

It took a minute for her to calm down. Evan asked her, again, to carry on with her duties. She finally opened her hand and as I passed the payment, the jewels in my ring captured the sunlight and her attention. When she walked away the window closed, giving us a little privacy.

"I want to go home."

"Looks like the cat's out of the bag." Evan's nervous tic surfaced—he plucked at his eyebrow.

"Was I rude?" I knew I'd have to get used to these kinds of things. Still, my foot nudged the gas pedal.

"No, Gracie, you were fine." The corners of his eyes pulled down. He looked as upset as I felt.

"I can't kiss you now, can I?"

"I'll kiss you for the rest of the day and night, once we get into the house." He worked up a weak smile as the drive-thru window opened.

I turned to take our goods and found—besides the expected drinks and scones—a group of employees had gathered. They were pressed together just inside the restaurant window. Six sets of eyes raked greedily over us, mostly him, making comments, asking questions, and offering their congratulations. I took the bag, set it in my lap, the drinks, handing them off to Evan, and then stomped my foot on the gas. The engine sputtered as we took off with a screech.

"Keep the change!" Evan yelled out my window as the restaurant turned to scenery in the rearview. "You almost left her a stump!"

"Aw, geez, should I go back and apologize?" He laughed. "What's so funny?"

"You're a perfect mess."

He spent the rest of the drive telling me how wonderful I am and how he was positive that I could handle anything as long as I remembered to stay calm. When we came to the entry gate for my neighborhood, it was rolled wide open so I didn't have to stop and type in the pass code.

Coming around the last bend on my street, right away we noticed several vehicles parked in front of the neighbors' houses around the dead end street on both sides. Marcus' car was on the driveway and Lily's was in the usual spot.

"Stupid gate."

"Don't be nervous. Drive in like you usually do, only park inside from now on." He patted my thigh. "You can do this."

I gave a quick, determined nod and proceeded slowly up the lane with my stomach in convulsing knots. I tried to clear my head, ignoring the pounding fear that made me want to punch the gas. About twenty feet from the driveway, I hit the button to open the outside gate. As it rolled slowly open, Arnold started barking. He was out of the dog walk, roaming through the front and back yards with the hackles on his neck standing at full attention.

It was a swarm, a sea of heads half-covered by cameras with sporadic lights and nonsensical chattering. I couldn't tell them apart through the blinding flashes that left burning white spots in my vision. It was all shrill voices demanding answers, making assumptions, and shouting instructions.

"Over here!" "Rhys, how did you propose?"

"Does Gretchen know?" "Rhys! How was the wedding?"

"Rhys! Show us the ring!" "Rhys! Left!" "Rhys! Rhys!"

It was beyond weird and unprecedented—a new level of strange. They asked if he dumped Gretchen for me and how long ago. They told us to kiss. They wanted us to stop the car and pose, to get out and speak with them before we even saw our families. They wanted to see our rings. They offered money for wedding photos and honeymoon details. They were rude, noisy, and everywhere. In every window, blocking my path and blinding me. It was sensory overload. Everything was too bright, too noisy, and moving in different directions all at once. They were too nosey and couldn't care less how we felt about the intrusion. Never mind the fact that I could've easily killed one of them. Accidentally, of course.

I wanted to throw the car in reverse, but they were behind us now, too. I squinted, trying to see my destination beyond their barrier, but it was too bright. I eased my foot off the gas.

"Don't stop, you'll never get through," Evan instructed. "Here, put this on. Keep going, they'll move, just keep going." The flashes came more rapidly when he took off his hat and set it on my head. There was a collective "aw!"

The visor from his ball cap helped a little. I could see well enough to know that the sea of people was not as deep as it seemed. The garage was just beyond them and they were moving, inching along the borders of the car. I could get through it.

The throng stayed at the property line as we crossed over. So they had at least one physical limitation. The banging against the outside of the car gradually stopped as we rolled from the street up the drive and into the open garage. We waited for the door to shut behind us.

"Thank you, God. I didn't kill anybody." I closed my spotting eyes. "That was scary."

"I'm hiring you a driver. I don't want you dealing with this any more than you have to." His arms encircled me as he kissed my neck. I was on his lap in a flash. He held my face between his hands, reminding me he planned to make good on his earlier promise.

My controlled smile broke free as I thought of how wonderful it would feel to kiss him all night long. I scrambled from the car. "Let's go show off my ring!"

Making my way up the hall, the voices of Maria and Lily floated, expressing distaste for the scene outside. Maria, to my great astonishment, was defending me, telling Lily to take it easy on me. I scurried into view to avoid overhearing any more.

Caleb leapt from the table the second he saw me, barreling into my waiting arms.

Maria was in the final stages of making her pozole and it smelled wonderful. On the kitchen island she'd laid out several bowls of garnish. I spied several varieties of salsa near a mass of finely chopped and seasoned cabbage. My mouth watered.

Evan came from the hall with Noah behind him, slapping him on the back. I gave my boy a big hug and kissed his cheek. Noah smiled and wiped it off, giving me a huge smile and his congratulations. Lily didn't say much, aside from gushing over my ring. And I had to agree, it was gorgeous. Caleb was glued to my leg, hugging on me like I'd been gone for a year. I asked him about Halloween and trick-or-treating and got the behavior report from Maria. Gold stars for everyone, even Marcus.

As Evan settled in at the table, I moved off to the hall with Lily for a chat. Caleb turned immediately to Evan, who was very pleased with the attention. His little arms clung to Evan's neck the same way they did my leg.

As soon as we reached the shadow of the hall I said, "I'm sorry."

"For what?" she asked, coolly. And I knew to tread carefully.

"I didn't call, but you would have tried to talk me out of it." My poor explanation made her face pucker. "I wanted you there."

"You didn't even call me!" She started to scream, then composed herself. "I really don't want to talk about this now." She pushed passed me.

"Shoot! Lily!"

Her glowering eyes turned on me, tears pooling in them.

"How can I make this up to you?"

She took a step back. "You have two major problems, Grace. Three, if you count the fact that you're compulsively naive. First: you can't make this up to me. But what's done is done. I'll get over it. Will you? Which brings me to your second self-inflicted problem: you just stepped into a world of shit! The stink of it is affecting everyone around you." She stalked off to the dining table to take her fury out on the bowls and spoons.

"Well . . . you're a butthead!" She didn't bother to acknowledge my weak retort. I was not angry, but knew I would be once her words had time to sink in.

I was not the only one who loved Evan. Noah took an immediate liking to him. They talked comfortably about things I had to pry out of him. Evan called him before he proposed. Noah gave him permission! Caleb seemed sure he was the greatest thing since sliced bread. Maria fawned over him. His charms had purchased the hearts of everyone. Lily remained the only un-beguiled one among us.

Part of me wanted to wonder about her growing aversion, but I pushed the unpleasant thoughts aside and made my way back to the dining room in time to see Maria congratulate Evan with a kiss. He flushed as she wiped a splotch of ruby lipstick from his forehead. I sat down beside him, filled with wonder. She welcomed him so easily, I was almost jealous.

In a moment of unexplained generosity, Maria invited, then guided Evan from his usual spot next to me, to the head seat at the end of the table. The very place Sol used to sit. Physically, the move was small—only one chair—but the meaning spoke volumes. The transition was so smooth I wondered if she realized what she was doing. But Solomon was her only son, how could she give the sign without realizing the importance of it?

Lily's jaw dropped open. Marcus reached over and clamped it shut for her. A move that obviously irritated her, but she kept quiet. I needed to learn a few tricks from him. The kids seemed to take no notice. They sat in their usual spots as Maria served everyone, one at a time, starting with Evan and ending with me.

Evan took my hand under the table. "We forgot to turn our ringers back up after the ceremony." My eyes widened. "And Sheri's on her way over."

My phone showed thirty-seven texts and fourteen voicemails. All from Lily. No wonder she didn't pick up when I called last night. She thought I was avoiding her the whole weekend. I scrolled through the texts first. They'd reflect the same meaning as the voicemails without my having to sit through the verbal thrashing, and hopefully, without too many insults. The first few were to be expected, short sentences full of importance:

-I just called and it went straight to voicemail. They said you checked out?

-I know you're partying, but call me anyway.

-Hello??

-In case you haven't noticed I need to speak with you!

-WTH? The next thing I ring will be your neck! Call me!

-ANSWER THE PHONE!

After that, they lost all courtesy. I looked across the table at her. "Sorry, Lil. I would've called if I realized—"

"I know." Her tone was sullen, pliable, but she was still pissed.

Maria offered the blessing and then we all started eating. Evan had never had pozole before. I showed him how to properly garnish the soup with cabbage and salsa to help extinguish the burn, but he declined, eating several spoonfuls before the heat kicked in. When his mouth was fully ablaze, he took a few lemon wedges. I guessed that wasn't enough because he snatched Noah's milk.

Little Caleb possessed an innate ability to tolerate the spice and didn't notice the heat.

"I tried to warn you."

"A simple, 'it's hot as hell' might've sufficed." He breathed through his mouth, trying to cool his tongue.

When the front door opened, the black night erupted with flashes. I'd made several calls about the security gate at the bottom of the hill, but the guards never had to deal with this kind of intrusion before and were having trouble rounding up everyone. I couldn't make out the shadowy figures behind the flash bulbs as they popped off in rapid succession. Some were just a continuous light hanging over the top of the wall that surrounded the front yard. Evan appeared unfazed while I cowered behind the open door. Arnold came running from the side and shooed the trespassers with his intimidating stature. A few continuous lights shifted, but that was it. Evan waved them off, ignoring all questions. Maria seemed overwhelmed by the scene, covering her face with her jacket. Evan walked out with her; taking one arm while Lily grabbed the other, helping Maria onto the high step of the SUV. She tenderly patted his cheek in gratitude. Her eyes held such unwarranted affection for him, it was difficult to believe she was ever anything but kind, though my memories of the past sixteen years told me different.

The shouting grew more intense the closer Evan came to the front door. When he walked back inside, Caleb was looking out the front window, his eyes filled with wonder and fascination.

"Why are they taking pictures?"

"They have nothing better to do." Evan shrugged.

"Why are they yellin' at you?"

He bent down to speak at eye level. "They think I can't hear their questions."

"I want 'em to go home." He frowned.

My heart clenched inside my chest. Lily was right. The stink was everywhere.

"Me too, Caleb." Evan patted his head. "Come on, we'll feel better after ice cream."

The new living room furniture, undoubtedly arranged by Lily, created a comfy conversation area. The flat screen was no longer the focal point. We sat on the couch; I on one end, Evan beside me, and Sheri on his other side. The opposing love seat was vacant.

Sheri was filling Evan in on the disastrous circumstances of some project that he'd wanted but wasn't getting because of something I didn't understand. It sounded like she was more upset than he was. Evan was distracted, constantly changing the subject or ignoring her to reassure me that the crowd outside would go away. He insisted that, at the end of the day, none of it mattered because they were all on the outside of our impenetrable bubble with only their speculation to fuel them. He said they'd get bored eventually and go away because I was not a public figure, therefore not interesting to them. So long as we ignored them, they could not touch us. It was the lighter shade of a dark situation to be sure, but I breathed a sigh of relief and crossed my fingers.

I looked beyond him while Sheri started talking about his upcoming work, emphasizing every detail as if it was of the greatest importance. He just nodded and indexed the corresponding dates into the calendar on his phone. Due to my positioning, I missed many of what I guessed were facial cues. Often she'd start to speak, his would head swivel, and then her sentence trailed off.

Evan swore he liked Sheri—that she was one of his two closest friends, but he didn't treat her that way. He treated her like an annoying little sister, like he might slug her if he could get away with it. Having an older brother, it was a feeling I was familiar with and sympathized.

"Have you told her yet?" Sheri chirped as I stared at Evan's profile. Half of her bright gaze was visible just beyond the slope of his nose.

"Told me what?" I asked, craning to see the rest of her.

"Not yet." He turned and her expression changed.

"Later, then?" She asked.

"Stuff it." With his left hand he caressed my thigh, with the other he shoved her shoulder. His eyes came back to me. "I have a surprise."

The automatic smile provoked by his stare surfaced. "Another one?" I flashed my huge, custom-made ring.

"It's almost as good." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"But it cost a lot more than—" Sheri cut off when his gaze shifted.

"Why?" He groaned. Again, his exact expression was a mystery. The harsh words gave indication. "Cost is irrelevant and none of your business."

"If a man gave me rocks like that, I'm asking for a price." Sheri spouted, indignant.

"That's precisely why you'll remain single, dear."

"Christ! I can't make a simple statement?"

His posture shifted. "Choose another expression."

"Sorry." She cast a glance in my direction, though I didn't catch her eye. "I forgot she was religious." She stood up, handing me her empty glass. "I'm leaving. Apparently, you two have a lot to talk about. It was nice seeing you again." She looked to Evan. "I'll call next week when I have The Rebel script."

"Read it and send the notes." Evan instructed, his eyes fixed on his phone.

With a patient speed, an odd sort of casual haste, Sheri made for the front door. Pausing just inside she spurted, "Stay out of sight, Grace. This will blow over as soon as some reality star has her sex tape 'stolen.'" She made quotes around the last word with her fingers before shutting the door.

She was probably one of those people that took some getting used to.

We were finally alone and all I wanted was to curl up beside my new sexy husband and watch TV Land, but I decided to grab the luggage from the car before I forgot about it altogether.

When I shuffled into the bedroom with our duffel bags and flicked the light, I stopped in the door way, amazed. My bedroom had been rearranged. And my bed was gone. Set before me, taking up nearly twice the space as its former occupant, was the giant canopy bed from the furniture store. The low end of the vaulted ceiling barely cleared the gorgeous pared posts.

"It's not the surprise, but it is for you." Evan's arms were full of folded black fabric.

My chest swelled, feeling like it might break open. "Evan."

"Do you like it? I thought, because you spent so much time staring at it . . ." his voice trailed off.

"She loves it," Noah appeared in the doorway and walked inside. "She's just a baby when it comes to presents. Right, Mom?"

My throat was too tight.

"As fate would have it, we were in need of a new bed."

I was overwhelmed by his thoughtfulness and the expense—on top of my extravagant ring and the surrender of his one, priceless possession—privacy. Our impromptu nuptials had drawn the interest of everyone and, while I knew it was a possibility, I could not wrap my head around it. I thought I understood, but the degree of attention was surprising. People were camped outside, enduring wet, cold, and possible sickness, ignoring the infinitely more important economic news and wars across the globe to report about the personal choices of one man. It was all so trivial. All the trouble he'd gone through for me and what it meant . . . he was so willing to do whatever for us. He wanted me to be happy and that meant everything.

I flew at him, wrapping my arms around his neck. "Thank you" kiss, "thank you" kiss, "thank you" kiss, "I love it!" Kiss.

He laughed, "You're most welcome."

"I told you so." Noah chided, rolling his eyes.

He was next on my list. I took his husky shoulders and squeezed him tight. Though he was a few inches taller than me and twice my width, I used his old nickname. "Little Stinker, you're not allowed to keep secrets from me." The reproof was ruined by my bubbly tenor.

"I was sworn to secrecy." He threw his hands up in surrender and I grabbed his nose between two fingers. I used to do it all the time when he was smaller—tweak his nose and pretend I stole it right off his face—and little Noah would complain he couldn't smell anything. He'd make a honking noise when I pretended to put it back on.

None of that happened this time. Noah just rolled his eyes.

"I'll give it back later." Part of me was a little sad he was too cool to play with his mom. But I totally got it.

Anxious to try out my new, enormous, feathery bed, I grabbed the step ladder and started hanging the black curtains. Evan lay across the mattress to watch and occasionally complained that he ate too much. His stocking feet hung over the edge, nudging my knees as I passed.

Next on my agenda was lounging.

But Evan insisted we sit in the living room. He and the boys made easy conversation as I fought back the yawns. The adrenaline rush had vanished and I couldn't wait to hop into bed. The fluffy mattress looked so inviting. I heard it calling my name.

He cleared his throat. "Have you forgotten about the surprise?"

I sat up from my slouched position with open hands. "Okay, give it to me."

He smirked. "It's too easy. And this surprise is not something I can fit in your hands, unless you want the deed."

Noah leaned forward. Apparently, he wasn't in on this one.

Evan looked to him, then me again. "I've purchased the five empty lots behind us, as well as the neighbor's house next door. For all of us."

"You bought my hill?"

"Only the top." Evan smiled, minimizing.

"The land is ours?" Noah asked.

"Bigger property, more privacy."

The lump returned to my throat. I couldn't speak.

Noah did it for me. He loved the idea. A place to ride his bike, or maybe build a half pipe with his friends. He was elated. I saw a sparkle in his eyes—one that told me he was happy, but in the moment, he really missed his dad.

We listened cheerfully as Evan proposed his idea of having Marcus move next door after Ray and Sergio vacated. Also, he was having a large brick wall built around the entire perimeter. There would be a higher security gate in front, along with very tall trees planted along the wall to maximize privacy. A landscaping crew was coming out the next day to get started. We all agreed on the idea, though I was sad to learn my neighbors were moving.

So much had changed over the past few days. I had a new life, a fresh start with a wonderful husband. At the same time, I'd gone from comfortable outsider to spectacle. A novelty, a topic of discussion. Determined not to buy into the negative aspect of this new life, I filed the problem away. Nothing could be done about it at the moment and no good would come from brooding. I'd already decided Evan was worth it, I just had to walk it out. There were plenty of things to keep my mind off the negative, anyway. Like, ten times the amount of yard to care for, as well as another house. I shared my idea of planting fruit trees in the extra space and extending the size of Arnold's kennel. Noah had the brilliant idea of extending the back of the house to form an enclosed patio around the swimming pool, so it could be used comfortably year-round. We all agreed it made sense, since the pool was heated and any added privacy sounded good. I inferred that, if we were doing that, we should also add another restroom and shower to the area, which Evan agreed was also a good plan. He thought, since we were having contractors out, we should also add another door to the patio in the master suite. Those were the immediate plans. I would not consider anything beyond the immediate.

Caleb's little head rested against my side, giving off the tiniest whispery snore. My heart melted at the sight of his angelic little face. I carried him off to bed as the conversation turned to Noah's birthday.

Evan's recent acquisitions were inspirational. Noah's sixteenth birthday party would be on our new property down the hill. My only condition, since Noah invited half of the sophomore class via mass text message while I was out of the room, was that Evan hire security. Noah objected immediately, but retracted when I gave him the option of cancelling all together.

"It's not unreasonable," Evan patted my leg, looking at Noah. "Do you honestly think there's a chance that people won't show up in droves? Security is essential to make certain that people won't become idiots, as they almost always do. It ensures that, no matter how many morons show, your party is going to be bloody brilliant."

I rolled over in our new bed. My legs were flaccid with that wonderful, jello-like feeling. Pink Floyds' The Show Must Go On softly floated through the dark of the bedroom as I caught my breath.

Evan held me tight, tracing the line of my collarbone with his lips. "Mind if I ask a question?" He raised his head to look me in the eye. "It's off topic."

"Of course," I answered, drawing back the dark canopy to fish for his tank top on the floor.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking no chances."

Marcus was sleeping a few rooms away and Caleb often made trips to my bed in the middle of the night. Some mornings I woke, surprised to find him next to me. I slipped on the shirt and nestled back into his side. Evan looked me square in the eyes, sending knots into my stomach. I answered the unspoken with a playful grin, loving the nature of our carnal communication.

"How were you able to look beyond how Maria treated you?" He raised his eyebrows. "No one would blame you if you couldn't."

"Why?"

"Noah told me what she did at the wake."

"Oh," I mumbled.

It was one of the worst days of my life and I expected it to get worse. Being that Maria blamed me for everything, I knew she'd blow a gasket—my mistake was in the timing. I thought if her temperamental bomb was to detonate it would be the morning of the funeral, the second she saw me. It didn't. So then, I thought at the church service, when they sealed his casket and she fell to her knees. Or the burial, when the cold dirt piled beside his final resting place screamed the horror that he was never coming back.

Foolishly, I started hoping that things might be different, that maybe the melancholy had taken the fight out of her the way it took the stuffing out of me. That wasn't the case. Her tirade came after I stopped looking for it. I was getting ready to leave the wake. I'd taken all the pitiful looks and, 'I'm-sorry-for-your-loss's that I could. I was sending Caleb and Noah to the car when Maria's open hand came flying towards me. There was profanity peppered with my name. Her face was contorted, an absolute possession screaming for retribution.

I was too stunned to react. Before she jumped on top of me, someone grabbed and wrangled her into another room. After a moment of shocked silence from other mourners, I picked up my purse and left with half of my face covered in Maria's burning red handprint.

"I was . . . guilty." I had to drag the words out.

"Really? Over . . . ?"

"Over the fact that I know she's right about me. In a sense."

"You're hardly capable of subtlety, let alone deception." His fingers pushed through my hair, drawing it back from my face. "Tell me why."

I took a deep breath and forced out the words. "She never really liked me, but she never treated me like she hated me until I got pregnant. And I can't blame her. I ruined his life." As the mother of an almost sixteen-year-old, I could clearly see why Maria's reaction was so intense.

Noah's childlike ways did not match the way I felt about Sol or myself at the same age, though his behavior was much the same. Noah's life could easily bear similar circumstances, which was why he'd been forbidden to date until he turned sixteen. He was smart and had a real chance to make something of his life, but he was still just a child. Just like his father was.

I thought Sol was so grown-up—he was only one year older than Noah when he became a father. Painted in that light, I saw how dense it was to think we were ready to parents. We were babies with babies. We thought we knew everything and had no idea how fast we'd have to grow up or how much we'd have to sacrifice. The price went far beyond the cost of diapers. Sol bore the brunt of the decision himself, putting off college for a more convenient time that never came.

"You think he wouldn't have married you?" Evan propped himself up on his elbows to stare at me.

"Maybe, but not until after college."

"Then you didn't ruin anything." He laid his head back on the pillow.

"But I changed everything. He was supposed to go to college. Instead, he had to find a job so I could continue my education and then he never went back. It seemed like whenever he wanted to step away from work, something would come up, like they needed to expand, someone would quit, or some other kind of business problem. Or I'd get pregnant."

I sat up. "Even right before the accident, Sol wanted to sell his half of the construction company and go back to school. Then, I found out I was pregnant. I never got to tell him, but I knew what it meant. He would've put it off, again. So when Maria brings up those subjects, I have nothing to say. I may not have planned for things to be that way, but that's how they happened. You know, I always do things like that, too."

"It's bad timing, nothing more."

"It's more than that," I argued. "Like, now that I have new furniture, I want new carpeting. I'm tired of the hard, cold tile everywhere. But I should have done the floors first. Then, I promised myself I was going to be more independent. I even talked to Dr. Lena about you and about going back to work, and she said work was a good idea because I needed to stand on my own before I could stand with you. Then I married you." I paused, considering how easily my words could be misconstrued. "Not that I regret it—I'm happy being your wife." The title made me smile. "But I think she was trying to tell me that there should be more to who I am than there has been in the past."

Evan brushed his hand against my cheek. "Gracie, there are millions of facets to who you are. All of which have very little to do with me, or him for that matter. You are that rare person who suffers no compulsion to gain approval. You live your life on your own terms and I admire that."

"I do things backwards. Have a baby, then get married. Get married, then get to know each other. Talk about putting the cart before the horse—I'll probably end up buried before I die."

He chuckled, pulling me back to his chest. "I asked you, remember? I know you have trouble saying 'no' to anyone. Ever."

I thought about my ring. The time he took in choosing the design himself, the obvious expense of it. "What would you have done if I had said no?"

His sweet smile turned dark. "You said 'yes'. But do you see a pattern, though?"

I shook my head.

"Every bit of blame, you take as if it's yours and run the other direction with it. It's not your fault that you rouse such passion in people." His fingers brushed along my shoulder.

"Would you tell me one of your faults now?"

"When I find one, you'll be the first to know." We both laughed and I relaxed, listening to the steady sound of his heart.

His confession came in a whisper. "My biggest flaw, aside from being painfully unworthy, is I'll do anything you want, Gracie. Without hesitation or regard for anyone but you." One finger touched my chin, drawing my focus from his heart to his eyes. "I need you, much too much."

Whatever Evan put his hands to, whether public or private, he was passionate. His love was zealous. Anger—consuming. His joy was ecstasy, just as contagious as his laugh. His encompassing arms kept away worry, as did his infectious smile. His face told me everything without a word. His shoulders offered friendship and his arms lent support. His legs were a foundation set beside me. He was my friend, my partner in life, and I loved him more and more every day. His touch was hypnotic, consuming, and controlling. It wiped away all clear thought.

I burned in the fire he kindled, responding the only way I knew how—with everything.

No Plan

The sobering scent of pine is strong as I leap from the would-be coffer. Lunging forward, one foot hits the ground. At the same time, I reach for the shining handle sticking out from the back of her belt. The second my fingers touch it, I toss my other foot directly between her shoulder blades, kicking with all my strength. In one quick move, I have the gun and she's falling into the hole she's prepared for me.

My fingers squeeze the trigger, but nothing happens. Fear shoots through me and I break to the side, making for the tree line, feet flying as if they've sprouted wings.

I'm at least twenty feet into the mangled foliage before there's any reactive pursuit.

I stray through the thickening woods in between branches of closely packed trees and vines, running around the things I can't jump over. The twigs and branches whip about my face and catch in my hair. My wrists stay locked over my stomach, guarding.

All I have to do is run and I can run for miles.

The colors of sunset deepen as hope rises, guiding every step as the bright of a full harvest moon hangs in the young night, lending its glorious light to my escape.

I breathe in the pine-smell of freedom.

# November 29th

Everyone was downhill at the opposite end of the property, helping to set up the tents and tables for Noah's party. Evan was overseeing everything, but he'd roped Sheri into helping with the last-minute details.

I'd already finished preparing everything for Noah's family dinner; the peach pie was cooling, the food was simmering. Now I was vacuuming the area rug in the living room.

Caleb jumped from the sofa when the doorbell rang, tossing his book to the floor. I gave him 'the look' and he stopped to pick it up, giving me time to beat him to the entry.

I checked the peephole to find Sheri waiting on the porch in a light pink power suit. Her face held an air of deep concentration that was broken when Caleb swung the door open. I couldn't resist his puppy dog eyes.

"Hi!" he hollered.

Sheri smiled down at him. "Aren't you a big boy, answering the door? Here's to a job well done." She shook his hand and passed him a few bills.

Caleb's face lit up. "I'm saving this to be rich," he chirped. "Thanks!" He ran to his room in search of his piggy bank. For his age, he was surprisingly conscientious.

Sheri looked to me. "Alright, I've got the big present. Open the garage so we can pull it in before Noah sees." There was an excited look in her eyes as she gestured to the giant red bow in her hands.

My feet unconsciously stumbled down the hall while the foggy thoughts fought to connect. My hand found the switch on the wall and the garage door rolled up with a rackety hum. As the large door drew higher, my eyes latched onto the shiny chrome and black tread. Soon, all I could see was the large, black shape of a pick-up truck. Noah's birthday present.

And red. There was lots of red.

My ears felt like they'd been stuffed with cotton. When did I reach this bizarre alternate universe where there was no such thing as parental authority?

Marcus stepped out of the driver's seat. He and Sheri were going on about how exciting, how wonderful it was. They couldn't wait to see the look on Noah's face when he saw his shiny new truck. There was nothing wonderful about any of it, but I was very excited. I could tell they were both under the impression that Evan and I had discussed this extensively and decided, together, what to give Noah for his birthday.

I wanted to vomit.

Marcus must have picked up on my mood because he suddenly had to leave. Sheri lingered, going off to find Caleb. I think he was her favorite person. Aside from Evan, he was the only one to whom she expressed a true kindness—everyone else, she just put up with. She was always giving him things, playing games with him, doing her best to spoil him when she came around. I didn't mind because she was hardly ever around.

I closed the garage and went back to vacuuming. Vigorously. A minute later, Sheri tapped my arm to let me know she was leaving and mouthed the words, "Evan is coming," as she left.

When Evan entered, all was quiet. He noticed my demeanor immediately and sighed, taking me by the arm and leading me towards the bedroom. But Caleb was on the bed, playing fort under the canopy.

"We can talk in the garage," I suggested.

I followed down the hall to the large dark door and stepped in after him. I wanted him to see the shiny, black death trap. I wanted him to explain.

But he smiled.

"Good, it's here," he sounded relieved. "I was running out of reasons to keep Noah away."

"Sheri and Marcus dropped it off a little while ago."

He looked at me for a moment. "What'd I do wrong?"

"You bought him a car." The accusation was a livid whisper.

"He's sixteen. He should get a car for his birthday."

"You didn't think this was something you should share with me?" I asked incredulously, getting angrier by the second. "Marcus and Sheri knew all about it. They helped you pick it out. You cannot give him a car. He has to earn it."

"I think he has already," he said, lightly.

"How is he going to pay for insurance and gas?"

"I'm doing that."

"No, you're not." The arrogance! "I can't believe you didn't talk to me about this."

"There's no reason for him not to have it. Grace, he's a good kid."

"Yes," I agreed, "he's a very good kid and you are not giving him a car!" I stomped my feet, asserting my point.

"Oh, I call bullshit!" He banged his fist on the hood. "Why? Because I'm not his father?"

"You leave his father out of this!"

"What else does he have to do?" Evan was yelling now, too.

The fight had begun and he came out swinging—ticking off the reasons on his fingers.

"He's a good student, occupying all his time in sports and school-related activities, he has his driver's permit, he's getting his license next weekend. You won't have to taxi him around."

Did he really contend that things should be so simple? I tightened my lips, unable to think through the mounting frustration.

"Don't you do that." He raised an accusing finger at me. "Don't stop talking to me because you don't like what I'm saying. You can't make a demand without giving adequate reason. I've gone through a great deal of trouble to get this for him."

I swallowed, trying to choke down the lump in my throat, but it wouldn't budge. Soon, Evan was tired of waiting. He cursed and kicked the plastic barrel of dog food.

"Hear me out. I've put a lot of thought into this," I glared at the choice of words, but he ignored me, making a circuit around the garage as he explained. "It's a truck—no room for snogging in the back seat, or friends to distract him from driving. It is a manual shifter; he can stay focused on the road. It's the safest type of truck in its class, and it's used, so you can't object to the cost. And if he scratches it up or wrecks, it's not too much to repair."

Tears sprang from my eyes. I turned, trying to blink them away before they escaped.

He stopped pacing. "That's it, isn't it? It's not that I can't give him the car. You're afraid to let him drive it."

"How could you do this? He's my son." I pounded my chest with my palm. The action made me think of a big gorilla beating his chest in a show of strength. The contrast was pathetic.

"I didn't know it would worry you this way. I suppose I should've, but . . ." He ran his hands through his hair. "I'm an ass."

"You cannot give him this truck."

"Gracie, he's been through driving school. You're being over-protective."

I was expecting something along the lines of a retreat, an offer to forget about the whole thing, so the jumbled words didn't make sense at first. I blinked away the blur to see his face. His eyes were soft and warm, his expression bemused.

"What?"

"Explain to me why he can't have it."

"Evan, I don't want him to. That's enough."

My head suddenly felt like exploding and I couldn't articulate. All my reasons were encased behind a wall of . . . he just couldn't have it.

He stepped close to me, looking down into my eyes. "You're going to let your fears keep him from something he deserves? A rite of passage? That's not like you, Gracie."

I touched my hands to my knees for support. When he leaned in, I didn't push, I hid my face in his shirt, torn between kissing and shoving. He waited quietly while I gathered my wits. But a deep-seeded fear lashed at me, curling up my spine, and prickling my scalp.

What if he's right?

"Please, love. You can't teach them to be afraid." His arms cradled me while his words crushed me to bits. "I'll make you a deal—I promise to support whatever decision you make, so long as you promise to think it through first. Compromise, eh? Do what's best for Noah, yeah?"

The only thing I really wanted to say, scream really, was "NO!" But what I actually said was, "I'm taking Arnold for a jog."

The fall air was crisp. We were headed to the park down the road. I planned to make a trip around before heading back to the house to give my answer. If Evan needed to wait a few minutes for me to repeat myself, then he could wait. Maybe I'd go around more than once. I needed to blow off some steam.

The soothing beat of Arnold's feet against the concrete kept time with mine. It was an exhilarating rhythm that helped clear my head and made life's problems a little less overwhelming.

As we left my street, a large man appeared behind us. I pretended not to notice. I mean, the whole point of the outing was to clear my head. I couldn't do that if I was letting every little thing bother me.

A half block later, I crossed the road and peeked back. The man was still there, wearing flashy sunglasses, though the cloudy sky seemed to promise a storm at any moment. His acid-washed jeans and tight pink t-shirt weren't exactly running attire.

Arnold looked back and I corrected him with a slight tug of the leash. He obediently turned to fall back in pace with me. I made myself focus on the road ahead and moved faster, which pleased the dog. As I crossed the street, heading for the edge of the tree-lined park, Arnold started to pant. I realized I needed to slow down and made a conscious effort to move at a more leisurely pace. At this rate, we'd be home before I had a chance to think, negating the purpose of the outing. Arnold complied, obediently matching my measured pace.

"Who's a good puppy?" I praised in the generous tone he recognized. His tail wagged back and forth, slapping my leg like a bullwhip every time it went right. I gave a little more slack to the leash and let him out ahead of me, hopefully saving myself a bruise.

My eyes focused on the deciduous trees as I considered Evan's reasons.

Noah was a good student and responsible. He participated in so many things, sometimes it was hard to remember where he was on a given day. He had been a great help to me and a wonderful example for his younger brother. Logic that I could not argue with. Evan did put a lot of thought into the gift.

My temper flared. In all his thoughtful considerations, he neglected to tell me what he was doing. But he couldn't help being impulsive. His spontaneity was one of his best qualities. It was the total lack of consideration that really bothered me. How could he be so . . . insensitive? Didn't he think of me at all?

Rage unconsciously quickened my pace. We were halfway around the park already. Once again, I made an effort to slow.

I tried to put myself in Evan's shoes. He did have a tendency to overlook things that I found obvious. It had to be because he was so much younger than me. I couldn't blame him for that. A person couldn't help when they were born anymore than they could help who their parents were. I'd made similar mistakes myself at his age.

I shuddered at the idiom. His age. . .

He'd never had a serious relationship before, and that took getting used to. It was probably a simple oversight on his part and nothing more. He did apologize, after all. I was sure he'd never do anything like that again. He'd know better next time and react accordingly. Case closed.

The anger left as quickly as it came.

We stepped onto the last segment of sidewalk before the turn onto my street. I still had to deliberate over the gift. The benefits for Noah.

I visualized myself handing him the key. How happy he'd be, his face lighting up. Genuine smiles were hard to come by with him. But just because it might make him happy didn't mean he should have it. What kind of parent would I be if I just gave him everything he wanted?

And the roads were treacherous. Especially for teenage boys. Statistically, young men were involved in more accidents than any other group of drivers. They had the highest insurance rates. Gas wouldn't be cheap, either.

No, I reasoned, I really didn't care about the costs. Digging deeper, I asked myself the real question. Why didn't I want Noah to have a car?

The faces of my parents and Solomon flashed in answer. The matching marble urns Aunt Rose had picked out. The mangled metal of Sol's car. The plastic bag filled with his belongings sliding across the counter of the Coroner's Office.

So my real fears—and there were so many—all centered on me, because of my experiences. Though I tried to pretend it wasn't there, in the back of my mind there was always that constant fear. A whisper of a scream that shouted some day, something beyond my control would swoop in and take them all away from me.

Evan's words replayed in my head, "you're going to let your fear keep him from something he deserves? That's not like you . . ." It wasn't like me. At least not the me that he knew. Not theme that I wanted to be.

The fear that accosted me after Sol's sudden death ran rampant for months. I was an orphaned child all over again. A single parent to misery. I was tortured, terrified for everyone I loved. It cost me my unborn baby. It took months to work up the courage to pass through the intersection where he was killed. I decided since then that I wasn't going to allow fear to take anything else from me. But was this included in that decision? I supposed it would depend on why I didn't want Noah to have the car. Was it my fear that he wasn't mature enough to handle the responsibility, or just plain fear?

Obviously, Noah would want the car. He'd be licensed next week. I had put him through a rigorous driver's training course with an enhanced focus on Driver's Safety. They used a special vehicle that operated on a delayed reaction, to mimic the brain when impaired by alcohol and drugs, to discourage driving under the influence. Noah needed no inspiration in the area of safety. Every day was the living, breathing consequence of distracted driving. I knew he'd be a responsible driver.

The quivering answer in my gut was nauseating. He had to grow up and I had to let him.

Rounding the corner at the bottom of the hill, I came up along the road home and saw the stranger was still there. As soon as I came within range, he spoke kindly to me, as if we were friends. He asked how Evan and I met, how he proposed, and why we were suddenly married.

To willfully ignore someone that was speaking to me went against everything I was ever taught. Walk in Love, Momma used to say. Be kind, be courteous, be helpful.

My heart filled with sympathy until he asked why the Rhys Matthews would leave a huge star, like Gretchen Bakker, for a plain old nobody, like me. Ignoring him came easier after that.

I kept walking, lugging Arnold behind me. It was that unexpected misbehavior that caught my attention and sparked the memory of a neglected necessity. I forgot to stop for Arnold. He probably needed to tinkle. Maybe more. But in my rush to get out of the house, I also neglected to bring the doggie-doody bags. I was also sincerely irritated by the man's ceaseless questions regarding things that were none of his business and was not about to stop.

Guilt threatened my resolve and I slowed, letting out the leash so Arnold could lift a leg if he needed to. But he lunged back. I spun to see what he was doing and relaxed. His ears were pinned back. He only wanted to smell the trailing stranger.

But the man jumped away, kicking and squealing in a high-pitched overreaction. Honestly, it was the way most people reacted when they didn't know how gentle he was. Arnold's size—considered large even for a mastiff—was the only thing people saw. A stream of accusations and profanity poured from the man's mouth. He was convinced Arnold was trying to attack.

"He didn't mean to frighten you. He just wanted a sniff," I said. "Really, he's a gentle giant." I patted Arnold's head and he sat back on his haunches, panting a dripping doggy grin up at me.

Maybe I should have warned him of what I was doing before I did it, but it was difficult to find a heart for consideration when I was so annoyed—and the petty part of me was delighted that Mr. Shiny Sunglasses On A Dreary Day was the one who was uncomfortable now.

He didn't respond, but launched into another set of questions, encouraged that I spoke to him. I turned around and started walking to the house. Nearly in front now, I picked up the pace.

"I overreacted," he called.

I turned back. "And I'm sorry he scared you."

A camera appeared from behind his back, blinding me with a sudden flash. It was weird. He had no reason to want my picture. Who was I? And the way he talked, while enthusiastically hunching behind a camera. He wanted a courtesy, yet gave none. He said he had a right to know, but ignored my right, Evan's right, to be left alone. It didn't seem human. Picking and prodding at every chance; hounding with relentless, repetitive questioning. It was rude, unnerving, and most sincerely strange.

Arnold's ears turned forward. He seemed to associate the redundant snapping sound with a feeling of discomfort, intrusion. To him it was a threat. Not far from my own associations. I tugged the leash, commanding him to heel, and asked the meanie in pink to step back. He stepped forward, continuously clicking.

Arnold responded to his proximity by lifting a leg. I gasped at the surprising, ardent precision as he sprayed all over my unwanted guest. My eyes were glued to the stream of smelly, steaming urine jetting onto the man's jeans and flip-flops.

I heard the laugh before realizing it was coming from my mouth. The sound signaled the absolute end to any pretense of civility on the part of my company. The curses and accusations flew once more, silencing my intended apology.

The whole matter was funny, a sort of Providence, rather. And the more he swore, the funnier it became and the less apologetic I felt. I chuckled as he called me every name he could think of. I giggled at the insinuation that I was after Evan's money. It was the obvious tactic and so obviously not true. I cackled when he threatened to have Arnold put to sleep.

"That's why he married you," he raised his camera to get my reaction. His lips curled up, "because you're pregnant?"

"I don't see how that's any business of yours." With that, I turned to walk in the front gate and bumped into Evan. When our eyes met, I knew he'd heard everything. A protracted vein pulsed on his forehead. His hands were clenched in fists.

Diffuse this, I thought. It would only get worse. I touched his shoulder and smiled, "Arnold peed on him."

He stared at me for a moment before cracking a smile. "I saw the whole thing from the path." His posture relaxed. The snapping started again when he stretched his arm around me, but I maintained the grin. Arnold growled as we bid him inside with us.

Back in the garage, Evan sat on top of a large work bench. "The more I think on it, the more I regret not feeding him to Arnold."

I was hunched over the utility sink, scrubbing the backsplash of urine from the leash.

"You shouldn't have said anything." Sheri leaned towards me.

I wiped away an unruly hair with my forearm. "I wasn't trying to make your job more difficult."

"It isn't my job I'm concerned about." She glanced at Evan. "We're going to be hearing about this one. Having said that," she turned back to me, "I do love your dog." She focused back on Evan, "Brainless move on your part, letting her go out alone."

He shrugged, "I don't care what they say. We know the truth. I don't pay any attention to the shit—sorry, love—the stuff," he corrected "that blows around. So why should she? Why should you?"

The aside was directed towards me and I wondered if Sheri detected the difference in his tone as easily as I did. The two words he spoke for me were sincerely repentant, terribly sweet in contrast to the bitter way he spoke at her.

She returned the tart intonation. "She isn't the one that has to avoid questions about it." Her volume increased, "They have you connected with Gretchen one day, and married to some unknown the next."

Her eyes briefly shot at me, possibly to see if I was offended by the reference.

"Where's Marcus?" Evan asked me, making a point of ignoring Sheri who was standing in front of him.

"I don't know." My shoulders sank. I hated when they fought.

"Evan, are you listening to me?" Sheri asked, stepping in his line of sight.

"Where's Caleb?" He asked, solely training his eyes on me.

As I started to answer, Sheri beat me to it. "They went with Lily to pick up her mother before the party. Evan, you have to think—"

"I know Sheri. Damn! Do you think I haven't thought of every angle a hundred times over?" He lowered his raised voice, "But she's not pregnant. We weren't even together until after we were married."

"Evan," Sheri smiled sweetly, "I don't give a rat's ass when or where you put it to her."

"Watch it!" I turned to look at him, surprised by his icy tone. His eyes held a deadly glare. "I'm done with you. Go. I have to talk to her. Alone."

I wanted to disappear. We'd need to talk about the way he treated her. I could not bear witness to one more callous conversation. The mutual disrespect and cruelty was intolerable.

The door to the house slammed shut.

A second later, Evan's arms enveloped my shoulders. I struggled to properly rinse Arnold's leash as he kissed my neck, sending chills all over before backing away.

"Have you decided?"

"Yes." After leisurely wringing the harness, I laid it out to dry on a utility shelf over the sink. When I turned to face Evan, he was leaning on the hood of the truck, looking model-sexy with his hair perfectly mussed and his black v-neck tee. His eyes were bright with expectation as he ran one finger over a bodyline.

"He can have the car but—"

"Yes!" He pumped his fists triumphantly over his head, marching around the cavernous garage. "I win! I win!"

"I have a condition."

"Give it to us then," he waved his fingers in a decadent come-hither way, inviting my stipulation.

He was so disgustingly cute and competitive when we disagreed. I crossed my arms, trying not to smile. "He has to get a job and pay you back and—"

"I thought you said one condition?"

"And," I continued, "You promise to discuss ALL major purchases with me from now on."

"Done, and done." His hands rubbed together greedily. "It feels good to be right. Now, let's make up."

We were all talking over one another. The joy in Evan's eyes swelled as he watched the family interaction around the table. Though he never said, it was evident that one of his favorite parts of ordinary life was conversing at the dinner table. A standard part of my life—ours. He considered himself privileged to have a family to eat with.

Lily and Marcus were involved in their own conversation. Caleb was being his charming self, doing his best to annoy his older brother. I served everyone's drinks and took my seat near Evan.

"I would like to say something," Maria pushed up from the full table. All eyes fix on her and the room went silent. "My sister, Isabel, is not doing well. Her sons are too busy to care for her, so next week, I am leaving for Mexico City to help her."

The questions rolled in. She'd be gone several months, she suspected, and said she was selling her house. Lily, Evan, and I offered solutions, offered to pay to keep the house up until she got back, to have her sister brought up from Mexico to be cared for by American doctors, but she refused, saying her sister was older than she and might not survive the trip. There was also the red tape of passports and visas to consider. In the time it took to get them, she may get worse. Old age waits for no one.

"Enough of me," Maria cleared her throat and raised a glass. "Noah, you are sixteen years old today. That's a very important age. It goes quickly, so be sure to pay attention and make wise choices. I love you very much." Her eyes filled. "You have so much of your father in you. I know he is looking down from heaven today and he is proud."

We took up our cups and drank, solemnly marking the resonant absence. Noah's eyes welled.

Caleb's curiosity was piqued—he wanted to know about his dad. His inquiry lifted the mood, somehow. Maria and Lily answered every one of his questions, and he was very pleased to have their full attention. I chimed in when there was an opening as Caleb wondered, in hope, if he shared any of his father's respective traits.

His expectations were met and lifted with responses from all of us. He walked like him, he talked like him, and he even had a mole in the same spot on his right hand and the same slightly crooked pinky as his father. I was relieved at how easy it was. The joy was there alongside the pain. I felt the weight, but was not crushed beneath it.

We called to mind family gatherings, stories about Solomon and what he was like at sixteen. Maria and Lily marveled at Noah, how he reminded them both so much of his father. From his build to his character, everything he had was a living reminder of Solomon.

Evan began rubbing his temples. I touched his back as he rose from his chair. He quietly excused himself and stalked towards the bedroom.

When I entered, it was dark. A muffled gag sounded from the closed restroom. It repeated several times before the flush signaled his sick fit was over. I waited for him on the bed. When he came out, his eyes were bloodshot, his complexion pasty.

I touched his forehead. "No fever, but you feel clammy."

"I'm fine."

I pulled back the blankets on the bed, but he sank to the ground beside it. "You can't get an apple from an orange tree."

"What?" I asked, unsure if I heard him right.

"Have you heard the expression, 'There's nothing new under the sun'?" He stared intently at the carpet between his raised knees.

"Yes," I crouched down on the floor beside him.

"Are they really so much like their father? I thought Noah had your personality." His hand nervously pulled at his eyebrow.

"Does that bother you?"

He scoffed and his sad gaze became rough. "This has nothing to do with Sol, so don't worry. It's about me." He slouched against the bedside, setting his elbows on his knees, and the flood gates opened. "I was wondering if I have any of his traits." He paused and took an unsteady breath.

"It's strange that I could be anything like someone I've never met. To be a part of something I know nothing about and loathe thinking of." He shook his head. "I've wondered if he was tall or lean—are my eyes hazel, like his—did he have uncoordinated fingers? Was he prone to binge drinking and casual sex or did he marry young, or both? Is there something I only thought was mine to attribute to him?"

He looked to me.

"I don't know what to say." I had no expectations when I came after him, but this was the last thing I expected.

"If the similarities your sons carry, the traits I recognize as being solely theirs, really belong to their father, then how can I—who have never known my own roots—call anything I have my own? Because a fruit only reproduces the same seed." His eyes begged for disagreement. "You can't get an apple from an orange tree. Can you?"

I shuffled closer, taking his hand away from his pinched brow. "Orange trees produce oranges. But those seeds make their own roots, Evan. They grow into a whole new tree, separate from their origin." He looked down and I touched his chin, the way he always did to me. Silently asking him to look at me.

When we locked eyes again, I continued. "My boys are very much like me and their father. They share traits but they're also unique. We share blood, yet we're individuals, as are you. Who you come from doesn't determine who you will be, any more than what kind of car you drive determines where you drive it."

I waited, staring into his pained face, waiting for his reaction.

"But you'd never take a boat into the desert." He shook his head. "I don't want children."

I felt something in my chest constrict as I turned away. My eyes immediately spied a small, purple shape on the carpet in the corner. I wondered if Caleb had been chewing gum.

Evan touched my cheek. "Did I hurt your feelings?"

"We never talked about it before," I shrugged.

"Thank you for listening." He offered a weak smile.

"Anytime."

"You'd better get out there. They may think we're up to something." I hesitated, but he insisted. "I'm good, you go. I'll be out in a minute."

Back in the dining room, everyone was clearing the table for the peach pie and ice cream. For the family party, Noah opted to skip the conventional things like singing and cake. My way around the injunction was a birthday pie, despite the fact he considered himself too mature.

Maria unceremoniously served the pie while Noah started opening presents.

In all the emotion of the day, I'd nearly forgotten how anxious I was about the truck. But the nerves came back with a vengeance as I tried to take a few pictures. My hands were shaking. When Caleb looked at me a moment too long, I sent him to get the present I left in the bedroom.

Lily gave Noah a small, flat envelope, which he promptly shredded. There wasn't much that could fit inside a birthday card, but Lily still surprised him. It was crammed with gift certificates to his favorite stores, along with money. He was pleased, and thanked her. Lily accepted, citing that he didn't express what he'd wanted for his birthday and she was not about to guess. Marcus went next. Another wad of money, stuffed in a blank card. Noah thanked him with a light slug in the shoulder and a smile. Then, it was Maria's turn. She gave him a gorgeous, handmade quilt. Everyone made loud 'oohs' and 'aahs' as he unfolded it to give us all a better look. It was large enough for a queen size bed, all black on one side and golden brown on the other. The blocks of fabric, inlayed in a lighter brown, created a detailed framework. Inside each block was a picture of exotic African animals. One showed a lion with a huge mane surrounded by several lioness and their cubs. Another patch depicted a tiger, crouching down in the tall grass on the golden plains, ready to pounce on an unsuspecting Zebra as it drank on the bank of a narrow river. The surrounding earth was cracked and dry. The details and stitching must have taken her months.

When Caleb was about to burst from excitement, I set the beautiful quilt aside and handed Noah our gift. The card said it was from Caleb. It was the present I intended to give Noah before I knew . . . my stomach lurched and I took a deep breath to relax.

Evan was back and watching me. My anxiety hadn't escaped Lily's watchful eyes, either. She questioned me with a look. I waved my hand, dismissing my nerves and her curiosity. There was nothing to be concerned about. It was just me, being a big chicken.

She set her hand on my shoulder. "Do you want me to take the pictures?" I nodded and handed over the camera.

Evan's lips touched my temple. "Keep it for yourself, he'll never know."

Noah tore open the box and gasped when he saw his dad's old leather biker jacket. It was his favorite. I'd had it cleaned and treated.

"Isn't that Solomon's?" Maria asked.

"Yeah, it was Dad's." Noah slipped his arms inside, checking the fit of his new coat.

"You look very handsome, Noah." Sheri commented, handing him another envelope, undoubtedly full of money.

Evan placed the large black key in my hand as Noah gathered up the spoils, setting them on top of his quilt to carry to his room.

I won't let fear make choices for me.

"Noah." I called.

He turned before entering the hallway. "What's up?"

"You missed one." The small key felt like lead. "Evan, would you?" I passed it back to him.

"Yeah, um, sure." He cast a studious glance before getting up.

I heard his excitement before I got to the garage. As soon as my feet hit the concrete floor, my son was hugging me.

"Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Aw! I never thought—not in a million years—you'd ever get me a car! Thanks, Mom!"

"Promise to be careful."

"Every second!" He vowed, pecking my cheek. I hugged him back, fiercely.

Evan stepped in, laying down the terms of the deal we'd negotiated and Noah agreed to any and all. Anything to keep the truck.

I tried to smile, to enjoy the moment. He deserved that much. I kept my feet planted in one spot as my son stepped towards the driver's seat. When he reached it, I could not breathe. I wondered if I'd want to panic. Now I knew. I rested my arm on Evan and concentrated on breathing.

His father would think I was being an idiot.

Noah was cheering, checking out his new truck. Caleb's roar was more of a mock than anything. The reaction from everyone else was quieter than I expected. Lily's jaw was hanging open, and Maria was also very quiet, aside from her initial gasping.

Noah looked to me, begging permission to try out his new present. I consented, with poorly veiled reluctance, to a supervised trip around the neighborhood.

Only Marcus and Sheri made a show of appreciation when Noah got in the driver's seat. Sheri started to clap, but stopped when she realized it was a solo effort. Marcus jumped into the passenger side. He'd agreed to be the first, as long as he got to check out the stereo. Noah, possibly guessing how I felt, said he didn't want music.

"It might distract me," he explained with a confident grin.

I relaxed a little, the hope that I'd made the right decision being somewhat mollified.

Caleb asked to go, but the idea was shot down. He barely made the request and three resounding voices shrieked a negative.

Noah studiously went over a rehearsed checklist, putting on his seatbelt, checking the mirrors, adjusting his seat. He looked behind him, backing out of the garage and into the street.

"How could you give him a car?" Lily started in as soon as they were gone.

What I suffered to allow this was plain. There was no reason for her to question my decision, except to invite an argument. I was not in the mood.

"What is that look?" She snapped.

Evan stepped in between us. "He's with Marcus. They'll be fine. They're only going 'round the neighborhood."

"No one asked you, Evan. This whole thing was probably your idea."

A new intensity lapped at the edges of my shrinking patience. It was throbbing and white hot. It was bad enough to have her yelling at me. But not him.

"Lily, he's going to be fine—"

"So what if it was?" I interrupted, stepping around Evan to look her in the eye. "Why does it matter who thought of it? Because I am his mother and I'm perfectly capable of deciding what's best for him. Noah is a smart, responsible boy. I've put him through driver's training and now he's getting a car because we want to give him one."

"I asked you about this." She pointed a finger at me. "I begged you to let me help—for months. Why would you keep this from me? Mom, do you believe this?" Lily threw up her hands with scorching incredulity.

Maria stood opposite me, leaning against the utility sink. She shook her head with a familiar loaded expression. Our reconciliation began on thin ice and Maria didn't need ammunition, just a target.

"Grace knows exactly what she's doing. Things will work out the way she wants them to." The remark, though seemingly innocent, took on a different meaning with her venomous tone.

And there it was—the matchstick comment to my short fuse. Ignition inevitable. The pooling acid welled in my stomach, burning as it lurched up my throat and into my mouth. The words I wanted to say swirled in my head, blazing with malevolence. I could not believe the fire. I actually wanted to hurt her.

"What exactly is that supposed to mean?" Evan asked.

"I've had all I can take from you." It was nothing like what I wanted to say, but was simply the nicest way I could think to tell her to shut the heck up.

Lily was already brimming with remorse. I knew she didn't really have a problem with the car—it was the wedding she was upset about. And in her subconscious search to pick a fight with me, she'd picked two.

"We were celebrating," Evan reflected. "How does it go from bliss to shit in less than ten seconds? It's just a birthday present."

I looked to Lily, mumbling. "Get her out of here."

"Grace, she didn't mean it like that."

"Yes, I did." Maria corrected. "You'll ruin him, too." She pointed to Evan. "You take from them to live! Bruja!"

"There's the woman I know. It's nice to see you again, Maria." In a way, I was relieved. I knew what to expect from this Maria. The new, kind, caring one scared the crap out of me.

"Maria, you can't talk to Grace that way. I think you should leave." Evan waved his hand to Sheri and she walked out the side door to the backyard with Caleb.

Maria paid him no mind. "You think I don't see what you're doing." She pointed her aged finger at me, her eyes were slits. "He'll find out how you are. He doesn't see it now, but he will."

"That's enough. Leave, now."

Lily huffed, getting in Evan's face. "Don't you talk to my mother that way!"

"It should have been you." Maria seethed, wagging her finger and switching to Spanish. The cruelty rolled from her tongue. Some insults were very clear and others, not so much. Soon, she was going too fast for me to keep up.

In the past weeks, Maria had been nicer than I ever hoped. She made me like her. I always wanted to, but actually feeling it and then hearing everything she was saying—the words cut deep into what I thought was thick skin. Her niceties had scrubbed away my calluses, leaving me bleeding.

I ran for the laundry room, knowing if I only could have kept my big mouth shut, things wouldn't have gotten so ugly. Through the thick door, I heard Evan arguing with Lily over whether or not she should come and talk to me. She wanted to, but he wouldn't let her.

I was glad.

Challenges

In the dim light visible between shadows of trees, I'm running. Until my foot catches in some underbrush. My injured shoulder burns as my hands fly out. The handgun disappears into the dark and I flinch. I hear rather than see it land in the matted undergrowth, out of knowledge. For a half second, I wonder if the safety is still on. Then, realize I just dropped my protection.

Stay and look, or keep running?

The echo of stirring foliage makes up my mind for me. I break into a jog, building as much speed as I can while weaving in between the packed trees.

Soon the number of trees begins to taper. The ground begins to swell, sloping up as I continue in a steady pace, going as fast as my legs can carry. My balance is threatened as the swell quickly becomes a steep hill. To my left, I can just make out another slope where the ever present foliage seems less dense. I might move faster that way, but would have to sacrifice my cover.

I remind myself that the quickest way through is always a straight line. Besides, after I lose my tail, I still have to be able to find my way back to the car.

Clouds overtake the moon and the black of a country night sets into the woods. It reminds me of the cornfields surrounding Ronnie's house outside Kansas City—the way they disappear after sunset. I'm moving slower, but keeping a steady pace, feeling my way along by scraping my feet along the rocky ground, keeping my hands outstretched and ready, in case I fall.

Occasionally, I stop and listen. Most times, there's nothing but the lonely songs of crickets. This time, I hear snapping footfalls. The effort of a quiet retreat has slowed me considerably. I pick up the pace, trading anonymity for a clean getaway.

Fear builds inside me. The adrenaline helps to keep me going as I wrangle up and over in the mysterious, suffocating dark. The next time I stop to listen, I hear no pursuit but keep trudging steadily up. The ground is still climbing, growing steeper with each step.

My shoulder is getting worse. I can feel the swelling with the side of my face. It throbs continuously in painful twinges that make me think I have a growing hematoma. And the joint grinds when I move it. But I can't think about that.

Grabbing at the roots of plants, I'm hoping to gain ground more quickly. The incline sharpens and soon I'm using my hands as much as my legs. Invisible thorns prick my fingers, dirt digs into my nails. The pain in my head makes its way into both of my shoulders and back. Icy wind comes in freezing bursts, thrashing against the sheen of sweat that covers me, making me shiver.

When I come to a spot that isn't so steep, I take the time to pull the hood up over my head. I want to find a shrub and climb underneath it, but fear keeps me plodding along.

# January 4th

It was a new normal. No Lily, no Maria, and hardly any Marcus. It had been just us and the kids. That was the way we preferred it, but I still wished Lily would start taking my calls. I went by her apartment last week to call a truce, but we just got into a bigger fight.

She felt slighted because I married a stranger. She thought Evan was crowding her out. She was my life-long friend, my family. Evan was my husband, a part of me. Wife and Sister; they were two completely different roles that worked within close proximity. She thought of Evan as an intrusion. It was absurd, but whether it made sense to me or not wasn't important. It was how she felt and I couldn't discount her because we disagreed. But we both needed some space right now.

The hours had turned to days, the days melted to weeks and now, much too soon, Evan had to leave again. The first trip was only a few days, but it was miserable. He'd been back about a week and neither of us were looking forward to his leaving again.

On the couch beside him, I scuttled a little closer, unable to keep myself away. I'd noticed the way I unconsciously held onto him, whether a subtle pat on the shoulder or tugging at his shirt while we walked. Some part of me had to touch part of him.

He smiled, stroking my cheek with his thumb as he continued telling me about his recent trip to New York. "It was rather irritating. I expected some to ask after you, but I didn't think every single one would."

"What did you do?" My tone went up an octave.

"I hope I appeared genuinely surprised when Sheri cut off the interviews."

"You did." She peeked up from her Blackberry and assured him from the sofa opposite us.

"I wanted to punch most of them before they even asked the question." A smug smile drew up the corners of his mouth. "It's no small wonder I've never been able to quit smoking. The pressure is amazing." His manner was so at ease, I found it hard to imagine that he could've been as upset as he described. But he had been smoking more often since he returned.

I responded by leaning in closer. He lifted his arm and set it around my shoulders, kissing the top of my head.

"When does your plane take off?"

He looked intently at me. I stared back, concentrating, trying to burn the image of us into my mind.

"Eleven a.m." Less than a day. It would be four months before we sat like this again.

Sheri was laughing at Caleb as he tried to blow bubbles the old-fashioned way. She'd convinced him that using his bubble gun was a cheater's method. Her phone rang, she answered in a professional tone and excused herself. She shoved Caleb out the back door to supervise the proper use and technique as he blew sputtering breaths into the bubble wand.

Evan pressed his palm against my cheek. I pressed it to my lips, savoring the feel of his soft skin and wonderful scent. He leaned in, burying his nose in my hair and inhaling. My mind ran over all the miserable days I'd to be forced to muddle through without him.

"I want you all on the plane with me tomorrow."

Tears pricked at my eyes. We'd been over it so many times. It made no sense to pack up the kids, to uproot their lives, for six weeks. And they'd just started back at school. "Evan. I can't."

"Promise you'll come see me every weekend."

"Every chance I get." I kissed his shoulder through his shirt.

"I miss you already." He cradled my head against his chest.

Sheri burst in through the back door. I sat forward—her stern look of concern alarmed me. Evan settled deeper into the couch, slouching back and closing his eyes.

"Evan?"Sheri said. .

He opened one eye. "What?"

"I'm heading for the office. I didn't bring my computer." She waved and rushed towards the front door.

"Glad I don't have her job," he muttered.

"What is it? Why is she so upset?"

He shrugged. "If it was something I should be concerned with, she would've told me."

I stretched my legs across his. His eyes fell on my fluorescent green and orange fluffy socks. "Where did you get these horrid things?"

"Sheri gave them to me. There's matching gloves and a scarf, too."

"There's more?" He plucked the tip of my sock.

"I can't believe you do not remember them." I huffed, feigning upset. I loved my 'horrid' Christmas present.

"I should fire her for giving you something so hideous." He shook his head. His features softened when he turned back to me, grinning. "And, if I'm ever looking at what you're wearing, it's only to imagine what's underneath."

"I guess not everyone can appreciate a wonderfully thoughtful gift of warm, fluffy, funky socks like I can."

"You're proud to have poor taste?" He slyly put his hand on the tip of my foot and tugged. My sock flew through the air.

"What are you doing?" My eyes bulged as he removed the second.

"What?" He asked innocently.

I tried to get up, but Evan locked my legs in a vise grip, wrapping both of his firm arms around my thighs. I grunted, making idle threats while trying to force my knees apart.

"You're like an alligator. You can't open your jaws, can you?"

"You remember that the next time you want me to."

The corner of his warm eyes crinkled as he laughed. "Eh, I know how to get'em open."

Quickly thinking over my limited options, I knew there was no way to wiggle out of the clamp hold he had me in without kicking him. My face slipped into a pout. "But my feet will get cold."

"My poor baby, I'll keep them warm." He rested my feet on his lap and covered them with his large hands.

"While you're at it, work that into a foot massage."

"Yeah, while I'm down here . . ." He rolled his eyes, but complied with a gentle caress on the ball of my foot, stretching the stroke up my arch.

I stiffened.

"What? Am I doing it wrong?"

"Play a masseuse once?" I thought for sure my request would be met with a brusque tossing of my feet to the floor, freeing me up to grab my socks.

He shook his head as a light chagrin colored his ears. "I was on the receiving end, actually."

"Which foot?"

He smiled. "It wasn't my foot. I was lifting something, but with my lack of basic coordination and strength, I flipped over backward and pulled a muscle in my groin."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, the outtakes were fodder for comedy as far as the crew was concerned." He moved his hands along my ankles, heating my skin. "Why do you look so guilty?"

"You're pretty good at that, you know."

He examined me, his expression colored by suspicion. "Haven't you noticed? I'm good at everything." And then, he bent down, lips reaching towards my feet!

"What?" He asked, clenching my anxious legs in his solid grip.

"Don't do that."

"Why not?" His eyes tightened. "Okay. You crinkled your nose just now. That means you're either trying to avoid something you find awkward or you're teasing." His gaze drifted back to my captive feet. He bent down, again. I held my breath and tugged against him.

"Stop it," he commanded. "Let me see what you don't want me to look at." When he moved one arm to turn on a lamp, I tried to take advantage, to no avail.

I was probably being ridiculous. The hairs were tiny, very thin and blonde, almost transparent like the hair on my arms. Not so bad, I supposed . . . but there were some things a woman needed to keep private and he wanted to know everything.

There was one, terrible gasp and I could have died of embarrassment.

"I've married a hobbit!"

"Let go!" My cheeks burned as he burst out laughing.

I worked one leg free, then the other, ready to run away. At the same moment, he took the first from the floor. I lost my balance and fell back onto the couch, on my stomach. "Let go! Evan!"

"I can't, my hands are tangled! You're half Sasquatch!"

Bursting giggles ruined my effort. I continued my fight for freedom, though my cause was weakened considerably.

"Caleb, help me!" Evan shouted to the back door.

Once again, he had both my legs in the vise of his arms and I was stuck. A muffled whisper commanded, and then Caleb's little hands touched my feet, trying to tickle me. He was cheating.

"I'll get you for this Caleb!" I vowed. "Traitors!"

"Oh bloody hell," The loud observation came from the doorway to the formal living room.

"Marcus," Evan called but there was no answer. He dropped my legs and disappeared from underneath me.

The pleasant atmosphere changed once I righted myself on the sofa. Looking at Marcus, his face was strained and pale as he leaned against the wall.

"What's wrong?" Evan stalked towards his friend.

I grabbed Caleb before his attention shifted and pulled him onto the couch, attacking him with tickles. Even over the sounds of his laugh I was able to make out the grim conversation.

"I've got to go home. My dad's sick."

"How bad?"

I turned towards their voices.

"Bad enough to send for me." Marcus drew his hand to his face and sighed again, more heavily than before. "I don't know what I'm to do. I thought I'd have time."

I rushed to them. Touching Evan's back, I said, "What can we do, Marcus? Do you have your plane ticket yet? Want me to make the reservation for you? We'll help in any way we can."

"Make it for two," Evan ordered. "I'm going with you."

My heart sank a little, but there was no need to ask. He was Evan's dearest friend. There was no way he was letting him face this alone. I nodded and walked out to start making the phone calls.

While waiting for a human to answer the airlines' 800 number, I sent Caleb to his room and told him to play there until I came to get him. Noah was napping. Bored to sleep, I assumed. Returning to the kitchen, I searched for a piece of paper and pen to write the reservation numbers. Over the burble of the recorded music, Evan and Marcus were arguing.

"I'll make the time, Marcus, Grace will understand."

"Allowances don't make it right, ya twit. You have responsibilities. You're not the only one to think of, now."

The operator answered and I made the arrangements. I chose the first flight they had available and got all the information for them to print the itinerary and tickets at the airport.

Evan was grumbling as I stepped up into the formal living room. "How did this become about me?"

"Marcus," I held out the papers with the information. "Here's everything you need. I chose the chicken for your in-flight meals. You have to be at the airport by five for check-in."

I looked longingly at Evan. "You should call Sheri." She was going to throw a fit.

"If there's anything you need, you'd better call." Evan cleared his throat, looking sternly at his friend.

"You're not going?"

His face softened when he stared down at me. "No dear, Marcus prefers to go alone. His dad doesn't like me much. I would only irritate him."

"It's not because of me, is it?" I looked to Marcus, "Because I understand."

Evan touched my arm. "No—"

"No," Marcus began wearily, "I just need to go home." He shoved the words out, halting, almost stuttering, like the explanation was too much work.

I hugged him. "It will be alright. Do you need help packing or canceling any appointments?"

"Actually, I was going to take Ev to his driving practice this afternoon."

"That's the least of your worries," I assured him, wishing for a way to take away the pain in his voice. "I could do it, or Sheri." Evan had been working with a professional to enhance his driving skills for a few scenes in the film that was coming up.

Releasing Marcus, I looked to Evan, expecting agreement, but found his brow was crumpled. His mouth was turned down in a grimace. The pointed austerity was shocking, sending a chill up my spine. "Go get the boys," he commanded. "They'll want to say goodbye."

What's eating him? I wondered, on my way down the hall.

In explaining that Marcus had to leave, it was teary all the way around. We knew what Marcus was going through and hated that he'd be doing it so far from us. He hugged everyone and promised to come back as soon as he could. He'd call and e-mail regularly. Noah quietly retreated as Marcus made his way out. He and Evan were heading next door, where Marcus was just moving in. His things were still in boxes. Now he was trading those boxes for suitcases. The house would be empty again.

Both of them.

I used the time to call Sheri and asked her to take Evan to his appointment. He could have driven himself, but he would rather hide in the backseat behind tinted windows. She happily agreed, citing the reason for her improved mood. Production almost hit a standstill earlier when the female lead—Emily Black, an up-and-coming actress—had to back out for personal reasons. Everyone was scrambling, because Evan was already obligated to another film—scheduled to go into production on the heels of this one—but the heavens suddenly opened and birds were singing, because producers had already replaced her with their second choice. Shooting would commence as scheduled.

I gave her the rundown on what was happening over here. Sheri seemed a tad upset for Marcus but not enough to dim the bright of her excitement. Her crisis was over and she was clearly relieved.

When she showed up an hour later, I gave her the remote for the garage—to take to Evan, who was still next door—assuming he'd need one for Marcus' SUV since he'd undoubtedly be driving it. Until tomorrow.

"I'll be in my room." It was too early for bed, but I felt suddenly drained and couldn't keep my eyes open.

My eyes fluttered open when sleep was overpowered by invading cold. I was curled in a ball on the far edge of the mattress while Evan, by contrast, lay sprawling in the middle. He was lightly snoring, wrapped up in all the blankets. I tucked my feet under his bottom to keep warm and tried to pry the covers from him. He turned over, taking the blanket with him.

"Hog," I mumbled. He responded with a snore.

I was frustrated and shivering and wide awake. The clock on the nightstand glowed. It was barely past midnight. Only nine hours until he'd leave for the airport. I curled behind him and held on tight.

In my gut, I knew everything would work out, but I could not escape the feeling—an impression that seemed to grow deeper with every passing second—that something bad was looming ahead. The same sort of feeling I had before my trip to Vegas. I thought, mistakenly, the undue feeling had something to do with the way things played out, but this notion was far too worrisome to be related.

I searched my heart for the root of it as the tears streamed down, asking God to take care of Evan and begged Him to help me understand what I was facing, if anything. Something deep inside me said that I needed to stop worrying over things I couldn't control and to make the most of the moment.

I worked my feet under the tangled blanket and into the center of his cocoon. I pressed myself against his warm body, clinging tightly in the dark. He turned over, at my urging, and our lips collided.

# January 5th

He took me in his arms for a long moment, whispering in my ear. "How I wish you'd come with me." His breath caressed my neck, giving me goosebumps. "I'll be thinking of you every second, mon seul amour."

I held on a second longer, feeling his fingers loosen their grip. The sensation aroused a maddening dread. "Evan—"

"Yes?" He touched my cheek, looking deep into my eyes. His eyes appeared brown over his black jacket.

I couldn't escape the feeling. It didn't help that Sheri was behind him, checking the time.

"I love you, please be f— . . . be careful." A different word almost slipped out (faithful) and I wondered at it.

"You sound almost cryptic."

"I hate goodbyes," I sniffed.

"It's not 'goodbye.'" He slipped on his baseball cap and opened the front door. We'd promised to keep in constant contact: talking, texting, emailing, and Skype. "It's 'see you later.' I will see you Friday."

"It will hardly seem like we're apart," I told him, trying to comfort us both. He was being sweet, with a doubtful expression behind the smile. I knew better and he knew I knew better. But he wouldn't let his fears out. And I couldn't, either. Not when he had to leave. I settled for watching him make a beeline for the car that was waiting to take him to the airport.

"He'll be fine. Trust me." Sheri patted my arm, awkwardly. "Evan tells me you want to go back to work?"

I watched Evan crawl smoothly into the back seat and shut the door. "There's an opening in post-op cardiac."

Sheri took in my glum expression. "Grace, I'm going to tell you something that Evan won't approve of."

She looked out to the car and back to me before closing the door. "You are the life he's chosen; and while I respect that, you must also understand the position he's in. He's worked in this business since he was eighteen, slaved and sacrificed to get where he is."

She straightened her jacket, casually spilling the information. "From his easy manner, one would never know the far reaches of his influence. But I am telling you—there is a reason they call him The King of Hollywood. For him, merely speaking someone's name improves their careers. Everyone wants to work with him. I receive, daily, hundreds of offers from companies begging him to use their products or mumble their name in an interview, but he refuses to wield all that they lay, so willingly, at his feet."

My eyes grew wide, remembering Evan talking about the amazing pressure he faced.

"He could make any movie. His name is money in the bank to a lot of powerful people and it doesn't matter to him. He wants the one thing they can't give—acclaim—and it's only a matter of time." She popped open her black leather bag and handed me a plain looking DVD. "This is a rough cut but it's also his best work. That's for your eyes only. Guard it with your life."

Through the jewel case the title, Triumph in the Sky, was written in black marker.

"This is what being his Queen means, Grace. He works in places all over the world for extended periods of time at an exorbitant rate. It's a selfish, indulgent profession and something you, the espoused, must get used to. The work is too important and must be the priority." She straightened the front of her wool jacket over her pant suit and opened the front door.

"If you don't mind my saying, I think you're in the right by keeping the kids settled here. He only works six months out of the year. Just keep yourself busy; it will help the time pass." She offered a brief goodbye with a stiff smile.

I caught a glimpse of Evan as she maneuvered into the car. His head was down, covered by his hat, and one elbow was slung over the side of his face. When they drove off, a caravan followed behind.

It was both amazing and pathetic how those strangers seemed to know every move he made.

Keeping Up

It's a cold, black night. The intermittent moon sails across the sky.

Meanwhile, the muscles in my legs are burning. My shoulder is screaming. My hands are bitten with cold. I am in desperate need of rest.

My eyes strain to see through the dark, squinting and searching for signs of movement. I can barely make out shapes of shadows. The moon has hidden itself above the bank of clouds. I'm much higher than I was. It's been a while since I heard anything moving behind me and hope to afford a break from the merciless pace. Praying the cost it not too high, I turn back to check the path I've trudged. The wind is pressing across the space, shaking the small reflections of light on the low foliage in an even, rhythmic pattern. A shift among the shrubs gets my attention. It's out of step with the breeze. Big and unnatural, with smooth edges. A scream sticks in my throat as a black shape emerges near the bare edge of my mound.

How? Why is it so difficult to disappear in the dark?

The shadows of surrounding trees blend together beneath the dim light of the stars as I force myself to move. The moon is high above, still covered in glowing haze. The light is only enough for the sky tonight and I'm lost in the shadows below.

I grapple for the strength to press forward and up. The shaking in my captive hands has spread through my body. I clamp my jaw shut to keep my teeth from chattering. My muscles lock as I slump onto a small ridge. My breath blows hot against my icy hands. I draw deep breaths, forcing the warm exhale into them. Then, lay my head back, giving into the relief of rest.

I can't take another step. I should've followed the car tracks out. I could've figured out how to turn off the safety. But, no, I wanted to hide and ran straight into the dang wilderness.

The moon's past mid-sky now. Wind sends an embracing, stinging frost and I can't stay here. If the pursuing shadow doesn't get me, the cold will.

My legs won't hold me. Even if I could stand, the mountainside is too steep. Working onto my knees, I ignore the screaming in my shoulder and bound wrists. The thickness of my sweatshirt helps cushion my elbows, but crawling is still excruciating. It takes every ounce of effort.

It's another thirty, maybe forty feet before I feel the tapering climb begin to even out. Soon the ground levels off. Reflexively, I look back. A thin beam of light bounces around below, keeping mostly to the ground, bobbing up and down, back and forth.

The clouds break apart. A large orange moon looks down, my bright center in a gloomy circle, casting its temporary light, turning black to gray, and solving my mystery. The beam is a flashlight. The searchlight of my tracker moving towards me. What I thought was a beanie is actually a ski mask. The kind bank robbers wear in movies. She's closer than I thought. A sadistic cackle carries on the breeze as she climbs the sheer hillside in double time.

That cackle . . . I recognize it. The name bounces around inside me, wreaking havoc, ripping at my flesh. I shake off the lagging surprise to focus on my retreat.

Up here, the ground is slightly graded down. I have a small lead but a clear advantage. She's still stuck on the rocky wall, fighting her way up. I try to use the ambient light from the sky to make out the land ahead, but it's too rugged to find a clear path. There aren't many trees, but lots of rocks and bushes and brambles. The thin shadows throw off my depth perception and I stumble.

Ignoring the pain and exhaustion, I pump my captive arms from side to side, take steady breaths, and stretch my legs as far as they can reach with each gait. The speed is amazing, almost effortless as I bound. Leaping up the small boulders and over shrubs is short work compared to the long climb.

I glance back to see the bouncing beam of light still rising. It's small, too far back to catch me now. The prospect of escape propels my feet more hastily. Soon, the dim ray is no more than a speck.

Time to double back.

My feet respond, flying to the base of a small hillock. I stay in the natural cranny, scurrying along the line of the bottom that twists like a dry creek bed in a narrow valley.

As soon as I get back to the Jeep, I'm home free. I hope my hide-a-key is still in place.

# February 7th

There was a girl outside. She was the same one I'd met at his hotel the night he first told me he loved me. I thought she'd leave when I told her Evan was gone. But that was three days ago. I'd told Evan about her. He said to give her some autographed pictures, so I did, and then I apologized for leaving her hanging that first night. I thought that would have been enough to send her packing, but she was determined to stay in the area until he came home. Evan told me to call security to come get her, but that seemed like an overreaction. She was just a harmless girl. And she had got a long wait. We both did.

Evan was progressively stressed out each time we spoke. A perfectionist where work was concerned, he'd been convinced it was his fault production was running behind. He was having trouble understanding what the director wanted. Other actors had been going off script, too, which threw him off. On top of that, Emily Black—the girl they had to replace, ended up being replaced with Gretchen Bakker, a popular actress he'd worked with before and also happened to be his ex-girlfriend. She was doing her best to make his life miserable. On top of that, he'd been having trouble sleeping.

I planned to fly out to Toronto to see him on Friday. Valentine's Day was next week and we wouldn't be together the day of, so we were observing over the weekend.

After putting dinner in the Crock-Pot, there was nothing to do but fold laundry. I picked up my notes and the phone before walking out to the patio to enjoy a small ray of sunshine peeking through the wet afternoon. I'd tried contacting Lily several times, but she was still bent on avoiding me. I'd left recorded apologies on her machine, her voicemail, and email. I'd even called Maria. I hung up though, so it didn't really count. I was not quite ready for that meeting of the minds.

Arnold was sleeping in a warm patch of sunshine that touched his kennel. The sight set me at ease, though I was still on edge. The unsettling feeling hadn't gone away. It loomed overhead like an ominous cloud, casting shadows over everything I touched. That, and the swirling gossip that seemed to bleed into every part of life on the outside.

I'd always thought of myself as strong-minded because I never cared what other people thought about me, or if they liked me or not. It was easy to think that way when no one ever talked about you. The constant speculation about Evan and me was starting to take its toll and I needed to talk to my friend.

It was partly my fault. I never should have typed his name into that search engine. Over three thousand so-called "news" stories came up. The first ten pages were story after story of fabricated garbage—rubbish, as my favorite Brit would call it—most of them starting with the comment I'd made to the man in the pink shirt. According to the public, Evan was a stand up guy, trying to do the right thing and I was the greedy witch who seduced him. He and Gretchen broke up because of me. And I was only after his money. Rumors spread like The Gospel since the night I made that thoughtless remark.

Lately, they'd been focusing on the fact that Evan was working with his ex, claiming to have inside information about how the sparks were flying between them. Those stories didn't bother me, though. I had complete faith in him.

It was hard to believe those stories passed as news when there were so many important things happening in the nation, and around the world. Evan insisted that the public would lose interest "if not perpetuated by a small-minded media, which insisted on reporting the minute details in the personal lives of unimportant people in order to maintain profit margins in a crumbling economy." He said that in his business, everything was about money, even when it was not.

The search results offered pictures of Evan, too. Millions of them. Some were candid shots showcasing his very sweet smile. Others showed sexy stares he gave while working the red carpet, wearing a mouth-watering navy suit. There was one shot where Evan had his hands stuffed into his pants pockets as he leaned forward, over a barrier to take pictures with gathered fans. The way the fabric hugged his backside made me grateful he was mine. Some photos were stills from movies and others were gorgeous outtakes from magazine photo shoots. All intermingled with creepy pictures of my house. The selection was as just as wide as it was vexing.

I glanced at Arnold, again. Some moments were more wary than others. It seemed to be an automatic reaction to the smallest quiver of the leaves—probably a side effect of being held under a microscope—even if I was only the means by which they tried to get closer to him, it made me anxious to the point where the slightest shift in the breeze caught my attention.

I'd started journaling again. Mostly because I was lonely without Evan, but also because Dr. Lena said it was a good way for someone like me, who suffered from mental constipation, to get the words out. Throughout my whole life, anytime I'd been faced with conflict, or a situation where I needed to speak up, my mind would go blank. By the time I found my words, it was too late. So, I began writing everything down.

I dialed Lily's number and waited for the voicemail.

"Hello?"

"Lily." My relief was audible, but my stomach balled up with nerves. "Um . . . Hi."

"What do you want, Grace?"

"I'm sorry." My voice was almost a whisper.

She sighed. "I know. Me too. It just really hurt when you let Evan buy him the truck. But I never should've brought it up in front of my mom. Listen, I can't talk right now, she's on the other line. I'll come by later, okay? And don't worry, I'm still staying with the kids this weekend."

"That's not why I called, but okay. Thanks. Later, then." The line clicked. I looked down at the piece of paper in my hand. All the scribbled notes on things I was supposed to say to Lily about how sorry I was that we were fighting. How I didn't mean it when I told her she was exactly like her mother. And that she is more to me than just my very best friend. She was the sister I always wanted and like a second mother to my children.

Sighing, I walked back inside. The house was clean, the laundry was done. The dog had been fed, cleaned, and walked. I just ate lunch. Dinner was simmering. I couldn't do anything outside because of the rain that was starting up again and there was nothing on TV. I still had another hour before school got out.

When I was out shopping a few weeks ago, I ran into the Med Center's D.O.N. She and I went to school together. When I mentioned that I'd applied for the opening in post-op cardiac, she put in a good word for me. Well, I assumed she did, because the next day, I got the call. Starting tomorrow, I'd be working three days straight. Each was a twelve-hour shift. Then I'd get four days off. Three of them, I would spend with Evan in Toronto. I could not wait.

# February 10th

My flight arrived early, but the trip from the airport to his set was taking forever. I fidgeted, touching up my makeup in the back of the big navy blue van. My face actually looked pretty good. I wished I could say the same for my hair. The misty cold of Toronto had rendered all product useless. I threw it up in a messy knot before the static ruined it entirely.

Lily helped me get ready, choosing a black ruffled skirt and clingy top. She paired them with a turquoise belt and a pair of her giant hoop earrings. I took the hoops off after I got on the plane and stuffed them into my carry-on with the jeans I planned to put on after I got to Evan's trailer. The large earrings caught on my shoulders each time I turned my head.

Everything I'd worn was to look great for the first thirty minutes. From the time I got off the plane until about five seconds after I saw him. I could not guarantee any longer than that.

As soon as we passed the locations' gated perimeter surrounded by bundled girls and their signs of support, it was a few more blocks before the grouping of diesels and large pieces of equipment being shuffled from one place to the next came into view. Everyone was dressed in giant parkas and rubber boots, shuffling through the snow. Some people were shoveling the stuff. When the van stopped, I grabbed the door handle.

Danny, the driver, turned to me. "I'll be right back."

For insurance and safety purposes, I was only allowed to walk around with an escort.

Faster than I expected, Angelique appeared. She was walking with a large man, conversing as she waved to me. I scrambled from the heated van, out into the bitter cold.

"You've got about thirty minutes until they call him," she informed me with a wink.

"Thanks," I said, trying to pretend I wasn't embarrassed. "I was hoping he'd be free." As much as I enjoyed watching Evan work, it was miserable when I arrived and he was stuck in front of a camera.

Angelique led around the back of another diesel truck and his giant trailer came into view. A piece of tape across the outer door showed his name printed in thick, black letters. Several men were standing around. Some were working, others smoking. Most dispersed when I appeared, politely nodding as they sauntered off in different directions. I passed without a word.

"See ya," Angelique called, watching as I knocked, waiting for my entrance to take her leave.

A high-pitched voice (Sheri, I presumed) answered, "Come in!"

A voluble scoff sounded. "Get out already!"

I climbed the first step and set my sights on him. His frustrated face softened to a wide smile. He stepped towards me as I climbed inside. Evan took my hand, and drew me against him in a long embrace.

"There's my Valentine," he whispered, his hot breath tickling my ear.

I kissed his neck, searching until my lips found his lips. Barely able to control my stimulation, I fumbled with the buttons of my jacket. I wanted his hands on me, not the encompassing wool. Evan helped by starting on the buttons at the bottom while I worked my way from the top. His arms swept inside my coat, wrapping around my waist and lifting me from the ground. I giggled with delight.

"I missed you."

"Mon seul amour," he whispered, placing a sweet kiss at the corner of my mouth.

Someone cleared their throat. I remembered the high-pitched voice and turned to greet Sheri, but she wasn't there. There was a slender female—bone thin, actually. She was blonde with big, blue eyes—very cute, but she would have been much cuter without the heavy makeup. I was slightly embarrassed that it took so long to notice she was there.

"You must be Grace." The woman held out her thin hand. Far beyond my reach. I would have to step towards her, away from Evan, to take it.

I'd seen her around the set before, but we hadn't actually spoken. Evan said I didn't need to introduce myself. He said she was small-minded and I would not like her. I thought of the angry look on his face as I walked in and the harsh sound of his voice right before I knocked. He didn't want her here. Yet, here she was. In his trailer.

I stepped forward and gave a firm, confident shake. My response sounding as petty as I felt. "I'm the wife. How do you know Evan?"

"We run in the same circles." She looked me up and down. "I'm Gretchen, by the way."

I nodded but couldn't think of anything to say. Evan's arms hung about my waist. The metered presence of his hot breath coming through the fabric on my shoulder told me he was burying a laugh in it. I shook my head, feeling territorial.

It was awkward, waiting for Gretchen to excuse herself. I gave my jacket to Evan. He tossed it on the sofa behind us, then replaced his arms around my waist.

"You're very sexy in black," he breathed into my neck, kissing the nape.

"Thank you," I mumbled and reached back to run my fingers through his silky hair.

"How long will you be visiting?" Gretchen asked, using a tone that implied I was interrupting something.

I squared my shoulders.

"Well, this is all very entertaining, but if you don't mind . . ." I heard his smile. He was enjoying our paltry behavior way too much.

"I'd better be going. We have a few scenes to get ready for. See you out there, Evan." She disappeared inside a soft pink, knee length parka and walked out.

I locked the door as soon as it shut. "That was petty, wasn't it?"

"That was brilliant," he laughed raucously.

And then, he was glued to me—his lips on my neck and my jaw, then my mouth. His arms on my waist, my hips, and then my bottom. He pressed his hips against mine, stealing my breath, telling me everything I wanted to hear without words. I pulled him closer, held him tighter. We were finally alone.

I squirmed and huffed in frustration. I wanted to look pretty just a little while longer, but my skirt would not go back down the right way. The silky material kept crumpling with static and would not stop clinging to my thick tights. I gave up, deciding it was a sign for me to change clothes.

"Do you mind if I smoke?"

Evan was sitting behind me, watching me change and holding a cigarette between his lips. I wished the habit wasn't so deadly. The look of that heated stare, with his lips slightly parted, he drove me crazy. I plopped next to him, fiddling with the tight legs of my favorite skinny jeans.

"I thought you were quitting."

"Well, I've been chain-smoking." He tossed it on the table. "But if you don't want me to, I won't," he said, leaning in to kiss me.

This was no post-coital peck. It was a long, lingering, tongue down the throat, hands in the hair kiss. The kind that curled my toes and filled my stomach with butterflies. The kiss type of mind-blowing kiss that drove me mad. I grabbed his shirt and he fell into me, catching himself on the back of the couch. It made me forget where we were, about my clothes, and the call he was been waiting for . . .

I was breathless when he pulled away.

"As much as I love seeing you like this, you should probably get dressed," he whispered, tugging at my bra strap. His lips brushed from my chin to my throat and down along my shoulder.

"It's all your fault, you know," I said, referring to my inability to think responsibly when he was around.

"Will you stay longer?" He looked so good in a soft blue shirt that made his eyes look like a clear summer sky.

I bounded from the little sofa and yanked my pants on in one, quick move. "Let's see how it goes."

"Yeah, begging never works with you, does it?"

"I'm immune to pleading. It probably has something to do with having children."

I threw my t-shirt on and stuffed my remaining things into the duffel bag. He looked at his shoes. Maybe it was the way the light hit his face, but I noticed large circles in the hollow under his eyes.

"You look tired." I stepped in front of him, combing my fingers through his hair when he looked up.

"I can't sleep." He shrugged, resting his face against my stomach, kissing me through my shirt.

"How long until they need you?"

"Any moment." He swooped his arms around my waist and shoved me aside, sending me onto the sofa beside him. "We're shooting a love scene. I didn't tell you before because I thought you might not come." My shocked laugh turned quiet as he quickly stood and unlocked the door.

I sat up, trying to think while shoving my feet into my shoes. "You want me to watch you?"

"Yes. So you'll know it's strictly work."

"Will you be naked?"

"Almost."

"What about her?"

"I hope not," he muttered.

"It's not like you'll be seeing anything you haven't seen before." His head snapped up. Our eyes locked. "I'm not threatened."

He smirked. "She certainly is."

"What are you going to wear?"

"Modesty Patches." I had no idea what he meant. It must have shown on my face because he started to explain. "They're these little flesh-toned things that cover up your goodies. Keeps them from rubbing up against your co-workers." He tried to sound serious, but laughed a little.

"Why is that funny?"

"When you see me in them, you'll know."

In the wardrobe trailer, I was introduced to another stylist, Romy. I liked her right away. She was short and slight with a mountain of light wavy curls. She had a great, full laugh. Together, we carried the few things she needed to change Evan for the next scene, since he was not going to be forced to slosh through the snow in costume. Inside the rented house, it was easy to tell where they were shooting. All you had to do was follow the lights. Every other surface was covered with equipment, monitors, and huge cables taped to the floor.

I stood in the hall outside the closed restroom, talking with Romy while Evan disrobed. Once he gave the okay, she opened the door and walked inside. I closed it tight behind her, resigned to wait like always.

"Get in here," Romy growled, reaching out and pulling me in. "Why would I make you wait outside?"

"She's never seen me naked before." Evan snickered.

"I should be so lucky." I rolled my eyes, but my cheeks heated.

Romy closed her eyes, turning respectfully away, while Evan opened the white fluffy robe he was given to keep warm. I took in the sight of him, flushing when I saw that he was watching me. He raised one eyebrow, but said nothing as he fit a flesh-toned, jelly-like shape over his genitals. When he gave her the word, Romy turned back, asking if the fit was okay.

"It's a little small." He complained with a teasing grin.

She assured it was one-size-fits-all, and got permission to check that everything down below was set, to avoid possible wardrobe malfunctions later.

One flap-end of the patch didn't want to stick.

Sighing, she took out another, slightly larger, and averted her eyes so Evan could make the switch. He asked for my help in removing it, which I obliged. After, I stepped back and let Romy do her thing, checking what she needed to, asking the same questions.

Though they were using professional tones, I could tell Evan was very uncomfortable. I decided to take advantage of the situation.

"So, how are you feeling?" I asked, working hard to hide my smile.

The timing was great. Romy was squatting on the floor in front of him, one hand stuck in between his legs. She was halfway through her count to thirty when I asked. She started cackling.

"Oh, that's really nice." He crossed his arms over his partially bared chest.

"But, are you comfortable?" I probed.

"About as comfortable as you are with the gynecologist."

"I have a really handsome gynecologist," Romy added in a soft tone, almost as if she was thinking out loud. And the three of us enjoyed a vigorous laugh.

When the fitting and pasting was finally done, Romy took the big fluffy robe from Evan, keeping her focus on the opposite wall, and returned a really short, silky red one. He slipped his arms in and tied it. His legs were almost completely exposed.

"You can't afford a full robe?"

"You only have to walk fifteen feet," Romy assured as she walked out.

Looking him up and down, seeing how ridiculous he looked, the hilarity set in.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Now I get it," I said, referencing the remark he made earlier. "You look like a Ken doll wearing Barbie's robe."

In mock fury he yelled, "I'm going to be naked in front of the world! I demand some respect!"

I laughed, holding up my hands. "I respect you!"

"She really likes you, you know. Everyone does."

"Naturally." I bat my eyelashes.

Another woman entered to put his makeup on and then another to fix his hair. I'd met them both before but couldn't recall their names. Their jobs were easy, since the scene called for a mostly natural look and Evan had such great skin and hair. They only applied cover-up under his eyes and followed with anti-shine powder. His hairdresser ran a comb through his hair before spraying it a few times.

Once we were alone again, Evan sighed. "It's almost time."

"You know your lines?"

"Uh, there's not much dialogue." His brows pulled together. "Are you sure you don't mind watching?"

"I'm actually kind of curious."

His expression relaxed. "Okay. Good. But if you're uncomfortable, tell Sheri. She'll take you back to my trailer."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because, Gretchen's going to be a bitch about this, I know it."

"What do you mean?"

"She's going to try and use this as an opportunity to get to you, well, me."

"You think it'll work?"

"Not on me, but I just have to get through it."

"Do you really want me here?"

"I want you everywhere, all the time." He touched my cheek. I moved closer. He cradled my face in his palm, pulling me against him with the other. When he was about to set his lips to mine, he stopped. "You'd better find Romy."

I followed his eyes down as a flesh-toned piece of jelly fell to the floor between us. It looked like a concave pancake.

"Clear the set!" A booming voice sounded from beyond the door.

"Hurry!" Evan urged with a bashful smile, but his tone was serious. He quickly kissed my lips and moved behind the door. Luckily, the person I needed was right outside.

She bulldozed in, shaking her head. "Thin walls."

"Sorry," I mumbled as she got to work.

"It's my fault. I should have taken you with me. These are delicate." She looked towards me while Evan reapplied.

I blew him a kiss and slipped out the door.

Sheri was standing behind a monitor in the corner opposite from where they would be shooting. She motioned toward me, over her half-eaten sandwich. I greeted her and the other faces that were becoming familiar. Everyone was polite and welcoming, as usual.

"So what's going on?" I asked Sheri.

"The director's ordered the crew away after running through the scene with the stand-ins. He's ready to go now. How's Evan?"

"Almost ready."

As I said it, Evan came from the bathroom in his tiny robe. He looked intense.

"Is he always this nervous?" I could not recall seeing him look so anxious before, at least not while he was working.

Sheri took a drink of water and swished it around in her mouth. "Probably because you're here. He's never had to make out with another woman in front of his wife before."

"Should I leave?" Maybe he was not as cool with the situation as he seemed.

"Did he say he wanted you here?"

"Yeah." I nodded my head.

"Do what he wants, then. But you should know, it's considered bad manners for significant others to be present for scenes of this nature." Her voice fell to a whisper. "The director's not convinced it's a good idea. We've got to shut our traps—they're going to start."

From across the room, it was clear Evan really had Gretchen pegged. She waltzed out, gorgeous legs a mile long, face made up to look natural, and confidently dropped her robe as one of the assistant directors was clearing out the last of the lingering lighting crew.

My mouth dropped open as she flashed everyone.

"She's beautiful, isn't she?" Sheri whispered.

"Yes, very . . . symmetrical." It was the most accurate way to describe her perfect set of perky breasts.

Sheri snickered, covering her mouth with her palm.

At that same moment, Gretchen turned toward us and waved as she lowered herself onto the bed set up for this scene. A shocked laugh found its way out of my mouth. Several people turned, giving us a stern look. Sheri apologized to everyone for me.

I whispered into Sheri's ear. "Why are they starting in the bed?" It should have occurred to me before—it was odd that they would start out at the end.

"They don't film in sequence . . . all the stuff that requires the same setting, same actors, yada-yada. They get the parts leading to this later." Her words were so soft I could barely make them out. Her arm moved between us. I backed up to see she was holding a script. She mouthed, "Want it?"

I shook my head, declining. I read it once before he started filming. The original script had no love scene.

Meanwhile, the last few crew members had been dismissed and the bedroom scene was underway. And it was strange—not at all like watching my husband with someone else. The atmosphere was too professional. They started and stopped several times. I began to wonder if something was wrong, but Sheri assured me this was the way things worked. The director, who had a very strict vision of the way things should look, kept shouting instructions. Every command appeared to be followed to the last letter. Then they stopped, adjusted lighting, touched up makeup and hair, and started again.

Sheri rolled her eyes. I gave a questioning look. She wrote on the back of the script, Gretchen's being difficult. Then, scribbled it out.

Several hours passed before someone called a break. Evan sat up and looked for me. I waved from my cave across the room, giving him two thumbs up. He smiled back. Once Gretchen's robe was in place, people started filing through the room again.

Evan introduced me to everyone passing through, embarrassing me. They nodded their heads, and gave kind responses that made me blush. "Congratulations!" said one. "You're a lucky guy, Rhys!" remarked another. "Does she have a sister?" An older man asked with a wink in my direction.

"Yes, and we're keeping her away from you!" The last one was Romy.

Gretchen made several attempts to communicate between touch-ups. But Evan was noticeably irritated and trying to politely ignore her. I was just glad she kept herself covered.

Sheri and I huddled into our corner as they called everyone back. A tall man in a headset shouted instructions for anyone not needed for this particular scene to leave the area. Behind him, Gretchen and Evan were talking.

"Roll sound," a voice called out.

"Oh this is good," Sheri added. "Listen," she handed me a small earpiece, almost like a Bluetooth.

I tucked it into my ear and we could hear them talking. "No," Evan said, frustrated, "and it's not working."

The monitor in front of us turned on as someone else joined our little group. The three of us watched Gretchen on the screen as they adjusted lighting once more. She gestured with her chin towards Evan's waistline. He looked at her with flat eyes. The sound of movement made the words fuzzy for a second, but I followed along, intrigued.

"Look, I'm sorry if I do, and sorry if I don't." Evan's face turned several shades of pink as there were a few laughs from around the house.

Everyone knew what he was talking about. He was referring to his, well every man's issue when it came to that sort of thing. Biology wouldn't allow a man to hide a reaction the way a woman could, which made for some very awkward moments between co-workers. The way Evan got around the gauche subject was by making a blanket statement of the fact that he had no control over the way his body may or may not respond, therefore no offense should be taken either way. Gretchen was clearly offended by his lack of enthusiasm. And I could not deny that it made me feel good.

The hardest part to watch came after lunch. When we all got back to the room, they had to run dialogue. Most of it was boring, but I wanted to watch Evan.

One of the first things I noticed about him—aside from the obscene good looks—was the way he used his hands when he talked. He was quirky, animated, and prone to laughter. The second was his charming, deprecating humor. But when the director yelled action, Evan changed. His posture was different. He spoke in a different cadence, with subtle intonations so that you would never know he wasn't an American from New York. His mannerisms changed, too. He was no longer the animated, good-humored man I knew. He was a phenomenal performer, though he'd been convinced his talent was no more than mediocre.

I couldn't fathom how he was able to seamlessly slip into someone else's skin. I didn't see the transition—it was instantaneous. I'd never seen anything like it and had nothing to compare it to. If Evan's gift came in another medium, like painting, I might've said he was like Dali—stunning and creative. If he were a sculpture, he might have been on par with Rodin—distinguished and complex. He was able to transmit a character—a work of fiction—from the words he read into a living, breathing being, and make me believe it.

That was why the second part of the scene was so hard to watch. In the bedroom portion of the scene he was upset, but played his part to the best of his ability. In this part, they had dialogue and that was fine, because it wasn't the words that bothered me. I had to watch them film the whole sequence, several pages of dialogue from beginning to end, before the director called cut and they started over.

It was the way he looked at her that was killing me. Watching him touch her so tenderly, it broke my heart. She held him so close, touching him in places that belonged to me. I knew he was only playing a part and, when they called cut, things would go back to normal. I knew, but still . . .

The first time I saw him work, I was amazed that he hadn't forced me to watch him sooner, but right then, I almost wished I'd stayed home.

# March 12th

Evan had just left for the airport after being home for three days while the films' location changed. Now, he was on his way to San Francisco, where they'd be filming driving sequences. It was a short flight, but he had to get right to work once he got there. He promised to call when he got a chance.

I had neglected plenty of work over the last few days—enough to keep me busy the rest of the day for sure. First thing, I walked Arnold on the treadmill. There were too many faces out front to get in a good run. Once he was happy and panting, I set him outside with fresh food and water. Then it was my turn. I started going at the highest incline, though it wasn't enough to mimic my hill.

After a shower, it was time for laundry—what I needed to do the most and the one thing I wanted to put off. But it was piling up and I had to wash some of Evan's things to take to him at the end of the week.

I turned on the machine, threw in the soap and fabric softener ball, and then started grabbing jeans. I worked up a sizeable pile of dark denim and loaded it into the machine. About halfway through, I had to stop. Something was floating in the water. My fingers shook as I gathered the buoyant packages and started searching pockets. Elbow-deep in darkening water, I found the source pocket.

I wanted to feel relief that Evan's pants weren't the source, and I did, in a way. But how could I really, knowing my son was carrying condoms?

I had talked to Evan about Noah over the weekend. I confided in him over my worries that Noahs' newfound dating freedom, combined with the media attention was a dangerous combination. His cell phone was constantly ringing, his Facebook page was overrun with new female interest. Noah seemed to be taking it in stride, but what the heck did I really know about what went on with him outside the house, other than what he chose to share with me? Evan volunteered to talk to him and reported back that Noah was fine. He wasn't doing anything he shouldn't be at his age.

When Noah came home from school, I was waiting in the kitchen. The shiny prophylactics setting on the counter in front of me made his eyes bulge.

"Explain," I demanded.

He was silent. I waited patiently, casually leaning against the counter. I had all the time in the world to watch him squirm.

"I want to know where they came from."

"You make me feel like I'm doing something wrong." His eyes were glued to the countertop.

"Are you?" I cocked my head, waiting for the answer.

He raised his head, pointedly looking me in the eye. "No."

"Then why?" I poked the pile on the counter. "Why do you need these?"

He flushed a little.

"I want you to know, I wasn't snooping. I found them in the washing machine."

He nodded, "Yeah, I forgot about 'em."

If they were so easily forgotten . . . either he wasn't sexually active, or he was and was being irresponsible about it.

"Did you buy these or did someone give them to you?"

"Given."

"Who?"

I had three possibilities on my short list. Friend, school nurse, or—I didn't want to think it. The second seemed an unlikely source, being that schools don't dispense name-brand condoms.

He fidgeted. "I don't want to tell you."

My stomach tightened. But I reminded myself that he wasn't lying and that gave me hope, but his reasoning worried me. "Why don't you want to tell me?"

"You'll get mad."

"I'd like you to tell me anyways. I like to think that we can talk about these things together."

"But it makes me uncomfortable." He knotted his fingers together as he fidgeted.

"Life is full of uncomfortable things, Noah. This very conversation, for one, but we're still having it."

He sat on the stool by the counter, eyeing the bowl of fruit before taking an orange and peeling it. "It might cause problems."

"Evan." I knew it. Crap.

He kept his eyes on the fruit. "Don't tell him I told you."

"Did he ask you not to tell me?"

"No, but I don't want to look like a snitch."

"If he asks I'm not going to lie, but I will try to leave you out of it."

"If you mention it, he'll know." His face became nervous again. "Please, Mom."

"I have to talk to him."

"He just wants me to be safe, like you do."

"I know." I had no doubt about Evan's desire to help. It seemed to me that the problem with that was, we had two very different ways—completely opposite opinions—in the matter and I wanted him to butt the heck out.

"This is between Evan and me."

"I don't want you to fight about me." His brow furrowed. "I like him."

"Who's fighting?"

Noah knew I was upset, though I did my best not to be angry. I had to get Evan's side of things first. There was always the possibility that he did not understand the damage he was doing. No, it was not going to be a fight. I would tell him he was wrong and he would concede that it was none of his business.

Noah slowly looked in my direction. "Can I go to my room?" I consented and he wasted no time in retreating.

I thought for sure I would've heard from Evan right away, but it had been hours since his plane landed and he still hadn't called. I waited until after dinner before trying. There was no answer, so I left a message. Another hour passed with no response, so I texted him.

When I was so irritated I could hardly stand it, I called one more time. His phone went straight to voicemail. The time was well past ten and I was starting to worry.

I told myself, if something was wrong, Sheri would call. He's probably working.

So, I gave up and went to bed.

# March 13th

Early in the morning, the phone rang. The blaring sound coming from the kitchen woke me and I knew it had to be him. "Hello?" I answered, breathless.

"I'm sorry I missed your calls. I ran into an old friend yesterday and lost track of time."

"Oh," I tried to concentrate, clearing the sleep from my head with a little water on my face.

"So, what's up?" He asked, unusually cheerful.

"Well, I was worried. You said you'd call when you could. I waited because I knew you were busy, but you didn't call me at all. You've never done that before."

"I ran into Stevie again."

"The guy whose number I destroyed?" It was the reason behind our first argument. I'd washed a pair of jeans without checking the pockets.

"The very same. He's looking for work, so I'm going to see if I can help him out."

"Oh," I mumbled, relieved and irritated.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing,"

"Grace, I'm hundreds of miles away. Would you just tell me what I did so I can apologize?"

His willingness was pleasing, but still. "Don't you have to be on set soon?"

"Talk," he commanded.

"Fine. Well . . . I was washing clothes yesterday after you left. Stuff from Noah's room and some things from ours. I found condoms. Noah said they were yours—"

"He said what?" His tone was sharp. I realized my poor choice of words.

"No, I mean, he said that you gave them to him. Is that true?"

"Yes, it is," he replied, confidently.

Okay, now I was mad.

"Why would you encourage him like that? You know how I feel about this. You said you would tell me if Noah was up to something he shouldn't be."

He took a deep breath. "Here's what I don't understand: most people would see it as a good thing that their son is being open and responsible. You see it as an accident waiting to happen. You know, you're an awful prude when it comes to things like this."

"I'm teaching him abstinence and you're giving him condoms behind my back!"

"Gracie," he spoke softly, "he hasn't done anything. But you can't have such ridiculous expectations for him. He's sixteen years old, a walking hard-on. It's going to happen sooner or later, and the stakes are too high for him to be left unprepared. Would you rather he learned the hard way, like me, or you?"

"You have crossed the line, Evan." The anger flowed freely as I stomped my feet. "I know you're only trying to help, but I don't see it as helping. It looks like undermining to me."

"That's not what it was at all. I'm on my way down to the car."

I wanted to scream. He was leaving for set and would be busy all day long. "I knew you didn't have time for this. Call me later. I love you."

"I love you, more than you know. I only ever wanted to do the right thing by Noah and I'm sorry I upset you."

"Your definition of right is not the same as mine."

After a quick goodbye, I re-played the conversation in my head. There was something unnerving about the whole thing. I grabbed my cell from the night stand and texted him:

-Just so you know, I did not hear an apology for what you did, only that you're sorry I'm upset. You don't have to agree with me, but you need to respect my methods.

A second later he answered:

-OK. Sorry. Again. Will call when I get the chance. Too many bodies around.

The day slowly passes while I wait.

Sure, he sent a text or two, letting me know he couldn't call, and even had Sheri call a few times to try and smooth things over. It irritated me all the more. Since when did we need a go-between?

# March 15th

We'd been arguing. Evan remained adamant in his opposition and I was not budging. But I could not let our disagreement drive a wedge between us.

His hotel room was empty as I kicked my shoes off by the bathroom door and set them on my carry-on bag. I couldn't stay long. I had to be at work the next morning, but it was a much shorter flight from San Francisco. I was compelled to come. The phone just wasn't good enough for the type of conversation we needed to have. I had some things I needed to say, and I didn't want him to take them the wrong way. He could be a bit dramatic sometimes—getting angry at the drop of a hat—and I did not want to fight with him. We were both at fault.

Evan and I never gave ourselves an adjustment period. We were getting to know each other one day, and the next we were a married couple. Then he had to leave. And the slippery slope of a blended family was trickier to navigate than I thought. It was hard for me to know when or where I should allow him to step in and even more difficult when I disagreed with the things he wanted to do. I didn't want to make it any more complicated for him than it already was, but I couldn't compromise my values, either.

The room was a jumbled mess of books, scripts, laundry, and dirty ashtrays.

Evan didn't like me picking up after him, but he never did it, and that left me no choice. I took off my sweater and rolled up my sleeves. First, I cracked open the door on the balcony to counter the stifling warmth of the room. Then, turned on the controlled air. The garbage was overflowing so I tied up the bags and set them in the hall, stowed his toiletries in the medicine cabinet and washed out the sink. Next, I hung up the damp towels and separated the clean clothes from the dirty, placing them in the plastic dry cleaning bags from in the closet. Clean laundry got hung up and the dirty was stuffed into my carry-on. When I was done with that, I sorted his numerous pairs of sneakers and made the bed. Lastly, straightened up the cluttered pile of books and scripts on the nightstand, and set them next to his laptop on the dresser.

As I stepped back to admire a job well done, my heart sank. I wanted to see him so badly, and when he got back, we had to talk about Noah. It was a struggle to find a way to be gentle. As upset as I'd been with his actions, I understood his motivation came from a good place. But the audacity was offensive. Anger knotted my stomach while I mulled over what to say.

The lock on the door beeped and the knob twisted. My heart skipped the moment I saw his unkempt brown hair peeping around the line of the door. The sight of him soothed me and I was no longer nervous or upset—well, not enough to care about anything but holding him.

"Gracie! You're here?" His eyes bulged in shock.

I threw my arms around him, practically shoving him out the door with the force of my excited landing.

"I missed you," he smelled my hair and neck, clutching me to him as he made his way in and shut the door behind us. His eyes were still wide with surprise. "I thought you were cross with me?"

I shook my head, confirming his suspicions and ignoring mine. "We'll talk later."

He didn't notice any of the changes to the room—as he was attentively focused on undressing me. His phone sounded several times but he ignored that, too. There was nothing but us.

His hold was tight, molding our forms together. My breath caught as he whispered in my ear, speaking words I'd never heard him say; coarse words that felt tender. He begged me to never leave. My mind swirled, wondering at the intense change in him.

The air was raw, manifesting in poignant rhythms that carried me to new heights as the low sound of jazz carried up from the street below. It added to the ambiance and our shameless adoration. My pulse raced as I struggled to contain all he gave.

As he hovered above me, I noted the enormity of his pupils, dilated in the dark.

An unwelcome knock interrupted us.

Evan jumped from the bed. "Don't move." He smiled wickedly as I covered myself. "I said, 'don't move.'" He yanked the sheet from my hands and tossed it to the floor.

The humorous tone, combined with his cruel grin, made me laugh. He hopped into a pair of sweats on his way to the door. Once he was out of sight, I heard the jiggle of the knob and felt the whoosh of controlled air as he greeted, who I guessed was, a friend. I snatched the corner of the covers between my toes and pulled them up to my hand, and slid underneath.

"Wait here," Evan said. Then his voice sounded closer to me. "I thought I told you to stay still. Am I going to have to spank you?" The resounding humor made me chuckle. "Do you have any cash on you?" He peeked under the blanket.

"In my purse; it's on my bag by the bathroom."

"Why are you whispering?"

"Because I'm naked."

He wriggled his eyebrows. "I left him in the hall and I'm getting rid of him. Right now."

"Hurry," I whispered.

A moment later, the covers were gone. Evan stood at the foot of the bed, yelling. "That's the last time you disobey me!"

I was shocked as he took me by the waist, flung me over his shoulder, and smacked me on the behind before trotting off to the bathroom. When he hit the lights, I instinctively squinted, eyes adjusting to the sudden bright. He pulled back the shower door and set me inside.

"You're filthy," he wriggled his brows again, "I'm going to clean you up." He turned on the water and closed the door, leaving me alone in the empty tub. "Turn on the shower, eh? I've gotta piss."

His call came through the smoky glass while I watched his misshapen figure open the medicine cabinet. I saw him hesitate, perhaps, shocked to find something in it? I tested the water, making the necessary adjustments—Evan liked it hot—and pulled the small lever on top of the faucet. Icy cold water sprayed for a brief second before going hot and steamy. Then he was stirring beside me.

"We'll have to go to sleep soon. I've got to be there at six." His hands caressed my sides, working the welcome warmth of water over me.

As I looked into his waiting eyes, his pupils were noticeably dilated. No different than they had been in the dark of his room. Here in the bright light, they should have shrunk, like mine. I set my finger tips below his bulging eyes. Though he looked like he could use some rest, he didn't look tired.

"What was the money for?"

His eyebrows pulled together. "Hm? Oh yeah, I borrowed some from Stevie the other day. I meant to get some cash before he stopped by," his lips stretched to a grin, "but you distracted me."

"Are you tired?"

"I guess," he shrugged.

"Because your eyelids look like they're glued open and your pupils are huge." He was silent, still moving his hands along my back. "What did you take?"

"About a hundred, well, whatever you had in there."

"That's not what I'm talking about."

"Why don't you elaborate?" As he spoke, his eyelids slightly relaxed.

A controlled movement that created a more natural, relaxed appearance. If I weren't trained to know what to look for, to see the subtle signs, if he wasn't acting so strange, I may have easily believed him. But I was trained and I did know. He knew it, too. I studied his face as he stared back. He didn't seem nervous. His features painted the epitome of innocence.

"Please, tell me what you took."

"I would if I knew what you meant." He was still gazing, eyes full of love and confusion.

I wanted to hit him but settled for shoving.

"Where are you going?"

The water turned off as I grabbed my clothes strewn across the bedroom floor.

"I didn't come here to be lied to." The calm of my voice sounded unnatural, almost indifferent.

"You think I'm lying?"

I could not believe he was carrying on with the charade. As I turned back to express my shock, he was holding out a towel for me. I stalked back and snatched it as I passed him, heading back into the bathroom. He was behind me in a flash, anxiously watching as I opened the cabinet over the sink.

Scanning the shelves for something that wasn't there before, I began to doubt. Maybe he was telling me the truth. Maybe I was overreacting. Disappointment set in when I saw a case for contact lenses setting on the bottom shelf, new and out of place. Evan's vision was 20/20.

"What's this?" I grabbed the small case and opened one side.

He was frozen for a fraction of a second. "It's a sleeping pill."

"Odd place for it, don't you think?" I examined the small, blue pill. The oval shape, the line down the center, the numbers engraved into the top. "This is for narcolepsy. It's not going to help you sleep."

"That's not what I was told."

My head filled with hundreds of questions, none of which I could voice as they were all clouded by tremendous fury. He was lying to me. I felt it in his cold, quick responses. I overlooked it momentarily and opened the other side of the container. A small oblong pill fell into my hand. I could tell right away, that one really was a sleeping pill.

"Have you taken any of these?"

"What's that?"

"Tell me!" I stomped my foot.

"Just one," he closed his eyes and pinched at his eyebrow.

"The blue or the white?" I assumed the blue, being that it was an amphetamine and he looked wired.

"A blue one this morning. I told you I can't sleep when you're not with me. If you would stay I wouldn't have to take them."

I tossed the pills into the toilet and the lens case at him. "Seriously!"

I wanted to curse, tell him how dangerous it was to take prescription meds, how much it hurt that he would lie to my face, but my head was spinning. I could barely breathe. The cool air was stifling. I threw my shirt on without a bra and yanked my jeans up.

"Don't do this, Gracie." He held my arm.

"Get away from me," I shrieked. The volume was surprising. My ears buzzed. "I can't trust you!"

"Yes you can," he argued. "I love y—"

"Liar!" I picked up my flats and threw the rest of my things out into the hall.

"You won't even talk to me?"

I ran into the hall and slipped my feet into my shoes. "Why should I? All you do is lie. You gave my son condoms without talking to me. You knew I would hate it! I know you're on something—and you lie to my face!"

As I said the words, I felt ashamed. It was no one's business what we argued about. Yet there I was, screaming at him—louder than I ever had—in the middle of the hotel hallway as he sank into shadows behind the door.

"You can't leave when you're angry with me."

"I can't believe you lied to me. I feel like . . . like I don't even know who you are."

His face tore into a devastating expression. "You know me better than anyone."

I snatched my things from the floor. "Knowing about someone is not the same as knowing them."

He called after me, begged me to stay and talk, but I had nothing to say and was incapable of listening.

I plopped down on the seat in the terminal. My leg unconsciously shifted, knocking my carry-on and purse to the floor. Gum wrappers and makeup pencil shavings scattered amid my receipts and personal items. Until I saw the mess, I didn't realize how much trash I'd accumulated. It was the perfect outward display. My purse was like me, cluttered and full of crap. I stooped to the floor, shoveling my junk back into the abyss it spewed from, and came across a round red ball. Remembering, I picked up Noah's clown nose, the one I'd kept from his old Halloween costume. I clutched the foam ball in my hand and continued with the clean-up. I'd forgotten it was in there. Originally, I was going to give it back to him, but something about the silly thing made me feel sentimental. I wanted to hold onto it.

My phone kept ringing. I ignored it, tears flowing while I picked up my personal items. The plane ride, though very short, was going to be long. I was not looking forward to it.

Before the airline agent called for first class boarding, I begged to be let on the plane because I was terrified Evan would show up. The man took pity and let me board. I thanked him profusely, rushing to my seat in the back.

When I closed my eyes, my mind painted pictures of his aching expression, hiding in the shadows of his room, half-covered in a towel. His eyes were wondrous; furiously trying to figure out why I reacted so keenly, as if he honestly had no idea that what he was doing was wrong.

The guilt built up in me, towering over my anger. I said I didn't know him. I called him a liar after he confessed.

My phone rang, again. I opened and closed it without thinking. Several people were staring, and what a spectacle I must have been: mascara running, red circles and black lines under my eyes, a pink running nose and damp red hair with highly visible blonde roots. I probably looked like a clown. I thought briefly of putting on Noah's clown nose and almost smiled.

Evan deserved some sort of response. I couldn't leave him hanging the way he was. Too much of a coward to call, I typed out a text:

-I can handle the truth, no matter how bad you think it is. I can't stomach being lied to. You know this. Give me some time. Sorry.

An apology was certainly appropriate. It would have been nice if he offered his first, since this whole thing was his fault. But I shouldn't wait for that. My mother used to say there was no pride where love was concerned. If you owed an apology, you gave it. It didn't matter whose fault it was.

But . . . maybe, in this case, we both needed a little time to stew. I deleted the last word and hit send.

He lied to me and I loathed being lied to more than anything. I thought I'd made that clear. I expected to receive no less honesty than I gave myself. It wasn't a ridiculous one-sided standard—I held myself to it. He, knowing this, looked me dead in the eye and pretended to be unaware of what I was asking. But my leaving wasn't helpful if he was doing something dangerous. Evan had told me several times he had trouble sleeping. I knew, from personal experience, he was a wreck if he didn't get at least five hours. So, should I have been so surprised to find that he had taken something to keep him up during the day? Maybe not. But someone else's prescription drugs? That was so dangerous. What was he thinking?

My blood boiled. Did he think I wouldn't see what he was doing? Maybe he didn't care. Maybe he thought I would let it go if he played stupid. As if I should have such low expectations!

My shoulders slumped as I remembered the hateful way I treated him. I bit my non-existent nails, thinking of how upset I was about the whole thing with Noah and ignoring it. That was a mistake. He would've talked it out, but I put it off. That had to contribute.

At my car in the overnight lot, I shoved the key into the ignition and started her up. I reached for my phone and turned it on. There was a message from Evan:

-Please call. I can't take your silence.

My eyes filled to the brim, bringing out the sobs I held inside on the flight home. I was a bad person and a really horrible wife.

I cried until the pressure felt relieved and then called work to tell them I couldn't make it. There was no way I could get through a twelve-hour shift on no sleep. And my job was too important to do half awake.

All I wanted was to crawl into bed, pull the covers up over my head, and wait for the day to be over. When I worked up the courage to call Evan, I'd be the first to apologize.

At home, I followed my instincts and headed straight to bed. As I turned to face my clock and check the time, a note taped to the front blocked out the numbers. I plucked it up and read:

Grace—

Evan called. He wants you to call him when you get this. He sounded upset. The kids were good. I got them off to school, now I'm off to work. If you need to talk, call.

Lily

I considered Evan sitting in his room, alone and distraught, making midnight phone calls. He must have kept her up half the night. That meant he didn't sleep. I set the note down and closed my eyes.

Something on the edge of consciousness stirred. A sinking feeling near my feet. Moving to stretch, I touched something with my toes and shot up to a sitting position. My heart raced while my eyes tried to focus on the disturbance. I blinked and rubbed until the blur came into focus.

Evan was sitting on the end of the bed. His hair was messier than usual, his eyes puffy. Staring at the floor, he peeked solemnly from under his lashes.

"You have to help me, Gracie. This is the one good thing I have. Don't let me screw this up, please. You can't leave me."

My heart tore open. "Is that what you think I did? Evan, no."

I held my arms out wide, waiting for him to fill the void. He shook his head, refusing. They fell at my sides, empty. I used them to shove off the bed and knelt before him to catch his eye, as his gaze was still fixed on the floor. "I could never, would never, ever leave you."

He turned from me. I pressed closer to him, he moved again.

"Stay still," I commanded, getting up and sitting across his lap in my favorite snuggle position.

"Why?" His arms embraced me automatically.

"Everything about you was made just for me." I leaned in to kiss him. He moved and my lips caught his cheek. "Don't," I took his jaw and moved him into position. "I want to kiss you. Will you let me?"

He granted permission with a slow nod. I did, sweet and gentle. And suddenly burning for more. I gripped his hair in my fingers. The intense desire was fiery from the inside out. Magnificent. His heat engulfed me and I had to have him.

"Shouldn't we talk first?" His lips spoke soberly against mine.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, "I was mean. I know you. I love you. Can you forgive me?"

He pressed one hand against me, pushing back. "Gracie. Hear me out. I betrayed your trust. First with the truck, with Noah, and then . . . I was afraid of what you'd think of me."

I took his face in my hands. "The lies hurt; never the truth, Evan."

He placed his hands over mine and drew them down to his lap. "Gracie, the truth is, I don't know how to be married." His brow furrowed. "Then, with the kids—it's hard for me. I don't know where the boundaries are and it makes me feel like shit when you point them out."

He locked eyes with me, his gaze pleading, "I want, more than anything, to deserve what you give me. It's like you see something in me that I don't see in myself. It makes me want to give you everything and I end up making promises I have no way of living up to. I have no idea what comes after 'I love you'. Can't you understand?"

"I didn't know there were boundaries until I felt them, and the last thing I want is to make you feel bad. But we have to be honest with each other. What do we have if we don't have trust?"

"No more lying, I promise." His eyes were wide with sincerity.

I felt the distance disappear. "Everything is okay," I assured him, staring at his beautiful face as he took hold of my waist. "Can I please, kiss you now?"

"I'll let you do more than that." He smirked, leaning into me.

Greedily, I ran my hands over the angular line of his scruffy jaw, the perfect swell in his chest, and the muscular lines of his arms. The feel of him sent my senses into overload. Of all the gorgeous parts of him, there was no sight more stunning than the way he looked at me. I was besotted, staring into the face of a man in love. There was nothing in the world sexier than that.

He laid me down and we picked up where we left off in San Francisco.

Turning Point

Halfway through the second turn, I feel a sudden, petrifying urge. Before I can think it through, my feet come to a screeching halt.

The moon has disappeared, again. The instinct of flight is overpowered by a growing dread. I search for the gloomy shapes, turning from one side to the other in a sudden mass of confusion. I can't tell which direction I came from, and have no idea where to go. The shades of gray that carved my immediate path are gone.

Why did I look back?

I try to mimic the rotation in reverse, but can't be sure if I'm facing my original direction, and I can't feel the natural line in the earth I followed to this place. The wind that blew at my back is gone. I hear its blustering whistle, but no longer feel it. Chirping crickets and leaves disappear in the howling wind. All is violently still.

The silence I ran towards has become a plunging nightmare. I'm trapped, ensnared by black. Every flitter of a wing, every shiver up my spine is my hunter, stalking. I strain to find the bounding beam of the flashlight, but there's nothing. Only fear and the resounding flux of my heart.

The stress throbs continuously in my head and shoulder. I try to take my pulse, but my tremulous fingers cannot feel. The skin of my hands and forearms are on fire. My pleas are quiet sobs given to the crease of my elbow.

My sweaty hair whips in a sudden arctic blast that swirls, caking me with dirt. As I step back, something brushes against me. I jump, spinning in mid-air, throwing my hands over my belly, but can't see anything. No shape of a shadow within the shadows, and no presence. Driven by a nauseating sense of importance, I reach out. The black is cold and hard against my fingertips. A huge rock, stretching higher and further than I can reach.

There's a sense of security in the stone. An assurance no one can grab me from behind. There's nothing to see in any direction, but the wind is blowing in short, freezing bursts.

I lock my lips around my chattering teeth, waiting, hoping the wind will move the clouds again, needing moonlight for guidance. I curl against the solid mass, drawing down the hiked sleeves of my sweatshirt with my teeth and pulling the strings to tighten the hood around my face. Crouching down on my ankles, I run my numb fingers along the ground, searching for anything to help. I find the point of something hard, and dig around it. It feels long and solid, sharp at one side. I angle the odd-shaped stone between my knees and try to cut through the tie on my wrists. But shivers rock my body as I work. Each time, I drop the stone and have to start again.

My head snaps up when I hear the crackling of feet. The light falls into view a moment later. My eyes follow the dim beam carried by my tracker. I grip the stone with rigid fingers, clutching the scream in my mouth. A taste of blood lingers on my tongue.

Please don't let her see me . . .

In the same second I make the prayer, the light of the high moon peeks from behind a thin cloud. There's the black shape of my stalker, running down the slope. The flashlight's pointed at the ground.

I look around while the dim holds, hoping to mark a means of escape. Off to the right, only the high wall. To my left, the gray ground suddenly ends. I hold the gasp, looking down into the nothingness, a chasm, inches from my hiding place. So close, my feet automatically pull me back. I'm tucked near the edge in the mouth of a natural recess against a giant rock wall. The slight turn I took carried me away from the deadly ridge and into safety. Had I not turned when I did, I might have run right off the edge. If I hadn't stopped so suddenly, I might've smacked into the rock and fell.

As my mind registers the immediate danger of the stalker and the narrow avoidance of my own death, the sickening realization creeps in. There's nowhere left to run. When she sees the emptiness ahead, she'll have to turn. And she'll find us. Defenseless.

I look to the rock. To the creeping beam, bouncing down the graded ground. Soon, she'll come to the bottom where the ground swells. The small hillock where I turned. I gaze up to the moon, measuring how long the light will last against how long it will take her to reach the spot.

A little while longer and it will all be over. A little more death and I will die in the most complete sense. I have, already, in so many ways. My mother and father took with them my security, an entire life full of moments of my past and theirs, which would never be recovered. Those memories that were solely theirs—the exact day I took my first steps, the first time I laughed out loud. The precise words my father used when he proposed to my mother and the way she felt when she heard. The advice she might've given when I told her how I liked a boy—all of it's gone because they are.

And Solomon. Every tie so closely entwined in him was severed when he departed. Evan—my great love and father to his unknown heir.

Each incident has been an uncompromising, uprooting, and earth-rending heartbreak that's killed pieces of me. If it were only me, I could live through my own ending, but how can I let the inevitable strike, knowing I'm not the only one affected?

She was going to bury us. The trouble she's taken to follow me this far only proves she's determined to finish what she started.

The wind picks up again, thrusting the clouds across the sky and taking my light. I strain to see the black against black, taking aim.

The rock lands with a loud smack and bounces out of knowledge. I hear the crumbling earth and see the light carry up the hillock, gaining speed as it goes. The stride is fast, full of misguided expectancy.

# April 1st

I started taking birth control pills the month after I turned fifteen. When I got my first period, Aunt Rose took me to the gynecologist. It was the exact opposite of what my mother would've wanted and I kind of resented her for it at the time, but I was raised to do what I was told. So I did. I took them faithfully and still got pregnant three times.

Maybe four. But I wouldn't know for sure until Dr. Grainger called.

It went without saying that I was more than a little worried about Evan's reaction. He'd said it outright. He was not interested in having his own children. Mine were enough and he loved them like they were his won.

I had yet to find an appropriate time to bring up my potential dilemma and I didn't know if I should, being that I had no news to deliver beyond suspicion. And Evan already had so much on his mind. Why upset him without cause?

He'd been getting back to the hotel later and later—sometimes, not until two or three in the morning. They had one week to finish filming and the rigorous schedule was why I'd stayed home. I was getting in the way, distracting him, Sheri said. She said Evan would kill her for saying anything to me, but she was still calling because it really was that important. And when I told Evan I wasn't coming, he didn't even sound upset.

Over the past few days, we'd been having short, unusually open conversations. I spent most of the calls listening to him talk to other people. He was multitasking, trying to fit in our conversation while he worked. Something he usually tried to avoid, but I couldn't exactly complain since he was sincerely trying.

During our last conversation, there was an overtone that hinted at a general lack of interest. He was much less animated, not at all enthused when I picked up. In the beginning he couldn't wait to talk, overly eager for the time to pass and counting the days until I got to him.

Then, he stopped asking—assuming I'd be coming and he worked rigorously throughout the visit. That didn't bother me so much—I understood he was very busy and his job was important to a lot of people, but it hurt when he stopped making the time.

I attributed the change to his lack of sleep and all the stress, but couldn't shake the feeling that something was really wrong.

# April 2nd

Every day was the same routine—run, walk the dog, shower, cook, take care of kids, go to work, cook some more, and clean—except now I was waiting, too. Waiting for the test results. And thinking of Noah, hoping he was making wise choices. Apparently, between the two of us, I was the only one who cared about his virtue.

I didn't feel like cooking dinner. There was too much on my mind. I was sitting at the table over a half-eaten PBJ while Lily dug through the fridge, looking for leftovers.

When the phone rang, I snatched it. "Hello?"

"Grace, it's Dr. Grainger."

Gulp. "Hi."

"I have your test results."

Gulp.

"Your blood work shows elevated levels of hCG. I wanted to give my most heartfelt congratulations to you and your husband. Going by the dates you gave, you should be due around November 19th."

"Dear, sweet Jesus—" My throat closed.

"And don't worry. I'll keep it quiet," she assured, though she didn't need to.

It was against privacy policies to share medical information. The fact that I knew her and the team in the lab personally was a good thing. If they sold me out, I knew where to find them.

"Uh, thanks." I said, and said a quick goodbye.

"Who was that?" Lily asked.

I'd kept the situation to myself because when I told anyone, it was supposed to be Evan first, then Lily. But I wasn't planning on her being there when I found out or him being so distant. Ever the master of avoidance, I wasn't planning at all.

"Are you alright?" She touched my arm. "Grace?"

"I'm pregnant." It was a battle to hold back the flood of emotion. She belted a shocking laugh. "I'm due November 19th."

"Evan's going to flip." She squealed, laughing when I jumped, deliriously happy despite the trepidation. "I have to call Marcus!" She checked her watch, "I don't care if I wake him up." She grabbed the phone and started to dial, then paused. "What are you waiting for? Marcus can't find out before Evan does."

I giggled, infected with enthusiasm, and grabbed the cell from my back pocket. Once inside my room, I sat on the bed and dialed.

"Hey baby," Evan answered graciously. "I can't talk. We're about to start rolling." He laughed, "Good thing you called now instead of a few moments from now. It would've ruined the take. I'm literally standing on my mark waiting to hear 'action.'"

"Oh, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Alright then, we'll talk when I'm done for the day. I'll call as soon as I get back to the hotel."

Just before the line clicked, several frustrated voices murmured over how unprofessional it was that his ringer hadn't been turned off.

Lily was in the doorway when I looked up. She had the receiver on her ear, apologizing to Marcus for waking him, pretending she forgot the time difference. After hanging up, she asked what happened.

"He was busy," I worked up a smile. "I can wait a few hours to deliver the news."

"So can I," she agreed, setting the phone down.

By eight o'clock, Lily had gone home. The house was clean again. So were the kids and Arnold.

By 12:30, I was dead tired and still waiting. I assumed they'd quit for the day and called him. The phone went straight to voicemail. I left a message and decided to get some sleep. I could not let myself worry about anything.

Twisting to my side in the massive bed, I placed a line of pillows behind me. The dried rose Evan gave me on our first date sat in a slender vase on the nightstand.

Soon, he would come home and sleep beside me the way he used to. I couldn't wait to have him back again. I'd make his favorite foods and kiss him whenever I wanted. I giggled, remembering the look on his face that day in the bathroom at the museum. Then the night we broke in the new swimming pool, and fell asleep together on the couch. I woke up, freezing my butt off, while he was snuggled up in the blanket. He was always hanging around then. I couldn't have gotten rid of him even if I wanted to.

I didn't want to consider it, but couldn't help wondering. What if he really didn't want a baby?

Anxious, I dialed his number again. Again, it went straight to voicemail. I listened as the recording played, "Leave a message at the tone and someone will get back to you. Eventually."

"Evan, it's me. Again. I know you're busy, but could you please call? I need to talk to you. It's important. It'll only take a second and I don't want to say it to a machine." I barely got the last word out before the beep sounded.

Defeated, I flung myself onto the pile of pillows surrounding me and closed my eyes. Time would pass faster if I slept. It took time to shut my mind off, but eventually I drifted.

# April 3rd

The feeling was like being trapped at the edge of a precipice. My life was haunted by the frailty and hope of a future that could not begin until he knew. I couldn't move until he knew.

The kids were sound asleep as I stuffed my feet into my shoes and drove down to the beach to think. The briny air usually helped get my head together.

Barefoot in the cold sand, I stared out at the dark sea, where the clouds loomed, low and gray. So low, I swear I could have stood and touched them. The salty moisture of the Pacific filled my lungs. I drank in the sight of the first morning light dragging across the shadowy western blue. A misty horizon hung over the waves, fading in and out. There was no separation between sky and sea; they moved together as one.

The light changed while I stared at a growing array of color that sang its' glorious melodies of newness. I imagined the air was a divine peace and inhaled. My anxiety was met with the calming swish of the mystic waters and calls of gulls.

After a time, serenity came and I realized the problem. It revealed itself as I asked a question: What would I have done if it were Sol leaving for an extended period of time? My answer was immediate. Automatic. And I could not believe the contrast.

Because I jumped into our marriage, my mind never made the transition from person-I-am-sort-of-dating to husband, and because of that disconnect I hadn't given myself over as completely as Evan needed me to.

I had to go to him and I had to stay. I had to tell him. The uncertainty of his reaction scared the crap out of me but I had to face him and say the life-changing words.

I thanked God for the insight and ran back to the car.

I called Lily on the way home. She agreed to stay with the boys until I got a place to bring them to. She assured me that her and Noah could handle Caleb, even though it would be a couple of weeks. Evan was almost done with the current picture and the next started immediately. Round table readings and rehearsals in New York.

After assuring Noah that I would be back on the weekend, I kissed him goodbye and dropped Caleb off at school, then headed for the airport.

A nagging voice in my head said I might be making a huge mistake by surprising him, so I called ahead. Once again, the phone went directly to voicemail. I sighed and left another message, debating on whether or not to call Sheri. I wanted to know what was keeping him so busy that he had no spare second to return my calls. But there was something undignified about having to check up on him. It felt degrading to our relationship. I would not submit my inquiries through a third party. I decided I could live with the mystery a little longer to spare myself the indignity.

Inside his room, the air was heavy with his presence. He must've left in a flurry this morning because there was a trail of clutter—traces of Hurricane Evan—that led from the door, through the entry and sitting area, all the way to the bed. A pile of towels sat tossed near the door. I placed them outside for housekeeping to pick up, since the cart was just down the hall. When I turned on the light in the restroom to check my makeup, I noticed the ring of grime in the sink matched the one in the tub. I tried to use the last clean washcloth to wipe away the muck, but it was dried on.

I sighed, knowing I was going to have to let the room be cleaned.

I opened the door in time to see the maid making off with her cart in the other direction. "Excuse me," I called. She turned. "Can I get some clean towels, please? And some decaf coffee, if it's not too much trouble?"

"Sure," she walked to the opposite end of the cart and started pushing in my direction. "Do you need linens? He doesn't let us in to clean." She started counting out the towels and washcloths.

"Hold on a second."

I wedged the door open and trounced over to the bed, which had been completely stripped. All the pillows were on the floor, save one that had no case. In the corner rested a mound of matted sheets and blankets. I scooped up the pillow and removed the coverings, tossing them into the pile and called out to the hall, asking for a complete set of bedding.

I'd need help if I was going to be done before Evan arrived. He wouldn't care so long as her tidying was supervised. The housekeeper brought in the sparkling clean towels and rags, neatly folded. While she got to work in the restroom, I took up the sheets and placed them in the hall before coming back for the blankets.

On my way back, I nearly kicked a large silver circle on the floor. My hands automatically reached for my ears. Both my hoops were accounted for, in my lobes exactly where I'd left them.

"Did I forget something last time?" I muttered aloud.

"Did you say something?"

"Hm?" I looked up to see the woman staring from the bathroom door.

"Can I take that?" She pointed to the remaining pile of bedding in the corner beside the bed.

"Um, sure," I answered blankly, still trying to recall.

The size of the jewelry was larger than anything I owned. About the size of the earrings I borrowed from Lily. The ones that flipped out to the side when I wore them.

The air around me felt very stuffy. The woman from housekeeping maneuvered to the laundry behind me, trying not to look uncomfortable as her arms brushed against mine. My brain was floating, lost in fabricated projections and theories, as I moved out of her way.

He wouldn't, would he?

As she hauled away the mess of linens, my answer fell beneath the wad of blankets. It landed between her feet as she walked towards the door.

A force from outside my body knocked the breath from me, followed by stomach-churning nausea. I dashed for the toilet.

At first, it looked like a glove, but the size wasn't right. Then, I considered a balloon. But, what would a small, clear balloon be doing tangled in his bed sheets?

I tried to disconnect and think logically. He'd been rapidly losing interest for some time now. He'd barely called. I was the one calling him and some days he never answered. When he did, he was distant and brief, avoiding real conversation. Pulling away. That was why I came last time. To see him and comfort my timid heart. To look in his eyes and reassure myself that he loved me.

My heart reminded me of another moment, similar to this one. One I thought I'd forgotten. Sol's late nights at the office, a high volume of subdued phone conversations. It was so cliché—sleeping with the secretary. He moved out for three months. Noah was only four; he didn't remember. Of course, Maria was ecstatic. I'd let him come home after he promised it would never happen again, and it didn't.

My shaking hands fondled the earring, slipping my wrist through it, gaping at the chinks in the plated gold. My fingers traced the lines of worn areas where the coloring had rubbed away. It was nothing special. Just a cheap piece of gold-plated metal. And it was ruining everything.

What if everything they said about him was true?

I threw the jewelry into the floor near the defining piece of evidence. Gathered my bags and sat in the chair at his desk. Searching for courage. Whether it was courage to go or stay, I had no idea.

When the successive beeps sounded from the lock, I stood, pleading, God, help me do this.

As he called my name, his eyes shifted to the newly made bed before coming to rest on me. He smiled, stepping closer with open arms.

"I've missed you so much," he pressed his lips to mine, slipping one hand up my long skirt as he talked, caressing my thigh. "You didn't have to clean. I was having it taken care of."

"I wish you would've." His eyes widened when I pulled away.

"What's happened? Are you ill?" He must've taken in the lingering scent of vomit, too.

"Yes."

"Here, lie down." He urged me towards the bed.

My stomach rolled, again. I shoved him away. It was too much. How could he? I knew I hadn't been the ideal wife, but . . . "Do you love me?"

"With everything I have." He blinked. Maybe it was surprise, maybe it wasn't.

"Look me in the eye and say it."

Seemingly puzzled, he took me by the shoulders and studiously looked into my eyes. "Gracie, you know I love you. Perhaps I've not been showing you lately, but I do." A smile curled up one corner of his mouth. The expression and words matched what I thought I saw in his gaze.

"I believe you." Tears spilled over.

"What's wrong?" He appeared to genuinely care that I was upset, but he was also very skilled in make believe.

"I'm an idiot. And I am so out of here." I turned, removing his hold with a batted hand and took up my things in a heated shuffle.

There was a glint of anger as he stepped between me and the door. Snatching the suitcases from my hands along with my purse, he tossed them to the ground. "Explain."

"Explain what?" I gave as much attitude as I could.

When he said nothing, I shoved past him, scraping my arm against the zipper of his jacket. It made a painful red streak. "Ouch! Get out of my way!"

"Talk!" He teetered and stepped over, blocking my retreat once more.

I wanted to be angry. I needed to be. If I had to talk I'd just blubber. I folded my arms and stuck out my chin.

"You're cross because I missed your calls? I'm sorry, but you'll be here now. That won't happen again." A huge grin stretched and lit his face.

Instincts had me wanting to kiss that lovely smile until it made me forget, but I closed my pathetic eyes—so very close to being seduced by his charms.

"Your messages said you've something to tell me. What is it?" He waited, scoffing when I didn't answer. "I don't understand you. Have you come all this way to fight with me?"

The question stirred a massive lull of gloom. A grave sadness that took every ounce of anger.

"Who died?"

I shook my head at the irony. "No one, Evan." Just us.

"Then explain this madness, because I'm at a loss!"

His sudden shift to anger stirred mine. Indignant, I took his hand and led him through the short hall, stopping in front of the bathroom door.

"Talk," he snapped.

"Look," I pointed to the floor, at the lascivious undoing of my happiness.

His gaze followed my direction and froze. "Shit." Wide-eyed, his look met mine. "It's not what you think."

"You were making balloon animals."

His shoulders slumped. "Don't be cruel, Grace. It isn't mine."

"It fell from your blankets." I covered my trembling mouth as my stomach lurched. I decided then and there that if I puked, it would be all over him.

He looked to the floor, to me, and back again. "You don't believe me." He pressed his hand against the side of his head. "You don't, do you? Oh, fuck. I can't believe . . . you don't?"

I turned away again, swooping up my bags, but he was on me in a heartbeat, yanking me by the elbow, spinning me to face him.

"Why are you always running away from me?" He had both my arms in his grip, shaking with each word.

"I have my reason! All you've ever done is make promises and break them."

"I never claimed to be something I'm not." He took his hands from my arms and rubbed his forehead. "You're leaving me? Over this? It's not mine!" He turned and kicks at the desk.

I maneuvered around him while he was distracted, once more sweeping my bags up to retreat.

"If you'd let me explain, there'd be no reason to doubt me."

With a few words he had my complete attention. I stopped, my hand resting on the doorknob. There was nothing I wanted more than to believe this was all a huge misunderstanding.

"It was that guy, Stevie. Remember? I told you, I got him a job? Well, I was hanging out with him last night. He came by with these girls and I let him use my room for a few hours. That's all, I swear it."

"Girls," I emphasized the plural, turning to face him.

"Yes, but they were both with him. I made it very clear that I'm married." He held up his hand, brandishing the wedding band. "I would never do that to you." He bent down, kneeling in front of me.

I ignored the gesture and concentrated on my line of questioning. "Why didn't he use his place?"

"Because his girlfriend was there." His fists pounded the floor. "I'm a shit for letting him in."

"How did he 'come by' if you were hanging out with him?"

"We were hanging out earlier; he took off with the girls. I came back here. Alone. Then he showed up here with them. I couldn't get rid of him, so I let him in. It's the truth, I promise. You have to believe me."

His hands gripped the sides of my knees, clenching the fabric of my skirt. His eyes were wide with a sincerity I could not find the heart to trust. I swallowed the ire and asked the really hard questions. Some morbid part of me wanted to see how far he was willing to take the charade.

"Before you decided to leave, you hung out for a spell, huh? With single women?" My mind flashed to the day before he left to start this damned film. "You got mad at me for talking to Marcus!"

"I'm sorry."

"You conveniently forget your phone? And nothing happened. Except that there's a used condom on the floor of your room!"

"I know, it looks bad, but I didn't—"

"You didn't do anything! You were the picture of innocence, though the evidence suggests otherwise." I shook him off my legs. "If it looks like a duck . . ."

"Gracie, please, I've made mistakes, but you have to trust me." He grabbed my skirt again, tangling his fists into the cloth.

"What were you doing while he was using your room?"

"Sitting in the hall, reading." His voice was pleading as he touched his face to my stomach.

"I can't trust you."

"You can't leave me."

"I can't stay. And I can't be with you anymore." The words were a painful revelation. His feeble argument and weak explanation had me furious and disgraced.

"Don't say that." He stretched his arms around my legs. I struggled to work myself free, but he only tightened his grip. "I didn't do anything." Specks of tears mottled my skirt.

"Stop." I tried to wriggle free, but he tightened his grip. "Let me go." I felt my balance giving as my feet were dragged closer together in the pressure of his vise. My arms flailed. I dropped the one bag I'd managed to hold onto. It fell behind me with a smack.

"You have to listen to me."

"Let go!" I screamed.

And he dropped his arms. The sudden lack of resistance sent me onto the tiled entry. The wheel of my carry-on rammed into my forehead. My face puckered involuntarily. My hands flew to my stomach.

Evan reached out, touching my cheek, pleading with me to stay.

He wasn't going to let me leave without a fight and I couldn't afford it. I had to play it safe. When I was far enough away from this mess I could tell him, but not now.

"I'm sorry. Please." He stroked my hair, touching his lips to my temple. "You can call Stevie and ask him. He'll tell you. I won't hang out with him anymore. You can ask Sheri. She'll tell you. I haven't done anything wrong. Please."

He leans over me, kissing the top of my head, "please," and moving down my cheek. "You can't go." He kept moving until he got to my neck. Three traitorous kisses on my skin and the goosebumps bloomed without permission.

I pulled away, looking into his panicked eyes.

"You have to forgive me." He looks so small and sad.

"I'm not one to hold a grudge."

"I need to be with you."

He took my hands and pulled me with him as he stood up. Pulling me into his chest, I was cocooned in his scent. Honey and cigarette smoke. He whispered his affection in my ear—more goosebumps—telling me how he'd literally ached for me, lost sleep over us, forgotten how to live unattached, in such a short time. All along, caressing the length of my sides, and kissing my neck.

Suddenly he pulled away, looking studiously around the room. "I'm going to quit. I'll give them their money back. Nothing is worth all of this. I'm going home to be with you and the kids. Right now. If you don't want to be here, we'll leave—it doesn't matter. I'll do anything you want. We have to be together." The words continued to flow as he set my bags near the door and grabbed his own, rambling.

I knew what he was doing, trying to keep talking so he didn't have to hear what he hoped I wouldn't say, and it hurt to watch.

"I've wasted all this time pushing you away when I wanted opposite." He looked to me, brow furrowed. "There's no reason to do anything if we aren't together. I'm sorry. You have to forgive me. Gracie, you're like air to me. I can't breathe without you."

The words hinted at his proposal. The romantic sentiment was poignant and sad, breaking a place deeper inside my heart. I touched his face. He dropped his half-empty duffel bag and set his arms around me, cradling me as I fought with the pain I had to deliver. When he opened his mouth, I pressed his lips with my fingers. I didn't want him to talk. I just wanted to hold him.

He hooked my neck in his grip and kissed me. Long and good. My hormones acted of their own accord, short-circuiting my brain. My hands found their way into his hair as my will melted.

"Everything will be okay."

I prayed he was right. As I was about to give in, to give him the benefit of the doubt, he said the words that reminded me why I couldn't.

"Gracie, my only love."

I stiffened. Another second elapsed before the obvious occurred to me.

"Why are you apologizing?" My fury erupted with a surprising ferocity. "If you're not guilty, why are you sorry?"

The picture in my head came in crystal clear. Me, the fool, playing right into his talented, deceitful hands. "It was the one thing you had to do. Keep your damned pants up and you couldn't!"

I shoved him away. When he tried to grab me again, I hit him with my purse. "I'm not calling your friends, Evan. You need to own your mistakes."

"I didn't do anything! Dammit! Why can't you believe me?"

"Then you did a great job making yourself look guilty." I pointed at the mess on the floor. "And considering everything that's happened over the last few weeks, I'm going to go with what I see instead of what you say."

"I've made mistakes, but I'd never toss you away like you do me. You can't end us this way—over nothing." His eyes glistened. He closed them and wiped the moisture with his thumb.

"When you're done here, you can come back and get your things. I'm taking the kids to my brother's over spring break. You'll have two weeks to go through the house. Take whatever you want."

"I bought it for you." His voice cracked as he stared with wide eyes, hands out.

"Don't look at me like that. This is hard enough as it is."

"I should make it easy for you to leave me?" He scoffed.

"If you ever really loved me, Evan, you would."

He backed up to the bed and sat down. His eyes tightened. "Grace, I've put up with this shit long enough. Don't think I'll chase you this time, or that you can simply come back."

I clutched the pain in my chest and turned the knob.

"I mean it," he enforced as I opened the door. "I'll not tolerate this."

From the mouth of the hallway, I looked back into the room, at his hard expression and the evidence on the floor. "You surrendered your right to decide what I do. I hope she was worth it."

The door shut. Each step towards the elevator was a labor, driving a stake into my beating heart.

My love was a lie.

I'd planned from the beginning to take things slowly, not only because I was a wreck, but also as a means of protection against the potential for duplicity. I gave him the out on the first day and he didn't take it. He said he wouldn't hurt me. He pursued me and I let him.

Mistake after pitiful mistake. Like a junkie that needed his fix. I freed myself to take as much of him as I could. I left every ounce of independence behind. I gave in without any struggle at all!

There was never any doubting his sincerity when he told me he wanted to be with me, but he was always with me and I guess I couldn't tell how much he meant what he said—I simply trusted his word. My first instinct had always been to trust. To see the best in people. To turn the other cheek. Now look where my preferred ignorance got me. Lily warned me and I ignored her.

The house was empty when I closed the front door, then my bedroom door, and lastly, my closet. The plush carpet cushioned my knees. This was a good spot. I was concealed in the most intimate place in the house. There was not a single place outside where I felt safe. I hunched over, one hand on the wall for support, another clasped a thick sweater. I bit into the cable knit and let out the scream.

Why?

I looked around at the full closet, remembering a time not so long ago when one side was empty. Part of me wished it still was. The way he'd turned me upside down—I was fine before we met.

Was I not enough?

Clutching the tangible pain, I concentrated on breathing in slow, deep breaths, reminding myself to keep perspective. It wouldn't always be so bad. Time would inevitably pass and my reaction would be the same as always—mechanical. Cry like a baby, suck it up, and find the strength to move forward. One thing would be different—I was not going to allow a repeat of my mistakes. I was not going to get stuck again.

I would find a way to muddle through; of that, I had no doubt. Change was always difficult. I had no doubt about that, either. Most importantly, no matter what happened, I would be most careful with this baby. No risks. No stress. If that meant avoiding confrontation, even reality, then so be it. He or she deserved to have the most peaceful gestation ever known to man.

My first official act of peace was to call my brother Ronnie and make arrangements for a visit. I hoped the distance would do some good.

May 3rd

Four long weeks. It had been four excruciating weeks since I'd walked out of his hotel room, and I was still trying to make sense of it. That's twenty-eight lonely nights spent crying and reflecting, and twenty-eight days spent speculating with my brother and Lily. All the what-if's and suppositions led to one defining point—I was a fool. Always have been.

I had yet to tell Evan about the baby. I told my brother, Aunt Rose, and Pastor Tony. Lily told Maria. Everyone knew, except Evan and Marcus. Telling Marcus was as good as telling him.

My brother sided against me. Ronnie said I had no right to keep this tidbit from Evan and I couldn't convince him that I didn't intend to, but simply could not fathom a way to face him. I wasn't sure I was strong enough to see him and then watch him reject me. Us.

Evan had made no qualms letting me know where he stood in terms of reconciliation. My initial reaction was anger, but the words hit like a cannon firing at close range. I couldn't run from the impact and was sinking fast.

My cheeks burned hot as I wiped the loose hair from my face and pulled it back into a messy knot.

"What am I going to do?" I asked the marble slab, sitting in the cool, green grass. Solomon didn't respond. Well, he was probably lecturing me for only waiting a year before I met and married someone else. And I'd always had an innate ability to block out criticisms. Still, that ability was being put to the test.

I'd tried to keep my humiliation from Lily at first, ignoring her impatient questions and answering without answering. I'd tried to make her think my coming home so soon was no big deal, that everything was fine. Of course, she went right to the internet. Her inquisition intensified when she heard his next film was put on hold. Then she heard the funding fell through. She wanted to know when Evan would be back. I told her I didn't think he would be, and blubbered the sickening details. I held out for twelve whole hours.

I heard he was at a rehab clinic in Arizona. She was keeping tabs on him—must know how badly I wanted to know what he was doing.

Every problem is a blessing in disguise, Sol used to say. Sure didn't feel like it.

Ronnie liked to say that life had a way of working itself out. I was nowhere near the 'work-out' portion of my thought processes, still deeply entrenched in mourning the death of my barely begotten marriage and the loss of my new best friend.

"Why do I allow things to happen to me? Why do I never take control of anything?"

What was it about me that made Evan think he could treat me any way he wanted? He was sorely mistaken if he thought I'd be bought with a few words of remorse. But he wouldn't even admit it! He wouldn't even say, 'Yes, I screwed up.' I couldn't forgive him if he wouldn't cop to what he did. It wouldn't matter so much if I were the only one to pay for my mistakes, but the boys loved Evan, too.

What I'd give for the courage to look him in the face and say the words. At least then I could try to imagine moving forward. But I knew myself and the power he held over me. I may start out angry but, were we to come face to face, I would cave, probably apologize for blowing everything out of proportion, and then hate myself for it later. Evan would think he didn't have to respect me because I didn't respect myself.

If only I could carry the assertiveness I had with my kids over to other areas of my life. But with my boys, there was a clear course of action. I could see each choice and where it might lead. There was always a definite right and wrong way to handle each of them, according to my principles and their personalities. I saw a destination, a way to get them where I hoped.

With Evan, I was always flying blind.

What did I hope for? What terms would I be willing to accept from Evan? The first question was the easiest. I hoped we'd have a healthy, happy baby. I wanted all my children to be well-adjusted, honest, admirable men of faith. And I wanted to be with Evan. Of course, I cared about what happened. But not as much as I should have, certainly not enough to stay away. He seemed to care even less than I did, and that infuriated me.

Was she so beautiful, so desirous, that he was willing to risk us? Or was I of so little value to him that he simply didn't care? There were no answers to be had, so long as he was denying everything. Did he expect playing stupid was enough to convince me? Love may be blind, but it wasn't deaf and dumb! I wondered where he met her. Probably through Stevie. That much I could believe. Sheri told me he was bad news. She said he was a prick. I wondered if Sheri really knew the truth like Evan said, or if he was counting on her to cover for him.

Should I ask her? The question was consumed by fury. How dare he put me in the position to have to resort to a third party!

Images of things I didn't want to see filled my head. I imagined him kissing and touching a faceless woman the way he touched me. The same way he acted when filming with Gretchen. I wondered if it was her. Had he whispered the same sweet words—lines? How long was it going on? One time, the whole time? Did he love her, too, or just not me? Is this what he did—how he got his philandering reputation?

If he didn't love me, he should have said so. He never should've asked me to marry him.

I looked back to the gray headstone. "Why do I want to believe him instead of the evidence?"

I wanted to call Lily. I needed reassurance that I was not on a hormonally-charged tirade. That I was not overreacting to a simple misunderstanding, like Evan had wanted me to think. I know what I saw and I wanted it verified. Again.

As if she heard my thoughts, Lily's number flashed on my cell's caller ID. Relief coursed through me, until I heard the tone of her voice.

"You need to come home, right now."

"Why? Is Maria—"

"She's fine. It's . . . oh, this is bad, Grace. I'd rather wait until you're here to tell you."

"Why?" Knowing me the way she did and hearing her grave tone, she was probably right. I'd probably be happier if whatever it was remains a mystery, but asked her to tell me anyway.

"You're going to freak out. It's not even me, and I'm freaking out for you. Grace, you have to pick up the kids and come home. Now."

I'd already patted Sol's headstones was on my feet, running for the Jeep. Lily was never cryptic. Whatever she had to tell me must be bad. Really, really bad.

"Lily, just tell me."

"Are you sitting down?"

"Lily!"

"There's a video on the Internet . . ." Maybe she was expecting me to ask but I couldn't form a question without more information. "It's Evan—"

"What did he do? Is he sober?" I steeled myself beside my Jeep, knowing this was it—the defining piece that would determine which direction I'd go. With him or without him.

"You're in it, too."

"What?"

"I think it came from when you went to visit him on set." She paused again. "You guys are in his trailer. It looks like it was taken from outside, through the screen on a back window. It's kind of grainy, but it's—well, obviously you thought you were alone."

# May 23rd

Thank God I didn't know many people. I couldn't look a single one in the eye.

It was like being pummeled. Beaten down into a spineless lump of clay.

One would think that all my trials—surviving the loss of my parents, living through the death of my first husband, being a single working mother of two strong-willed boys—would have helped me garner some form of courage. But I was as big a chicken as ever.

I'd been repeatedly mortified, on a much larger scale. My humiliation was made available on demand to anyone over the age of 18 with $29.95 to spare.

My mother used to say that a person never really knew what they were capable of until they were put to the test and the whole disaster certainly felt like I was being tested. And failing.

That video had tried and convicted me and I was suffering under the punishment. The torment of trying to accomplish everyday things while strangers—people I would never meet—sat in the privacy of their own home, and watched me make love to my husband.

I felt naked and abused. Empty. But I kept telling myself it would get better and it had to be true. There was no conceivable way that things could possibly get worse.

To top things off, it was Evan's birthday and I couldn't muster the courage to call him. I wasn't even sure he wanted me to. He'd chosen to call Lily and ask her to tell me about the video. He said he didn't want to bother me. I think that hurts the most.

# May 24th

I was lingering at the door to Dr. Lena's counseling office at my church, debating the wisdom of keeping my appointment, when Pastor Tony stepped out from another door down the hall.

"Good morning, Grace," he called, gently waving his hand.

"Morning," I held my focus on the door in front of me, depressed. I'd been spotted, now I have to go in.

"I'd like to speak with you."

I gestured to the counseling office. "I have an appointment."

"It won't take but a minute," he assured, running a hand through his dark, wavy hair. Patches of gray had recently formed on the sides. "Elena won't mind if you're a few minutes late."

"Oh, okay."

I hadn't spoken with Pastor Tony in months. His sudden desire for a meeting felt like a call to the Principal's Office.

I sat in a high-backed wooden chair in front of his large mahogany desk. He met my speechless stare with a cutting gaze, and I knew he knew everything.

Shame flooded my eyes until I couldn't see.

"I heard about your recent troubles." His sweet southern drawl could not temper the bite of his words.

My frazzled thoughts gathered and shattered, leaving me speechless.

"I'd like to talk to you about it."

If only the floor would open up and swallow me.

"Grace, look at me, please."

My overwhelming shame would not allow me to grant his request. I was exposed again; naked and unable to find cover. "You have no idea how violated I feel." I crossed my arms over my aching stomach. "I can't believe this is happening."

"Are you alright?"

"Of course not." I squeezed my eyes shut.

"I know this is uncomfortable and I do apologize, but my position as your cleric requires me to see that you're alright." He sighed. "I'd also like to believe that we know one another well enough to discuss this. I would love some eye contact right about now."

I strained against it, but met his eyes halfway.

"Though my contact with you has been somewhat limited of late, I still believe you are a woman of strong, moral character. One who dedicates more time to the service of others than most regular attending members of this church."

He leaned back in his leather chair. "If you don't want to speak with me, I understand."

I remembered the kindness he'd shown after Sol died, offering to preside over his funeral and checking in on me and the boys, recommending me to Dr. Lena.

I took a deep breath, using my anger to push through the teary shame and shove my words out. "I went to visit my husband while he was working. We were alone in his private trailer. Maybe I should've checked to make sure that the windows were completely covered, but he spent so much time inside and never showed any concern for his privacy. I saw no reason to worry. I didn't know a person could be so disgusting. He's hired a Private Investigator, and his attorneys are handling things."

"I'm awful sorry for you, Grace. How are the boys handling this?"

My boys. The thought broke me and I began to snivel. "Caleb doesn't seem to know anything. And Noah . . . he can barely look at me. He won't talk about it and I can't deny it's a relief. How do I explain?"

He nodded. "Honesty can be difficult, but always best. If it helps, you can send him my way. I'll work out something for him to do over here and maybe he'll talk to me."

I nodded again, knowing it wouldn't help. Noah wasn't so much disappointed as he was angry. He saw me as a victim, the way I saw him. Look at what my selfish desires had done to my family. In Noah's academic career, he'd never had a single behavioral report. But he'd been involved in three fights in the past two weeks. Trying to defend my reputation. I took him with me to help out at the church's Food Closet last week, and that seemed to lighten his mood a little. But then he went back to school.

Pastor Tony offered a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "It'll work out, Grace. Just give it time. Remember, God never closes a door without opening a window." He stood, offering his hand. When I took it, he pulled me from the chair and into his soft embrace. "Keep up with your charity work and I'll keep praying for you and the boys."

I'd been putting in time at a second-hand store the church supported on my days off. It started when I took some usable household items to the stores' drop-off center. The woman that ran the place, Theona, didn't look at me funny. She was too busy trying to sort out the huge, disorderly mess in the in the warehouse style building adjacent to the store. After I mentioned the pastors' name, she jumped at my offer to help.

Helping others was the only way I knew to keep my head above water. But I was worried, too. I was scheduled to serve in the nursery next Sunday. I'd been dreading facing the parents and had contemplated cancelling.

He stepped back, releasing me. "I know how judgmental some folks can be and took the liberty of cancelling your monthly childcare service days. If you want to serve, all you need to do is show up. But there's no obligation. They won't be left short-handed if you don't."

"Thank you," I said, meaning it but my voice sounded flat.

"In case you're interested, the soup kitchen and women's shelter downtown are always in need. They specifically serve the indigent population in our community and can always use another set of hands."

I relaxed a little. "I'll keep that in mind." The people I'd met the few times I served at the soup kitchen were the nicest, least judgmental group I'd ever known.

I was still having trouble keeping my eyes off the floor. "I appreciate your . . . candor."

Dr. Lena wasn't at her desk. I stared at her silver nameplate from my usual chair nearest the door and waited. Leaning my head against the back of the couch, I closed my eyes, hoping for a stroke to help me forget the whole, agonizing situation.

My head had started hurting during my talk with Pastor. It seemed to really kick in when I stood to leave.

I was been laid bare, literally and metaphorically. Private things spilled into public, subject to demoralizing, hypocritical judgment. It was nice to know I had my cleric's support, but still my stomach ached. Keeping this embarrassing fiasco at bay was proving more difficult than I thought. I was constantly confronted and didn't see how I was supposed to live with the scrutiny and not let it stress me out.

I was finding myself jealous of Lily because Evan called her. Because she talked to him. It was so ridiculous and stupid and I couldn't help myself.

"Oh, you're here." Dr. Lena's voice sounded. My eyes shot open. "Pastor said it wouldn't take long, but I didn't know he meant lickety-split." She was taking her seat behind her cluttered desk, holding a mug of coffee.

I shrugged, clasping my hands in my lap.

"How have things been? I haven't seen you in a while." Her glasses slipped down the bridge of her nose as she looked over the rim to better see my face. The tight curls of her dark hair were relaxed into gentle waves.

"I'm furious." I crossed my legs and gazed towards an empty corner of the room.

"Let's explore that," she said, and I could not stop my responsive scoff. Her eyes widened. "Sorry. I'm just so . . . extremely disappointed with myself, my choices, the way things are going."

"And how is that?"

I scoffed again. "I know you know." She ascended with a slight nod while I continued. "They're beyond awful. The parents at Caleb's school, they look at me like—" I shook my head, thinking of the glares I got while dropping him off that morning. "Apparently, I'm a prostitute by association. You may want to keep your distance, make sure you don't catch my depravity. This Internet thing is like a freaking shadow. Everywhere I go, it's right there and everyone sees it! People I've never met have seen me naked!"

The embarrassment rolled down my cheeks. Funnily enough, I didn't sound sad. I sounded angry. "Half the time, I'm on the verge of losing my mind."

The anger wasn't overpowering. It was encompassing, but not consuming. It didn't cloud my thoughts, but clarified them, and I was able to articulate exactly what I felt.

"When it rains, it pours."

"You can say that again. Oh, and here's the kicker," I tossed my hands, "I'm pregnant! And we're separated!"

"You have my congratulations to the first and condolences to the second. May I ask why?"

I accepted her tribute and responded, "No, that humiliation is solely mine." But I continued telling her about how upset I was, the feeling that I'd lost something I couldn't describe and my sorrow in knowing I'd never get it back, my appreciation for the Pastor's sympathy, my problems with Evan's problems, and distaste for life in general.

"I don't like this feeling so . . . so impotent. I'm ashamed and furious that I didn't see any of it coming. I knew being with him would cost me. I just never imagined the price could be so high."

The gushing wounds of my heart bled all over her floor.

She responded with a sweet, supportive pat on the arm. "I have complete faith that you're able to handle it. You hold your head high. Keep praying and reading your Bible."

I drove home flustered.

# May 30th

Pace yourself.

I thrust the metal pan into the dirt and heaved a mound of soil into the waiting wheelbarrow.

Cool dirt flew onto my legs. It was too warm for jeans. Yesterday's dark clouds had passed us by without a drip. I repeated the movements, intently shoveling until sweat ran down my forehead.

Arnold has died. I found him, listless, inside the garage yesterday. When I got him to the vet emergency hospital, it was too late. I had him cremated.

Noah was taking it the hardest, pretending like nothing was wrong, and Caleb wanted a puppy. When they came home from school, we would bury him. Arnold always liked lying under the pine tree in the corner but the roots were too large and mangled to dig around, so I settled for a wide open space on the opposite side of the yard—the corner I was going to use for a garden—because he used to lounge there in the sun on cool mornings.

As I patted my non-existent belly, a shadow moved between the flat boards in the fence. The sound of a metal latch clanged as the new gate to the adjoining yard opened up. I held my breath, nerves welled in my throat.

I started shoveling again, as if I'd never stopped, like I hadn't noticed his presence.

"Can I help with that?" His hand moved to take the shovel.

"No, thank you," I tightened my grip.

Evan's hand pulled back and I noted the loose skin on his long fingers. When I straightened up to stare, he was noticeably thinner. His pupils were dilated in the bright light. All my tenderness faded to exasperation.

"What are you doing here?" I thrust the shovel heatedly into cold earth.

"Don't you miss me at all?"

I bit my lip.

"I know you're upset with me, Gracie, but for all the wrong reasons."

"What are the right reasons, Evan?" When he didn't answer, I changed the subject. "How is the hunt for our voyeur going?"

"My investigators learned where the original video was uploaded and determined what type of phone it was that took the recording. That helped to find where it was purchased, but it was probably paid for with cash. They've got a short list of people they're looking at, but no one's saying anything yet. It has been taken down, though. But you know how that is. A million people have probably already downloaded it." He stood calmly with his hands in his pockets. Not a trace of nervousness.

"How long have you been staying there?" I pointed towards Ray's old place that was supposed to be for Marcus.

"A few weeks."

I nodded. "That makes sense."

I'd noticed several things out of place lately. Mostly small things, like the television was on a different channel than it was when I turned it off. Things had been moved from one place to another. The most notable items: my pillow and perfume had gone missing. And I kept getting the strange feeling that I was not alone. I tried to convince myself that it was just me, but apparently it was him.

It burned that he was being so open about his secret hovering and yet so tight-lipped over something I'd caught him doing.

"I heard you didn't start the last picture."

"The director was fired."

"What about your other projects?"

"I pulled out," he shrugged, nonchalant, disheveled hair blowing in the breeze.

Dammit, he was still beautiful. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"I want you back."

A painful ripple tore through my chest. It was exactly what I wanted to hear and the absolute worst thing he could say. I swallowed the pain, deciding to let my anger answer.

"And you think using drugs and spying on me is a good way to go about that?"

"I'm doing the best I can in a really bad situation."

I start digging, again. "You look awful."

"And you're beautiful as ever." He stroked my cheek, sending warm shivers up my back. The hairs on my arms stood at attention. "I miss you, and I'm so sorry about Arnold. I know how you loved him." The sincerity of his eyes was tainted by whatever he'd been taking. I shied away.

"I can't touch you?"

I stared down at the shovel, shaking my head. I shut my eyes tight. It felt like a lie. I wanted him to touch me more than anything. I wanted him to take hold of me and kiss me, to make forget about the last two months. But I couldn't let that happen. He was in such bad shape.

"How did it happen?"

"He ate rat poison."

His brow crumpled. "How did he get it? I saw it in the cabinet when—" he stopped.

"Go on," I urged, "When you . . ."

"The other day, I was in the garage looking for the drill. I saw it up in the cupboard. And I know you haven't set it out."

"Because you've been watching. What was the drill for?"

"Hanging pictures," he shrugged, looking away. It was the first time he'd looked at anything but me since he came into the yard.

"Why are you doing this?" I drew in a ragged breath, hoping to chase away the quiver in my voice. "You said—"

"I didn't mean it. You didn't believe me. You still don't, I can tell. Why haven't you called Sheri?"

"This type of behavior isn't healthy, Evan. Normal people don't do this kind of thing."

"I don't know what else to do. I've told you the truth. I need you."

"No, you need counseling,"

"We can go to counseling. I'll get in the car right now and go." His thin face lit with displaced hope.

I felt sick. I'd waited so long to see him, only to wish I hadn't. If I did what I wanted, if I took him back now, I'd be a crutch.

"Not 'we'. There is only you. You need counseling." He was still smiling. "You're making me crazy with—with you . . . you're right here!" I stuttered, decidedly taking a deep breath to wait for the right words. "I need you to leave me alone. To get better. I can't get through this if you're everywhere I look."

I had to see him in the grocery store, on billboards, posters, folders, stickers, backpacks, countless news stories, and rack after rack in the entertainment section of every place I shopped. No television, no street or store was safe.

"I can't take you hating me."

"Try listening to me for once!" I shoveled furiously, stepping into the hole. "And I don't hate you—I want you to take care of yourself."

After a few shovels' worth of silence, I looked up. The yard was empty. When the hole was deep enough, I headed inside to cry in peace.

Consoling myself in the kitchen with a glass of juice, I heard it—a loud crashing—and darted out back, through the adjoining gate, into the neighboring yard. I stopped at the edge of the patio, staring, jaw agape. The large glass door to the kitchen had been shattered. An upturned dining chair rested inside the frame as explanation. The cement patio was sprinkled with diamond-like bits of glass. A fluid curtain flapped gently in the breeze as the sound of more destruction thundered from inside the house.

Against my better judgment, I maneuvered through, crunching into the open dining area. The family room beyond was sparsely furnished with a single couch and one picture—a large painting depicting the streets of London. It was all browns and grays, a blur, save the bright red two-story bus tearing down the street, as a woman talked on the phone inside a booth across the roadway.

To my right was Evan, his back to me as he slouched in the kitchen. Broken drawers lined the floor below empty slots in the cabinetry. That explained the ruckus. Suddenly, his arms flailed, tearing doors from the kitchen cabinets. One stuck. He jerked it again and sent it flying into the microwave. He screamed, shoving them both to the floor. The combined sounds became a frightening roar. His face was contorted, his muscles bulging. Sinews streaked the length of his arms as he snatched the heavy cutting board from the counter top. He brought it crashing down on the granite and then sent it flying.

The floor greeted me, driving shards into my bare legs as the butcher board brushed the top of my head. I scrambled far beneath the dining table as the wooden block skittered across the table, knocking off the vase before sliding down my back.

All of a sudden, it seemed so noisy. Maybe because I was screaming—I wasn't sure why, but I couldn't stop. To see his aftermath is one thing, but to watch this animalistic dismantling was another.

Evan made his way over to me. He was saying something, probably "sorry"—but I couldn't make out his words over the noise. Everything was just a continuous, spewing stream of nonsense.

The glass shards dug further into my flesh as I stood. My hands felt weak, shaking as I shoved him away. I shouldn't have come, that was clear now.

It was a race to the door.

He gripped my arms, pulling me back. I slapped his hand away and he traded it for the other. I removed that one, only to find it replaced somewhere else. Besieged, shuffling towards the broken exit as quickly as I could, I ignored the searing pain. I couldn't control my anxiety as he fumbled, trying to force his comfort on me. I broke away just outside the kitchen door and dashed through the gate, across my lawn, and up the path to my patio.

Outside my back door, I took the time to survey my wounds. The tongues of my shoes were bright red. The fronts of each leg were lined with small cuts, but my knees got the worst of it. I grabbed the hose and gently washed away the excess glass and blood to better see the wounds without exposing myself to further injury. I needed to know the cuts were as superficial as they seemed before I moved, again.

Evan charged through the gate, his eyes blazing. He was panting and sweating. His pulse pounded in his neck, the veins in his arms bulged. Fear shot through me. There was something in his hand, and for a split-second I was surprised it was only a hand towel.

I reminded myself how stupid I was being. He didn't see me—it was an accident.

"Gracie, are you alright? I didn't know you were there! I'm sorry! I hurt you! I'm a fucking idiot!" He raised a clenched fist and beat it against the side of his head, over and over.

I told him I was fine, but he either couldn't hear me or wouldn't. So, I lifted the hose and sprayed him until he stopped his nonsense.

"I'm fine!" I shouted, repeating myself several times until I knew he'd heard. Then, I turned off the water. "It's a few scrapes. I'm just a bleeder."

He huffed, wiping the water from his wet hair and clothes. He looked as shocked as I felt. "Gracie, I'm so, so—"

"Save it! Just go. Get yourself some help." I wondered if he heard the panic as plainly as I did.

"But—"

"I mean it, Evan! If you come near me or my children—" I couldn't speak the threat, choking on the lump in my throat. "What you need, I can't give."

I limped into the house and locked the door behind me.

When I turned on the light inside my bathroom, the first thing I saw was a lump growing on the side of my forehead, near my hairline. There was no bruise, just a red line. I ignored it and propped my burning knees on the counter to wipe them down with cotton swabs and make sure there was no more glass, before splashing them with alcohol. That made me yelp. The bandages went on easily after. I changed into some sweats to cover the dressings, and took down my hair because I didn't want to explain anything to anyone. The kids would be home from school soon and having to bury Arnold was enough for one day.

Too depressed to think, I limped to the family room with plans to ice down my throbbing legs and zone out with television.

Evan was sitting in the oversized chair in the family room. His hair was wet, but his clothes were dry. His hands pressed across his forehead as he stared into nothing with his elbows propped on his knees. There was no antagonism, simply empty eyes and a blank face.

"Please. Don't be afraid." His tone was soft. "I don't know what's happened to me." He ran his hands through his hair. "Are you alright? Do you need to see a doctor?"

I shook my head.

"I see I've effectively immunized you to my apologies. I won't say the word, though, I want you to know I am more—" My brain filled in the missing word. "—than you will ever know. I could've seriously hurt you. I couldn't live with myself if—" He started to snivel and stopped, working the sound into a cough.

"I'm leaving, so you don't have to worry. You're right about me, but you're not right about everything." He met my eyes for a split second. "I'm grateful you have quick reflexes."

He cleared his throat and stood. His house keys dropped on the counter as he passed to the front door. He swung the door open and turned. "I won't come back, I promise. But might you do one, final favor?"

I nodded.

"Don't tell the kids?" His voice cracked.

"I won't."

He shook his head and walked quickly out.

The finality was tangible. I felt the disconnection like a cord pulled from an outlet. He was doing what I asked and it was the right thing, but it felt abrupt and wrong and I was afraid I'd never see him again.

My knees burned and throbbed as I limped for the entry. I must've missed some glass; it shouldn't hurt so much. Flinging the door open, I ran for the wall that separated the front yards, but couldn't bend my bandaged knees enough to crawl over before the black SUV disappeared down the hill. Desperate, I limped back to the kitchen and reached for the phone. The line rang and rang before finally going to voicemail.

"Evan, I need to talk to you. It's important. It has nothing to do with whatever just happened. I need to speak with you, so please call me. Please, please."

# A Way Out

I crouch into my alcove, disgusted and relieved, as I draw my knees up but can't get my arms around to hold myself. My burning, cold arms tuck between them, huddling in a folded position around my belly.

All I did was throw a rock.

I didn't push, I didn't prod or lead. I threw a rock over a ledge—that's it. She was the one who assumed it was my feet making that noise and made her own choice to follow it.

I just tossed a rock.

The cold is bitter, like the long night. The merciless moon won't show itself and I can't move in the black, for fear of receiving penance. I'm doomed to wait over the grave and ponder while I freeze.

I breathe into my hands, thanking God for every wretched, undeserving breath.

At the first sign of light, I scurry away from the ledge, keeping my morbid promptings at bay. Part of me wants to see, to make sure she's really down there, but I know if I look, I'll never stop seeing.

It's easy to find the path I carved. There's only one way to go—away from the precipice. I follow the fallen grass and imprints in the dirt until I come to the drop. The climb that zapped all my strength. It's very rough and steep, and it looks like I long way down. I examine my captive hands and consider how best to proceed. Gently, I plop onto my butt, inching—sometimes sliding—my way down the steep, coarse path, using my feet to control speed and direction.

During the frightening night, I was sure I was standing on a hill of fire ants. I thought I felt them biting and stinging me with their pinching mouths. But in the light of day, the burn and itch looks like poison ivy. The hillside is covered with it.

As I reach the bottom of the steepest incline, my course becomes increasingly difficult. I can walk now, but there's no more trail in the dirt or fallen grass to follow; only tall trees, shrubs and bark. I do my best to plot a straight line, but have no way of knowing if the line I made the previous night stemmed out straight or at an angle.

The sun rises higher in the sky, bringing the heat. I soak up the warmth, still feeling the icy cold in my bones and dread the sight of my shoulder. The low temperature helped keep it from swelling, but in the growing heat, I can already tell, the pain and swelling will soon immobilize it. The smallest movements send wrenching pain through my upper body.

My wrists are red and purple around the binding zip-tie. The dirt where I stayed was trickled with dried spots of blood. The windburn on my cheeks has a scaly feel. My mouth is as dry as the air. Every time I swallow, the sensitive mucous membranes of my parched palate stick together. My lips feel like they may crack if I use them. I think there's Carmex in the first aid kit. There should be a few water bottles, too.

The woods thicken until there's no more sun. The heat is lost under the canopy, where I struggle through the undergrowth. I try to remember the conditions I ran through the night before, but other than the oppressive terror, I can't recollect. I keep on in the general direction I think I came from, praying and trusting I'll find the way.

After a while, the thick mess of trees begins breaking up. I keep my path in the sunny spots between the towering trees. As I come down the wooded hillside, the patches break into a wide field of tall brown and green grass, with scattered patches of dirt.

The field.

When I look back at where I've come from, the sight stops me in my tracks. Dear, God. It's a mass of mountains, sheer and high, blocking out half the sky. The vast hills stretch out behind and before me. I'm merely a speck among them. Even if they know where to look, they may never find me.

My head continually throbs and my arms are on fire. I need to scratch them. I can't even wipe my hair from my face because the rash from the poison ivy will spread. I stomp my feet and snivel in frustration, turning towards the field to search along the forest edge for tire tracks. I clearly remember the Jeep being on the edge of the trees, with no road in sight.

Maybe there's calamine lotion in the first aid kit, too.

# August 6th

The months were slow and redundant and I found myself feeling lonelier than ever. The morning sickness was not so much sickness as complete lethargy. It took ten times the effort to go through the motions.

According to Fame Tracker, Evan really did check into rehab, and left after thirty days. He'd been keeping a low profile since. Translation: no one knew where he was. He'd left his cell phone on the couch in Marcus' place and never came back. And he'd had his number changed at least twice since then.

I figured he was hoping I'd take the hint and stop calling. So I did. Well, sort of. To help combat the need to call him, I began writing to him. Every mundane detail. Just to share with him, like we were still together. I got up and dragged through my routine so I could write to him about it. And I could pretend I was going to send him my letters, and that he looked forward to reading them. My guess was I'd written about a hundred different letters. Not all of it was the deep, we-need-to-have-this-talk talk. Some I wrote just because I missed being able to pick up the phone and hear his voice. I missed feeling the weight of him in the bed beside me, waking up cold because he was a blanket hog. I missed laughing with him during our late-night talks that always ended with us making love. I missed his lips on me and his hands in my hair while Pink Floyd played on in the background.

I made a mental note to mention that in my next letter.

My hands were swollen as I opened the refrigerator for some water and spotted the Kool-Aid. Suddenly, I had to have it. I shouldn't . . . but my mouth watered, imagining the sweet and tangy fruit flavor. I gave in to temptation and poured a tall glass.

Chugging the last drops, my enjoyment was short-lived. The intense need to purge overtook me and I dove for the sink, giving back everything.

The prospect of going through this whole matter alone was beyond depressing and I had no one to blame but myself. I sighed and rinsed my mouth. The bout of emesis had soiled what little appetite I had. These days, I could hardly keep anything down before noon. I should have been well past the nausea and swollen hands by now, but they were still going strong. My favorite foods disgusted me. I used to love toast slathered in peanut butter for breakfast after a run. My stomach rolled with the thought. Even the slightest whiff of peanut anything caused instant nausea.

It was the first day of my twenty-sixth week. Start of my third trimester. It was also my birthday. I'd be twenty-five. Again.

I'd been doing my best to keep up with the demands of everyday life, but my body was under the impression was I done. More and more lately, I found myself feeling completely run down.

Unable to find the will to get on the treadmill, I headed straight to the shower. As I washed my swollen abdomen, I wondered what Evan was doing. Considering it was before eight, a safe bet was sleeping. I smiled to myself, remembering the way he looked in the morning. His out-of-control hair sticking up in every direction, accented by red lines on the side of his face—trace marks of the wrinkled pillow case, noticeable long after he woke.

Change had always been a task for me. Not when I initiated it—on those rare occasions, the transition was easy—but times like these, when I felt forced into something, I required a long, laborious adjustment period and sometimes a lengthy pity-party.

I'd noticed an inconsistency—not just in relation to my thoughts versus actions and the hypocrisy there—but I never thought about things the way normal people did. For me, there was no analyzing. I simply reacted and then had to deal with the consequences.

That's the reason why I told Evan I loved him so easily. And he was so easy to love. In retrospect, I suppose it should have scared the crap out of me. No, that fear was present the morning after my barbecue, when he apologized for kissing me and did it again. The nerves surfaced and fluttered away. His touch did something to me. It made me lose my way. I would get lost in his kiss, and then no amount of him was ever enough. It took everything I had to move at the pace I did. I was surprised when he proposed, but accepting felt natural. The brief courtship felt like the steady pace of a tortoise. I guess, as far as love goes, I was more comparable to the hare.

It was tough living a separate existence, especially when I was so attached. It didn't help that his face was everywhere. His latest film was doing very well. Sheri was right; it was his best work so far—receiving high praises all around. In Triumph In The Sky, Evan played a helicopter pilot, paralyzed during a rescue attempt gone wrong during the Vietnam War. It was an independent film and he gave a wonderful, emotionally charged performance. I'd watched it nearly every night over the last month. Since not thinking of him proved impossible, I thought I might try going the other direction and began working in allotted blocks of time. The rationing wasn't working, either. The gnawing need to locate him was driving me insane.

Sheri still called from time to time, but she said he never asked about me. How I regretted not telling him that day in the yard! Even if he was better off without me, even if he never wanted to speak to me again, he deserved to know. Even if he didn't want the baby, I had to tell him, let him make the choice for himself.

The other day, I prepared a script for that conversation, since it was looking more and more like I'd end up telling him over the phone. But I really didn't want to have to break that soon news via recorded message. But if that turned out t be the case, I was prepared. Now all I needed were the guts to say it.

Evan, I'm pregnant. Oh . . . I know you don't want kids of your own. But that's too dang bad. I'm having your baby.

He's going to hate me.

In my great desire for absolute secrecy, a necessary evil to keep Evan from finding out from someone else, I cut myself off from the outside when my belly became too noticeable. I could still hide it under a jacket, but it was August.

Of course, hiding meant no more job. It also meant no more therapy—which was surprisingly easy to deal with. I did miss Dr. Lena's company, but was much better at suppression than I gave myself credit for. Suppressing everything but him.

Sitting at the table, I quietly mourned the aged crevices in my hands while Lily finished her usual Saturday morning breakfast at our house.

"What are you staring at?" Her lip puckered, sipping her coffee.

"My hands are old." I watched the wrinkles, both great and small, disappear as I folded them into fists. They resurfaced as I laid my palms on the table.

"Your hands aren't old." Noah stood at the open refrigerator, pouring orange juice. "They're the same age as you." He smiled.

"Hey, Culo caliente, leave your mother alone." I snickered at Lily's nickname for Noah, the one she'd given him when I told her about Condom-Gate. She waved him off when his face fell into mock-pout. "It's the job. Look at mine," Facing me, she held out her lovely bronze hands.

The two were incomparable. "You're depressing me."

After Lily left with Caleb, and Noah took off for a friend's house, I was left all alone. Even the one young girl that camped outside for so long was long gone.

I had been a little sneaky lately and orchestrated a Plan B, of sorts, by boxing up the rest of Evan's clothes. Being very careful not to cross any boundaries, I called Sheri and asked her to tell Evan to come get his things. She'd agreed to pass along the message and then called back the next day to tell me he wanted her to come get them.

He really meant it when he said he wouldn't come back.

Sheri hadn't said it, but I got the distinct impression that he had better things to do. He was either angry or ashamed, I was not sure which, but something was keeping him from facing me. Probably my cold-hearted rejection after he'd ripped up the kitchen next door.

I made my way to the sink and started the breakfast dishes. Once that was done, I anxiously took out the mop. A thin stream of drool escaped as I removed the cap from the pine-scented cleaner. It made my mouth water as I poured it. I started using it a while back because the bleach fumes were making me sick. The pine scent drove me crazy. I wanted to wear it for perfume, soak all my clothes in it, cover every surface of my home with it, paint it on the walls, and smell it all day long. Reason won out over desire and I stuck to using it for cleaning.

After the house was acceptably clean, I sat to practice knitting. Aunt Rose sent me most of her patterns and supplies. Her arthritis wouldn't let her do it anymore, and she knew I had nothing better to do. So far, I'd created three misshapen pairs of baby booties and one moderately short scarf. Abandoning the idea of making something wearable, today I was resolved to start a throw for the back of the sofa. No harm could be done with a deformed blanket.

But soon, I gave up and picked up a pen and paper. Halfway through the third line in my letter to Evan, my doorbell rang. My stomach knotted up when I checked the peephole. Sheri. She would see my belly.

A million scenarios rushed through my mind as I considered how to proceed. Yes, Evan needed to know, but . . . How would I ever know how he truly felt? In his heart, I think he did hold a measure of love for me, even if it was fleeting. And he gave it the only way he knew how. He did tell me once, "I don't know what comes after 'I love you.'"

Somehow, 'trapped by an unplanned pregnancy' didn't seem like the best response.

Evan would be completely blindsided. In my fool's heart, I hoped he might want to come back, but I couldn't let that happen until I knew how he really felt. He was more likely to warm up to the idea of fatherhood if he actually loved me. But I needed to know that he could love me enough to give it a try. And what if Evan did want the baby? Just the baby. And not me.

Maria's accusations still held onto me in a way that I could not explain. I'd never intended to trap her son, but that didn't mean I didn't do it. I would never know what might have been. If Sol had read his college acceptance letters before he found out about Noah, everything could have turned out differently. Now I know better and won't take that chance. I will not be that pathetic person, clinging to someone who put up with me out of obligation.

Poking my head out the door, I greeted Sheri.

"Long time, no see." She smiled hugely, stepping forward.

"Um, before you come in, I need to ask a favor."

She took the step back. "That depends on the favor." She'd made no secret where her loyalties were.

"I need you to promise—your most solemn oath—that what I'm about to tell you will stay between the two of us. You can't tell Evan."

Her eyes tightened. "That depends on what it is."

"Something I have to tell him myself." She crossed her arms, guarded as usual. "Sheesh! Sheri, he's not going to fire you. It's a good thing. I think."

"Alright," she ascended slowly. "What is it?"

I opened the door, keeping my body behind it and invited her in.

"You're not going to kill me, are you? I have an appointment later." She snickered.

I closed the door and turned. Her eyes fell to my burgeoning belly. It was hard to miss when I pulled the fabric of my t-shirt back. Emotion flooded her face. She covered her mouth and followed one outstretched arm to the couch.

"Oh my, this is . . . this is—I—I'm speechless."

"You won't tell him, will you?"

"Why didn't you say something before you kicked him out?"

I shrugged, feeling the well of guilt on my face. "I should have, but under the circumstances—"

"Oh," the syllable rang in sing-song.

Maybe she was remembering my phone call. The one I'd made asking her to check on Evan. Informing her of our fight in the hotel that day, telling her how worried I was about him.

"Because you know he doesn't want children."

It felt like an accusation, though her tone was sweet. I wanted to argue. If he knew how much this meant to me . . . "He might change his mind."

She shook her head, "I doubt it. He rarely does." She looked to my round belly. "You should've come to me right away. I would've gone with you to get this taken care of."

"Pardon?"

"He doesn't want to have a baby. Not with you, not with anyone. Not ever. Haven't you considered his feelings at all?" She raised a hand to her face and abruptly turned, on the verge of tears.

"His feelings are the reason I haven't said anything." I felt myself fall back into the chair—the weight of my worry amplified a hundred-fold. I knew it. He'd said it. More than once. And not just to me.

"Are you alright?"

I wiped my eyes. "I will be if you keep my secret."

Her eyes were fixed on the floor as she shook her head. "Oh, you can count on it. Evan always shoots the messenger."

When she looked up, there was no expression to read. Just her blank eyes, like empty windows in an abandoned house. "Grace, he didn't send me here to pick up clothes he'll never miss. He sent me over to give you these." From the pocket of her navy power suit, she pulled a thick, white envelope. "Keep in mind, he's trying to be nice about all of this. And take note, these are not signed. He prefers you to take care of it, at your leisure, and he's willing to give you all the property and the home next door."

I tore back the outer cover. My eyes searched greedily over the cold, black letters. No more us. He wouldn't change his mind, because what I wanted didn't matter.

A fissure perforated my stomach. I saw it in my head—the pink lining slowly turning red, growing to a white canker before going completely black. Like the oozing scabs decrepits get, the flesh would fester and bleed until it died, along with my heart.

I swallowed the sob as the next line of print line shocked me. "Aw, geez. 'Irreconcilable differences'?" It sounded exactly like the kind of thing Evan would hate.

"It's his way of being amicable. Do you know if it's a boy or girl?" Her voice was so far away, I barely heard it.

"Yes, it's a—"

"Don't tell me. I want to be surprised. When are you due?"

"November 19th."

"You're not very big for being so far along." Her hand stretched toward my belly, rubbing in a smooth circle.

"Give it another month."

I felt myself coming back a little as we conversed—coming to grips with what she meant, "He wants you to take care of it." Disillusionment washed over me.

I was trapped in a revolving door. Repeating the same steps over and over and expecting things to look different the next time around. How did I not see this coming?

"I've got to go," she announced, hastily standing.

"What about his boxes?"

"Grace, I will help as much as I can. But you have to understand, he's not only my friend, he's my source of income. I can't be put in the middle." She stopped at the door, her hand loosely set on the knob. "You don't look so good. Maybe consider moving. New place, new life; might be better for everyone." She was out the door before I had a chance to speak.

I wanted to know why. Why now, after so long apart? And there it was—the answer wrapped inside my question. We were already apart. Completely disconnected from one another on every level—every level he knew about. That was the reason I was trapped and he was moving ahead. Because I knew and he didn't.

I thought we had something special, lasting. It couldn't have all been one-sided. After all, he proposed. He had the plan in place before we left for Vegas. He bought the bed, the land, the neighbor's house, and my ring, all in advance.

I looked to the papers in my hands—already filled out, awaiting my signature. Irreconcilable differences—the two most depressing words in the English language.

A painful twinge stuck me in the side, a tiny elbow to the ribs. The perfect reminder why I needed to stay calm. My blood pressure had been a little high the past few weeks and I needed to be careful.

The stress would have to hold for a few more months. Sheri said 'at my leisure,' so I would take him up on that and do it in my own sweet time. Withhold my reaction until I could afford to give it the proper fit it deserved. Besides, it really was something we needed to discuss face to face. So I could stick my foot in a place he would never forget. I waddled to the kitchen and stuffed the papery trauma into a drawer.

I tried to get back into knitting, but it wasn't enough to keep my hands busy.

My Jeep had been looking pretty ragged. It was Noah's job to take care of cleaning the cars, but I needed the distraction more than he needed the allowance. As I grabbed the portable vacuum and some old rags from the cabinets over the utility sink, my eyes fell on Arnold's old crate. I missed that stupid dog.

I was slumping but didn't care enough to straighten up. My back already hurt.

I set the cordless phone on the dusty dashboard and got busy clearing out the garbage. About halfway through, there was a din. I shut off the vacuum and strained to listen.

The shrill ring of the phone sliced through the tense silence, making me jump. When I saw the number on the caller ID, I had to fight my instant annoyance. My brother meant well, I reminded myself as I picked up. "Hello?"

"What is it I'm looking at, exactly?" He asked over the sounds of rustling paper.

"Um, I sent pictures of a foot, a face, and a penis. If I could see which one you are looking at, I'd tell you."

There was a faint shuffling that sounded like it might be coming from the porch.

"Another boy," Ronnie observed.

"Of course," I said, hitting the button to open the garage, rather than going all the way through the house to open the front door.

"Happy Birthday, baby sis."

"Oh, thank you." I lingered in the opening, expecting whoever was on the porch would make their way to me.

"Having a good one so far?"

"Yeah, a little crazy, too."

"Have you told him yet? Because you need to. What if he wants to be there when he's born? Your son has a right to know his father."

Despite the fact that we spoke every single week and he knew very well the difficulty I was having, Ronnie still nagged. He'd been steadily increasing his petulant insistence, taking it upon himself to act on behalf of my estranged husband. So much so that I was getting aggravated.

"I know he does."

"So act on it," he commanded.

"I'm trying!"

"Alright, alright, calm down," he soothed. "So long as you're trying. This kid's a cutie. Doesn't look much like you, though."

I chuckled. "He's handsome, isn't he? I think I'm in love." So far as I could tell from the sonogram, his little face was sweet and round with a tiny set of full lips.

"Keep trying, Grace."

"I will, it's just, I worry how Evan's going to take it. He's been so extreme; I'm afraid how he may react. And the more time that passes, the bigger chicken I am." I walk and sputtered, moving toward the front yard. Someone was definitely out there; I heard shuffling feet on the porch.

As I rounded the large shrubs at the front corner of the yard, my eyes latched onto a moving mass of white dragging over the front steps. It was fluffy, furry, and had a star-shaped bow around its neck.

"Hey there, handsome," I whispered. "Where did you come from?"

The little dog whimpered, terrified, as I knelt down and held out my hand. "I have to go, Ronnie. There's a puppy on my doorstep."

"Give it back." He joked. "I'll talk to you later. Look for a phone number on his collar."

"Okay, big brother," I answered icily. "Kiss everybody for me."

I set the phone down to follow after the cutest little ball of fluff I'd ever seen scampering towards the far edge of the porch and gently scooped the puppy into my arms to get a better look at the little fella. A small tag on his neck, held in place by the red ribbon, read Nigel.

I smiled.

He was all white, save the small patch of black on his chest and the tracing around his eyes that made him look like he was wearing heavy eyeliner. He also had a perfectly squared, tiny black nose on his thin muzzle. He looked to be a mixed breed and no older than a few months.

"Where did you come from?" I asked, looking around the yard and front gate, afraid to hope that a certain someone had remembered my birthday. But if he'd remembered, if he cared, he wouldn't have sent me divorce papers. "Come on, baby. Let's get you inside." The air outside was sweltering.

Nigel was active and required a watchful eye. I kept close tabs as he trotted around, making sure he planted no stinky surprises. Fawning over the little bundle, I brushed out his wavy hair and prepared a soft place for him to sleep. He was soon exhausted from the exploration and passed out inside a laundry basket lined with a blanket. I followed suit, lying on the couch to watch my new puppy.

Keys jingled in the door. I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as Caleb, Noah, and Lily barreled into the living room, greeting me in unison.

"Happy Birthday!" Noah was holding a gift box, Caleb had a grocery bag full of ice cream, and Lily, a cake.

Little Nigel howled in fright. Their eyes flew towards the noise. Caleb was the first to drop everything and reach for the novelty.

"Nigel is timid," I cautioned, "and probably needs to pee."

Caleb smiled hugely, gently taking the new puppy to the back yard while promising to teach him to fetch. Noah followed them out, completely taken in by the absolute cuteness.

"Where'd the dog come from?" Lily asked, tucking the forgotten ice cream in the freezer.

"I found him on the porch with a bow on his neck." I held up the ribbon with the name tag.

"Nigel?" She chuckled, "That's the worst name I've ever heard."

"I like it."

"Who's he from?"

I shrugged. "I didn't see anybody."

"It has to be Evan."

"No, Evan gave me these." I opened the drawer and handed her the paperwork.

Her mouth dropped open as she read. "Asshole!" The curse came in a whisper. "I guess I don't have to ask how he took the news, then." She set her hand on her hips and gestured with her eyes to my substantial abdomen. "I thought he was better than that."

"No, Sheri brought them over."

She didn't answer as quickly as I expected, too busy shuffling through the papers, reading through the lines of legal jargon. "These haven't been filed," she pointed to the empty box in the corner where the stamp and state seal should've been.

"Sheri said he wants me to do it when I'm ready."

She pulled me close in a half hug. "I'd wait on that if I were you. He may change his mind when she tells him."

I leaned my head on her shoulder and told her about Sheri's promise, all my hopes set in direct contrast to my expectation of further rejection. Evan never wanted children, at least not his own. I could not keep telling myself there was hope when there was no reason to think otherwise. He'd always spoken his mind and very rarely changed it.

Lily helped with dinner, since I didn't want to go out, and helped keep lively conversation throughout the evening. She even picked up a movie on the way home. Though I'd slept the day away, I was too tired to stay up for it.

# August 7th

Something was shaking, dragging me from the depths of a dream where I stood staring at Noah. He was wearing that red clown nose of his, but he wasn't laughing. We were outside, but I couldn't tell where. I registered the jostling touch while trying to drag my mind from a deep slumber.

"Grace, Grace. Wake. Up." It was Lily's hand on my shoulder that produced the shaking.

"What?" Through groggy eyes, I searched her expression. It was grim and unchanging in the dim light.

"Look." She pointed to the television. I must've fallen asleep watching.

The room was still dark as I focused on the images that were something of a mystery; a birds-eye view of a shoreline. It was the view from a news helicopter. The local station's number and logo were stamped in the bottom corner of the screen. The camera swept from the roof of a dark house to the dark water of the Pacific Ocean. Searchlights swirled over the water while red, computer-generated arrows pointed to indicate the current and direction of the high tide.

Confusion beset me on all sides as I looked back to Lily. She was covering her mouth, crying. I moved towards the screen, to read the words ticking across the bottom.

A search is underway tonight for missing actor Rhys Matthews, 27, nicknamed Hollywood's King of Teen Horror, most famously known as the star of the Time Redeemer trilogy of films and, more recently, for his stunning performance in the independent film, Triumph in the Sky. Matthews was last seen sleeping on the beach behind his home approximately three hours ago. An unidentified witness reports: "One second he was there, the next he was gone. The sand where he was sleeping was all wet. He didn't go back in the house; he couldn't have made it that far without being seen."

The carpet flew up to my knees.

Lily was on the phone. I could tell she was talking to Marcus, who was in the midst of planning his father's funeral. He said the Coast Guard was out in full force, as well as experienced locals who'd volunteered to assist in the search, and several news stations were lending air support. They were all confident he'd be found as long as he could keep swimming.

"He's a strong swimmer."

My heart grabbed onto the hope. A life preserver in my sea of pain. The first night we swam in the pool—I was surprised at his ability to keep treading water long after I was winded. And he'd quit smoking at least once since then. That could only improve his chances.

My face pressed into the rug, begging God to bring him back. Promise after promise, if He would only give Evan more time. I clenched the carpet fibers between my fingers. All the while, vaguely aware of Lily at my side, saying things I couldn't understand. Whatever it was wasn't important enough to ask. It couldn't happen again. He had to be okay. He had to be.

I looked back to the silent television that was looping the same footage—showing a smiling picture of Evan in the corner of the screen—as they panned the dark shoreline.

I didn't know how long, but at some point, the sound of the ringing phone broke through. Lily already had it on her ear. "What is it, Marcus?" She gasped, listening.

My heart plunged, waiting for her to repeat the news. I wanted to ask but I didn't want to miss anything. My eyes strayed desperately to the television. Nothing new. A small part of me wondered if I'd be better off not knowing, as another, more prominent, part demanded answers. I stared, apparently muted by the shock, as the corner of Lily's mouth twitched.

"Where?" Again, she spoke and did not translate—hearing everything I wanted to know and giving nothing away!

"That's only a few minutes from here."

Quiet again.

"Lily!" I demanded.

"Yes, right now. Thank you, baby. Bye." She hung up and looked with wet, red eyes. "They've got him! He's in transit." She leapt to my closet and emerged with a hat, jacket, and slip-on shoes. "Put these on in the car."

I cried for joy as Lily told me about how he was found a few miles down the beach from his house. A man taking a night ride heard yelling and followed the noise. Evan was unconscious when he found him, though. The man was unsure if he'd hit him with the boat, or if he was drowning. He performed CPR and towed him back to shore.

Sheri didn't call me. Marcus said she was trying to keep the news under wraps until Evan was admitted into a private room where he could recover in peace.

There was no one outside. All eyes were still fixed on the water when Lily stopped in front of the emergency room entrance. I swung the door open and hopped out, being mindful to carry my belongings over my belly. I was halfway through the long hallway on the opposite side of the ER before I realized I was alone. Without slowing, I flashed my hospital badge to anyone who asked and started searching beds.

Five minutes went by and I was flustered. He was nowhere to be found. Finally, I came upon Tia, a physician who recognized me from cardiac. She told me Evan was in radiology. He was stable and his vitals were strong, but he hadn't regained consciousness. She gave me the number of the room he'd be moved into when they were done with their tests.

I wrote down my phone number and told her to call me personally if there were any changes. She promised, as soon as there was anything to report. After all, I was his wife. The reference was comforting.

Until the doctors were done, there was nothing to do but wait. I could not sit inside a waiting room, so I made my way to the elevator and through the quiet halls, bound for his room. I wanted to rush in there and check him out myself, but in an emergency setting, the family needs to stay out of the way. The staff works better and faster if no one's looking over their shoulders.

Inside his assigned room, I turned on the television, wanting to keep an eye on what was being said. The Coast Guard had already released information on how he was found—by a retired Marine, no less—who wished to remain anonymous. It seemed they knew everything except where he was being treated. It was, most assuredly, only a matter of time.

The hordes of media were already speculating—how exactly did this happen? Merely an accident or did his rumored drug abuse and recent battle with depression play a role? The "reporters" ran down lists of recent rumors—an unconfirmed separation from me was among them—determined to make it into more than just an accident. In between suppositions, they ran a barrage of distasteful photographs. One in particular showed Evan with an outstretched hand against what they said is the thigh of a stripper. But I could tell by his hair style, that the picture was a few years old. Still, I slammed the power button on the remote, shutting off the television.

My phone buzzed. I snatched it in a flash. "Hello?"

Tia gave me a quick rundown on his status: he was fine, overall. No concussion, but he did have a significant gash on the crown of his head. They were stitching it up now. The MRI showed no brain injuries. His lungs looked good, though there were trace amounts of fluid in one lobe on the right side. They were starting him on antibiotics. The whites of his eyes were yellow because he'd been drinking excessively for some time, he told them so. Now they were running a battery of tests on his liver.

"He's awake?"

"He's sleeping now. But, yes, he was quite combative. We've sedated him."

Animated response—a very good sign. "What was he saying?"

"I couldn't make out everything; he mentioned the drinking, claimed he passed out on the beach. He was very adamant."

The baby kicked and broke my will. I released a stifled wail. He was going to be okay. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome. He'll be up in twenty."

I slapped the phone shut and all but jumped for joy before relaying the info to Lily, who was already back at home, consoling Noah. I had her pass the phone to talk to him for a few minutes. He had such a wonderful, big heart. After a few minutes of reassurances, he hurried off the line to call Marcus and give him the good news.

Not long after we hung up, there was the familiar sound of a bed wheeling down the hall. I ran for the door, emerging to see Sheri's worried face as she came around the corner ahead of a gurney. She was pasty-white.

"Marcus called you." She assumed. I nodded. "I know—" Her voice quivered. "I was going to call when I had something to tell."

We moved aside to allow the nurses some room to maneuver.

I set my hand on her shoulder. She didn't come off as the huggy type and I didn't want to make her uncomfortable. "I spoke with the doctor. We're very lucky. He'll make a full recovery."

My eyes followed Evan's bed. The sight of him took my breath away. He was too thin and so pale. His lips had some color, but the overall pallor was gray. His hair was a mangled mess, overgrown beard and mustache. I took my place beside him and grabbed his hand.

"He looks like he needed a haircut six weeks ago. When was the last time he ate? What has he been doing, Sheri?"

Her eyes welled. "I can't get him to do anything. All he does is drink."

With one hand, I brushed the hair from his clammy forehead; with the other, I pointed at her. "I thought you said he fine, that he was sober."

"He's not taking any drugs."

"How do you know?"

Her eyes hardened. Her hands balled into fists at her sides. "I spend every day with him. I go through his things when he's not looking. I buy his food, I clean his house. I would know if he was using."

My eyes swept covetously over him. Clutching his naked fingers, I caressed his arm. His skin was cold. I covered him with extra blankets from the foot of his bed, tucking in the edges down his sides and around his legs. He had the same sweet expression underneath the tangled hair. A boy lost in pleasant dreams. A light snore escaped his lips from time to time. I could not stop myself from smiling at the small, cherished sound of his breath. The sound of familiar. I examined the scrapes over his cheekbone and checked the bandage on the top of his head where the stitches were. Thirty-three, by my count. The doctor had been very hospitable and only shaved a small strip, just wide enough to place the stitches. No one would be able to see them once the bandage came off.

"I asked them not to shave too much. His unkempt hair is a trademark."

"Heaven forbid," I mumbled, straining to refrain from rolling my eyes.

Evan used to tease that one day he'd shave his head, just to tick her off. I wished the doctor had not listened and shaved a big bald circle in the top of his head—a flesh yarmulke—for everyone to see. I smiled to myself, thinking of the fuss she'd have over it and how delighted Evan would be to irritate her. Funny how the thing that used to drive me crazy had become a treasure.

Mulling over memories, I was overcome with a sickening feeling as I recalled the night he divulged his secret to me. The police reports, the death certificate. The date of his biological mother's death was determined to be the same day she filed for divorce. Only a few days after she gave away her baby. Him.

"Have you signed the papers?" Sheri asked, interrupting my trance.

"Not until I talk to him."

"You could talk to me, I don't mind."

"I'm not married to you."

She scoffed, "So, you need to hear it from him?"

It wasn't so much the words she said, but her tone. "Leave me alone, Sheri."

"It might be easier to hear if it came from me. Only saying, I'd be more polite." She haughtily crossed her arms. "You must be aware of what you've done."

"What have I done, Sheri?" I kept my voice even, my eyes on Evan's face.

"You're the reason he's depressed. He was fine before you came along. His career is ruined, thanks to you."

I shut my mouth, feeling far too inclined to say what I was thinking about that wretched woman.

"So, this is what it looks like," she mused.

I turned away, determined to ignore her prodding and the stress it provoked.

"He said you never wanted to talk. That you clammed up every time things got a little unpleasant. I thought it sounded kind of nice, but, well, I can see why he got so angry with you."

The color was returning to her cheeks. And there was a definite heat building in my own.

"What are you so smug about?" I snapped.

"I know you want to ask."

I was not sure where she was going with the allusion, but asked the first question that popped into my head—one of significance, but of little importance at the moment.

"Where did Nigel come from?" My arms crossed tightly over my belly.

"What?"

I repeated the question.

"Oh . . ." she mumbled. "It was the least I could do, considering today—well, yesterday," she glanced at her watch, "was your birthday."

"You knew," I assumed, staring intently.

"I know it was a terrible thing to do. I understand that you're upset with me, but it wasn't my idea, and I didn't have the heart to acknowledge and still go through with what I had to do." She finally looked me in the eye.

My heart raced while I sifted through her words, trying to decipher what she was saying.

"Do you think it was coincidence that he asked me to deliver them today? On your birthday, of all days?"

"I thought he said it was up to me."

"For now."

"He is the one who did this!" I felt the furious heat in my bones and knew a headache was coming any second.

"He did nothing that any other man in his position wouldn't do. If you ask me, it was only a matter of time. All of this could've been avoided." She gestured to the surrounding monitors, the oxygen, and IV Evan was hooked up to.

"I'm not asking, Sheri. It's not my fault he couldn't keep his pants up." I fumed, temples throbbing. This had to stop. Not just for me, but Evan too. The last thing he needed was to wake up to an argument and the shock of my giant belly winking him in the face.

Sheri looked back at me, silently satisfied.

"I'm going to the vending machine."

I took the long way to the cafeteria, steadily pacing, concentrating on calming down so I could think.

Breathing deeply and steadily, I stared blankly at the object of my craving. Inches away, just beyond the clear Plexiglas. The peanut M&Ms cost two dollars. I had a piece of lint, three quarters, and a twenty. The red 'empty' light on the change machine blinked back at me. I plopped the three quarters into the machine, choosing the only item I could afford.

Furiously chewing, I stretched the bubble gum over my tongue and contemplated my next move. She was gonna have to leave as soon as I got back. If Evan wanted, she could return once I left. Whether or not he wanted to speak to me was debatable, but something in me very sincerely doubted that he'd be upset by her departure. He'd always treated her like the world's biggest nuisance—I was beginning to understand why.

She had a way of pushing the wrong buttons. She would not simply tell me anything; she had to say it in a roundabout way that made me feel like crap, and she was really good at it. I was the one who needed to speak with Evan and if she thought I was going to let her hang around to hear that conversation, she was crazy. I was still his wife, for however long it may last, and I had final say until he woke up and told the doctors different.

The thought of kicking Sheri out brightened my outlook considerably. I came around the last corner into Recovery with a renewed sense of focus. As I approached the nurses' station to request back-up, Sheri was lingering in his doorway with a sullen look. Her face was grim again as she spotted me and walked over, carrying my hat and jacket.

"I need to talk to you," she whispered, pulling me back the way I came.

"No, I need to talk to you," I amended, grabbing my things from her.

"He's awake." Her grip tightened when I pulled away. "I told him you were here and he doesn't want to see you."

I shook her hand away but my feet would not move. Her words were spears, piercing my tender flesh.

"I'm trying to convince him to speak with you for a few minutes." She held her hands out, making peace. "Will you wait here while I try to calm him? I think he may be open to it if—"

"What did I ever do to him?"

"You rejected him," she said, flatly. "Wait here, I'll see what I can do."

Nervous and nauseated, I watched her walk down the corridor and through the dark doorway. My stomach twisted.

Irritation was Evan's automatic response to anything he didn't expect and considering what he'd just been through, of course he was distressed. He just needed some time to take in his surroundings. There was no way he could be as upset as she was trying to make it seem.

I bit my fingernails to pass the time. Occasionally straining to make out the muffled voices that floated down the corridor. There was a definite exchange going on. Inching closer, I made out a vehement negative response. The words were unintelligible, but the tone was clear.

That's it, I had to face him. Two steps into my errand, he was yelling. At the same moment, an alarm sounded at the nurses' station. Two plus an orderly rushed in as Evan screamed loud enough for everyone in the ward to hear.

"KEEP THAT BITCH AWAY FROM ME!"

A second later, Sheri appeared just outside the door, her face pale. She looked to me and shrugged. I leaned against the wall, placing my hands on my knees, the only support I had.

"I tried," she said, as she closed in on me. "He wouldn't let me get you, so I told him about the baby."

My stomach jumped. "What?"

"He deserves to know."

I clutched the pain in my chest. "What did he say?"

"Didn't you hear? I thought everyone did." She slightly raised her shoulders and dropped them in a flourish. Not a shrug, more a show of arrogance.

"Why would you tell him? You have no boundaries."

During our little exchange, the scuffle inside Evan's room abruptly ended. He'd probably been sedated again. The staff tapered from the room. No one looked at either of us or said anything.

Sheri set her hands on her hips. "I'm trying to help you. Don't blame me because your life isn't going the way you want."

My temples started pounding as I stumbled back in retreat. I wanted to scream at her, but my blood pressure—I had to be careful.

Sheri did not pursue me with feet, only her volume as I receded. "You ruined this all by yourself! He sacrificed everything—gave it all up for you, and you couldn't find the time—couldn't be inconvenienced! I'd hate you, too, if I were him."

I listened to the torrent, my ears burning like a boiling brook as I made for the stairs at the end of the hall.

I may never have known how deeply I loved him. Since he was alright, I could be thankful for the brief joy and the gift of our son. At least, that's what I told myself while creeping into the quiet house. I sat on my bed and wrote him a long letter, apologizing for my lack of courage—that he had to find out the way he did—and told him I did not blame him for anything. I just wanted him to get better.

After venting to the paper, there was still too much on my mind to try to sleep. I changed quickly and made my way through the glass door of my room into the pool area. The wafting chlorine smelled strong. I wouldn't be able to stay in long without getting nauseated. I worked my way into a rhythm, cutting laps through the water, thinking of Evan and the fear he must have felt, and ached over his words.

Despite the chaos of my thoughts, I still felt better by the time the queasiness set in. I wished someone would invent chlorine that smelled like pine. I'd never have to get out. The silly thought made me want to smile because, though my mind made no association between food and pine cleaner, my mouth still watered when I thought of the delicious scent.

After cleaning up, I headed to the kitchen to make a sandwich. Today Caleb's class was taking a field trip and he needed a sack lunch. I grabbed the peanut butter from the pantry and the jelly from the fridge. The second I opened the jar of peanut butter, the smell hit me like a punch to the face. My stomach lurched.

I hung my head over the sink and dry heaved.

So what if he didn't want the baby? I wanted him enough for the both of us. Besides, he may change his mind. Once he had the chance to think about it . . . he did it before. When he told me about what happened with Gretchen, he was really upset with her. He said he didn't want the baby because he was scared. That was probably what it was now. He was not sure how to respond and just he rejected everything unilaterally.

As I rinsed my mouth, a shadow stirred behind me and I nearly choked.

"What happened?" Lily asked.

Her hair was pulled into a thick braid and twisted into a bun on the back of her head. She was still in her bathrobe but had her make-up done. All she had to do was slip on her work clothes. She must have gotten up early this morning . . . or maybe, like me, she hadn't slept.

Hoping she might see something I missed, I explained everything to her exactly the way it happened. What was said, how I reacted, my plan to evict Sheri, how she beat me to the punch and was one step ahead of me the entire time. My inability to think on my feet had cost me.

"I never should have left her with him. I should have been the one there when he woke up."

"It's probably better that you weren't," she said, handing me a cup of ginger tea. She lowered herself gracefully into the seat beside me, placing a hand over mine. "Grace, I think it's time for you to start letting go."

"I'm not getting a divorce." I crossed my arms. "I won't be the single mother of three children from two different men."

"Oh, honey. That's just silly pride. Grace, infidelity is the only acceptable reason for divorce. It says so in the Bible."

My eyes filled. "But he denied it."

"You want to believe him, I know." Her disbelieving expression softened. "Have you asked Sheri about it?"

"She wants me to believe he did, and that makes me doubt all the more."

"What did she say?"

"That he did what any man would do in his situation."

"Your face is getting red," she warned, sliding from her seat and into the freezer for a bag of vegetables. I placed the icy bag of peas and carrots on the back of my neck. It helped with the headaches.

"There's something unsavory about her, isn't there? Something I can't quite put my finger on—aside from the obvious." Lily mused.

"What is 'the obvious'?"

"You know," she drew her cup of coffee to her lips, "that she doesn't want the two of you together because she's in love with him."

I nearly spit my tea on her. "Who told you that?"

She took an irritatingly long drink. There was nothing but half-melted ice in the bottom of her glass when she set it back on the table. "Think about it. She hates everyone except him, he treats her like crap and she still does everything for him. I told you this before."

I strained to recall the conversation.

"Not that it changes anything."

"What do you mean? This changes everything." I insisted.

"Grace, she's not the problem. He is. Sheri's no more than an inconvenient leech."

"What's wrong with hoping?"

Her voice lowered as her brows pulled together. "Honey," her eyes watered, "You may have left him second, but don't forget he left you first. I know how madly you love him and how terrible you are at accepting that things have turned out this way, but it's affecting your health. You can make the feeling go away if you want to. You just have to really want to."

After Lily got divorced, she'd spent months trying to make herself stop loving Daniel, her ex. I'd thought she was crazy—love being such an unconquerable thing. It took some time, but she managed. But then Lily always was much stronger than me.

From the other side of the living room, Nigel whimpered. Lily sweetly scooped the puppy from his basket. As she stepped out to the back porch, my hope dissolved.

"Mom, can I talk to you?" Noah was standing next to the table, still in his pajamas, though his eyes contained no trace of sleep.

"Sure, baby. What's up?"

He sat in his aunt's chair, looking nervous. "Well, see . . ." he struggled, mumbling through the words he found uncomfortable. "I used to talk to him about stuff and when you guys started fighting, he quit calling me, thinking that I was mad at him, too. I kind of was, but then I got Marcus' number from Aunt Lily and called him. He gave me Evan's number. At first, it was weird, you know, because I didn't know why you guys were fighting, and I didn't want to get in the middle of it. We agreed not to talk about it." He paused. "Here's the thing—" I closed my eyes, bracing myself. Everything I thought I knew about Evan turned out to be a lie. Nothing should surprise me.

"Mom, he's weird. I mean, I like him and all, and he's always been good to me and Caleb, but he does not want kids of his own. I never asked, but he mentioned it a couple times. I know it's none of my business, but I'm tired of seeing you hurt so much over him."

Was I really so pathetic that my teenage son felt he had to give me advice?

"Noah, you don't need to worry about me. But thank you, I appreciate it. Will you do me a favor?" He took my hand set on his shoulder. "Please help Caleb get ready for school and make sure he gets his lunch on the counter. He has a field trip today. I'm going to bed."

As I walked towards my room I heard him say, "I'm sorry, Mom."

I took a deep breath and gave him my best smile. "I love you, Noah. And it's not your fault, baby. This one's all on me."

# October 29th

I wouldn't be taking the kids trick-or-treating this year, either. The doctor put me on bed-rest so Lily was taking Caleb, and that was so depressing. One bright spot was that I had convinced Noah to dress up. I gave him the red clown nose I'd been carrying around in my purse and told him how it would cheer me up to think of him wearing a costume, having fun with his friends, while I was stuck on my back. Basically, I guilted him into it.

Preeclampsia—pregnancy-induced hypertension—was my little gift for the constant worrying. I'd been on bed rest for the last four weeks. No salt, no activity. No end in sight. I was retaining water and the headaches started every time I got out of bed. I had to avoid stress at all costs, but it seemed everywhere I turned, there it was, waiting to pounce and maul me.

The freaking video and of course, him. Always him. Evan—my infinite and temporary love was ever-present—the reluctant reason behind every decision I made, or lack thereof. Seeing him that night at the hospital had pulled me back to an emotional square one. I wanted to know what he was doing, who he was with, and if he was happy. Anything and everything. I'd been constantly consuming every bit of information I could get—disregarding the tidbits I didn't like and savoring the ones I did. I couldn't ask anybody what was true and what wasn't without revealing my desperation.

I'd been feeling more and more desperate since Pastor Tony called to inform me that my services at The Kitchen, the soup kitchen I volunteered at, were no longer needed. That was my last connection to the outside. I'd started volunteering there after that painful confrontation at the hospital. Evan knew, so there was no reason left to hide and I needed the distraction that service had always provided.

And being relieved of that volunteer position was entirely my fault. Though I couldn't tell the Pastor that I was sorry for what I did. Maybe I should have been, but I just wasn't.

I'd been placed in the serving line. I was doing my job, taking every ones tickets and putting dinner rolls on each plate before handing them out. But my heart was barely in it. I was still bleeding. I felt trampled on, beaten down, and I think that's why I reacted so keenly.

I was in a bad mood. My shoulders were squared as I faced the people, determined to focus on the hurting faces seeking consolation in a full belly. I was there for them and most looked as if they hadn't eaten in a week. It multiplied me pain, made me hurt for them, too. My heart seemed to break for each one.

I'd noticed the other volunteers further up the line were openly chatty with one another, not really looking at the people they were serving. I huffed a little, offended by the apathy, but kept my focus and my haughty attitude to myself. As the line shuffled by, I tried to appreciate each person and wondered what circumstances had brought them to that place.

Among the shuffling line I spotted one familiar face. It was the homeless mother, the one Evan and I first saw at the shelter and then again downtown, when we visited the star of James Dean on the Walk of Fame. She was propped against the side of a building across the roadway. We'd talked that day and I tried to help her, but she was resistant. Suddenly, I wanted to know how she and her daughter were doing.

I wasn't sure what to say, or even if she'd know me, so I waited until she passed by. When I handed her the plate of food, her eyes widened, looking too big for her thin face.

"I remember you," she said.

She had no orange ticket. I wasn't supposed to give her a plate without one, but let it slide.

"I remember you, too. How are you?"

She tilted her head to one side. "I been dry a couple weeks now, but my daughter . . ."

"Esther." I recalled, "How is she?" I held a readied plate to the man behind her. He dropped his ticket in my open hand, took it, then went to sit down.

"I don't see her much."

"Baby steps," I leaned in, aiming to encourage her. "Anything worth having is worth fighting for, right?"

Suddenly, her shoulders sank, her eyes wandered from me to my side. The voice of Kathy Bederman chimed from behind me. She was the soup kitchen volunteer coordinator. She also acted like she was allergic to humanity, which I could usually overlook without a problem.

"Is something wrong?"

The homeless woman turned her eyes to the floor and walked off.

"Everything's fine." I took the next ticket and passed the next plate and dinner roll.

"It is very important that you remember, everyone must present you with an orange ticket. Do not serve anyone who doesn't have it." Kathy spoke low and close.

"May I ask why?"

She smirked, clearly impatient with my naiveté. "We have a system. The ones who attend the church service get the orange ticket. It guarantees a place at the front of the line. It wouldn't be fair to serve those who did not attend the service and disregard those who did."

"What if there are leftovers?"

"There are never leftovers. Please, just stick to the system, and make sure they have the ticket before you hand them the plate. Not after."

I saluted her. She was running the show, after all, and who was I to come in and try to do things different? She probably had very good reasons for running things the way she did.

"Keep the line moving," Kathy instructed.

As she turned, I heard a snarky comment—obviously directed toward one of the volunteers further up the line—about the wardrobe choice of someone they'd been watching.

The woman from the shelter had been wearing a bikini top and a short skirt. I was instantly offended on her behalf, even though they could have been talking about anyone.

"Maybe her church clothes are at the dry cleaners." I bit back.

And it was all downhill after that.

Basically, Kathy Bederman and her usual circle of volunteers weren't at all happy that Pastor Tony was allowing me to serve with them. They'd all heard about my quickie marriage to a movie star and assumed the rumors floating around were true. Of course, they had all heard about that dang video, too. And none of them wanted to be seen with the likes of me.

Right around the time Kathy insinuated that I was having an inappropriate relationship with Pastor Tony to gain his favor, I decided I'd had enough and gave back the giant bag of dinner rolls they had me handing out. Only I did it with a little too much gusto and knocked Kathy Bederman on her butt.

I blamed Evan and prenatal hormones for all of it. I was still so angry with him sometimes. He was rejecting the very best part of our time together—the one good thing to come out of the whole mess that was our intense, brief relationship. But he did say he didn't want his own kids.

That was the part that ate away at me. Was he so full of antipathy that he'd reject any tangible part of himself? If that was the case, then it explained why he was rejecting me. Every part of me was physically and symbolically attached to him. Inside, outside, everywhere.

I recalled very clearly the hate in his voice as he screamed in the hospital. Those spiteful words would forever be a part of me, etched into my flesh as a reminder that I could not trust my own judgment where he was concerned.

In the beginning, the more I learned about Evan the more I loved. Now, here I was, alone and pregnant, desperately striving to deal with the consequences of marrying a beautiful stranger who had turned out to be little more than a figment of my imagination. The shadow of an enigma that was never really there. How could I have been so blind, so willing to brush aside anything to have what I wanted? The consuming love never allowed me to see him for the absolutely beautiful liar he was.

I'd had a hard time making sense of his actions. He wanted a divorce, but wouldn't file. He knew about the baby, but had not called me to ask a single question. It had been months with no word. Didn't news like that warrant a phone call?

I would have to be the one to call him.

It was utterly pathetic (and hopefully all raging hormones) but I wanted him back. But how could I lay all of myself at his feet, offer up this family he never wanted? What if he said no? But I wouldn't relax until I knew.

I needed to simply put myself out of my misery and just call him. Let whatever was going to happen, happen. Then, I could stop worrying about what he was doing and start getting over him. But I'd have to be smart about it and call Marcus first to get a feel for where Evans head's at.

My dangled foot kicked the stupid ball on the floor across the room. Nigel ran and brought it back, setting it directly in front of my toes. My leg heaved forward, kicking it back across the room. After twenty minutes of tedium, he was finally panting.

I sat up—the most physical activity Dr. Grainger recommended—and lifted him from the ground onto the bed beside me. He scampered across my legs, bounding around my mountainous stomach to lick at my face. The tickling made me chuckle as I pet his white, wavy hair. I should have been thankful to Sheri for the dog, but thanked God, instead. He knew I needed the company.

Normally, I didn't mind being by myself. So long as I had things to keep me busy—but there was nothing. I was tied to the bed, a prisoner to my gigantic womb. I spent most of my time reading, changing my mani-pedi, and folding laundry. I'd also gotten pretty good at grabbing things with my feet. Evan's movies kept me busy for a few hours a day. They were a little predictable and total chick flicks, which explained why Noah never liked them. Evan was definitely the best part of them. I'd heard he was filming a biopic on Bobby Fischer. He was going to knock that out of the park. Evan was limitless when it came to his work.

A knocking noise echoed down the hall. Nigel's ears pointed towards the French doors that led out to the pool. His little legs lunged into the air, jumping from the tall bed to the floor and out his doggie door to investigate. I recognized the sound of the garage door and slid to the end of the bed, stuffing my underused feet into my sneakers.

I was not supposed to be moving around unless I had to, but I was the only one home. The boys had left for school. Lily was working. They weren't due back for several hours and I wasn't expecting anyone. Least of all, an entrance through the garage. The reverb stopped and started again while I made my way down the hall.

I flipped on the light to the laundry room before crossing to get to the garage and waited. Peering through the crack of the doorway, an eerie feeling crawled up my spine. The automatic garage door rolled up to completion, paused, and started back down the iron track. There was no one is sight. The driveway was empty. The only car was mine, parked in the usual spot inside.

I tip-toed to my car and checked the visor over the driver's side. The remote opener was still in place. The giant door touched the pavement and stopped before beginning to noisily roll back up.

I checked the manual button panel on the wall. The green and red lights were flashing. I moved closer to inspect and noticed the main button was stuck in the 'down' position. Noah must've hit it too hard when he left earlier in the morning. I worked the edge of my fingernail under the side and tugged until it popped back up.

The garage door rolled up all the way and stayed. After a minute of conscious waiting, I gently pressed it again and watched the door roll down, checking to make sure it stayed before locking up the garage on my way back inside.

Since I was already up and passing by, I opened the washer and started a load. The dryer was full, too, so I yanked out the clean clothes. I recognized the black elastic shape of my belly belt sitting on the shelf over the dryer and slipped it on under my maternity top. The elastic support helped with the back aches. Bending now, with less discomfort, the last thing to come from the dryer was one of Evan's sweatshirts. Noah must have taken it from one of his boxes still lining my bedroom wall. It didn't smell like him—like smoke and honey. It smelled like lavender scented dryer sheets, but I tossed it on, pretending that wearing his clothes wasn't as pathetic as it seemed.

Sheri said she'd come back and get the boxes, but she never did. After the incident at the hospital, she stopped coming by. Her visits had picked up again, recently, though. She called to apologize a few weeks ago and I accepted. Still, his things were sitting there. Sheri never said much about him, except in reference to the divorce papers, and that was always a reluctant topic. She was never what I'd call an accessible person, but she'd been very remote, lately. Mostly, she'd arrive unannounced and sit on the couch in the formal living room, making quiet observations about obvious things, and then leave after a few minutes. I figured she was lonely.

Tired of the view in my room, I carried the laundry basket on my hip to the couch in the family room. I shouldn't have been walking around, but my legs would cramp if I didn't move around a little every day.

Peeking out the kitchen door, I called for Nigel. He came running from the side of the house and happily hopped inside. I locked the glass door behind him and turned on some music to fill the quiet, before sitting down on the couch to fold. As I worked, I spotted the cordless receiver wedged between two cushions and hopped up to set it on the charger.

The doorbell rang. Baby kicked me in the ribs as I maneuvered to check the peephole.

Sheri was on my porch. And she was wearing jeans. That was the first time I'd seen her dressed so casually, aside from the one time at the hospital. I watched her walk from the edge of the porch to the door and look directly into the peephole as if she knew I was looking back.

I mumbled a command to heel at Nigel, who seemed to have disappeared, and casually swung the door open. "Sheri, what brings you by?"

Her eyes fell to my swollen belly before straying up to my face. "May I come in?"

"Sure, pal." The unintended sarcasm leapt out as I stepped aside. If I hadn't been exiled to the lonely island, starved for interaction, I probably would have told her to come back later.

She stepped in, slowly walking to the couch to sit down. She patted the cushion next to her.

I sank into the chair across the room, being careful with my back. I still had about three weeks until my due date, but my belly was colossal and always in the way. So I had to be careful where I sat, if I planned on getting up. Once my cheeks felt the cushioned seat, I adjusted the elastic belt around my tummy and leaned back awkwardly to breathe easier.

"You're huge," she said in a clipped tone, and I knew it's going to be one of those visits.

"You know, I never get tired of hearing that," I said, soft and polite. I took no offense at her honesty—I mean come on, I was a cow—only that she was trying to use it to hurt me. My pride would not give her the satisfaction. I crossed my arms and waited.

She fidgeted for a second, messing with the sleeve of her blouse, pulling at a thread.

"I assume this about the divorce papers."

"I was hoping to get some idea as to a time frame, to get the ball rolling."

"Evan and I will talk about it."

She shook her head. "That's not going to happen."

I'd been teetering on the edge of calling him since my birthday. "You aren't the only one who has his number, you know."

She leaned forward, "Grace, you and I both know if you really wanted to talk to him, you would've done it already. I came by, hoping to have a true conversation with you and, well, it's delicate."

"Is it, now?"

"I thought things might be easier if you knew why I've been so adamant lately."

"Shoot," I said, casually.

"He's seeing someone."

Three word-like bullets to the chest. I had to remind myself to breathe. Pictures of him with a lot of different girls were plastered everywhere. Some fans, but mostly female costars. None of them proved he was involved with anyone. I did my best to ignore them all.

"How does that relate to me?" I felt the blood draining from my face and closed my eyes.

"I think he's finally found his match. He's happier than I've ever seen him." She smiled. "I think this will finally work out for him, but only if you play your part."

"By divorcing him."

She nodded, and I don't know if it was the hormones or the fact that I just could not get along with her, but I was furious.

"What makes you think you have any say over what I do? You bear no responsibility for the choices I make." I fought my way from the chair and made for the door. It swung open wide, waiting for her. "Once Evan and I speak, I'll get the ball rolling in whichever direction I see fit."

She stood, adjusting her shirt as if it were a waistcoat. "Grace, Grace." Her tone was full of infuriating pity. "Haven't you figured it out?"

My temples pulsed.

Her eyes sparkled. "I assume he never told you since you've shown no aversion to me, but I wondered why you never asked about that night. See, I put up with you out of respect for Evan, but we're at the point where you need to know. You're having his child—against his wishes, I might add—and desperately clinging to this pathetic fantasy that somehow you'll get your happy ending. But life and its rewards wait for no one. In this world, you get what you take."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I'm the one. I have been, for the past seven years."

I pulled back, feeling as if I'd been slapped. "You're the one he slept with?" And I understood what she was saying and scoffed. "That's crazy. You're crazy!"

I don't think she heard me. She was too busy going on and on about some illicit affair the two of them were having under my nose. It was so preposterous, my mind would not even let me begin to consider the slimmest possibility. Her intimations were fogged by my absolute, unconcerned disbelief. Whatever her feelings for Evan were, they'd never given off a romantic vibe.

I waited until she was done before asking, "You expect me to believe that?"

"I don't care what you believe. Sign the damn papers." The tension of her command forced a chill up my spine. "It's a simple signature making the current conditions official."

"Does he even know you're here?" I don't know what possessed me to ask the question, but her eyes widened and I knew. I knew I was onto something.

"You were never more than a conquest; and Evan, he loves a challenge."

"Bye, Sheri." I waved towards the open door.

"You think because you're having a baby, it means something? You're nothing. A bad memory."

"Leave." I stomped my foot, at once appalled and anxious. I wanted her out of my house as soon as possible.

She stalked closer as if she wanted to steamroll me, swerving at the last second and heading out. The second her keister cleared the threshold, I slammed the door and locked it.

Heading towards the kitchen for some water, the contemptuous sarcasm bled through. "Evan loves a challenge." I mocked in an exaggerated, nasally voice.

"I'm calling him!" I screamed at the empty house.

I'd been up too long. My head was thumping. I grabbed a baby aspirin from the kitchen cabinet to set under my tongue.

I could be pretty stubborn, even thick-headed sometimes, but her? I'd sooner believe he went back to Gretchen. As a woman, you could sense when a man was attracted to someone. There was a tangible force between the two. Sheri, for some reason, was trying to make me think she was, or that I was the other woman? As opposed to what? Her supposed secret goings-on with my husband? As Evan liked to say, I call bullshit. The very idea was amusing. I would have laughed if it wasn't so nauseating. She just wanted me to divorce him. The audacity. She'd been a constant annoyance, a thorn in his side. One thing was for sure, she would never set foot in my house again. Her whole game was just that—a game. A way to keep us from talking so she could get what she wanted.

What did she want?

Lily thought she was in love with Evan. As much sense as that would make, it didn't feel right. Sheri was a lot of things—controlling, nosey, calculating and overbearing—but none of it seemed authentic. It was more like an image she projected, a paper tiger. I'd spent a lot of time around her and still, she was an enigma.

I could not consent to a divorce. Signing was a self-betrayal on the most fundamental level. If Evan really wanted it, he would have to be the one to file. The more Sheri pushed, the more I doubted. If I could hear him say it, if I could look at his face and see that he did not want anything to do with us, then I would have to give him what he wanted. But as it was—and it seemed my only hope—the only thing Evan had ever told me was that he wouldn't come back. The circumstances made me think that he might have if I'd asked him to. As far as his outburst at the hospital was concerned. . . I didn't want to believe it. The vile outrage in his voice didn't make sense. And then I considered our relationship, the way we communicated. Even when we argued, he never got disrespectful. But he spoke to Sheri that way all the time.

"There's nothing between them." I felt the truth in the words.

That opened the door for a whole other set of questions. Worries I could not afford right now. I'd tell Lily all about it when she got home and ask her what she thought. For now, I'd have to file the disturbing visitation away and set my mind to more immediate matters, like laundry. And resting. After a quick call to Marcus.

I plopped onto my bed and picked up the cell phone, then set it down again. I'd get better reception on a landline. I shuffled back to the kitchen, complaining to the empty house. The pain in my head—a combination of hormones and high blood pressure—got so bad, sometimes it confused me.

I took the phone from the cradle and dialed. The line rang twice before a sleepy-sounding voice answered. "'Ello?"

"Marcus? This is Grace. I'm sorry if I woke you, but I was hoping you could give me Evan's number. I need to speak with him right away."

"Oi, that's fab, love. He'll be chuffed to speak with you."

"How is he?"

"He was in a bad way there for a bit, but he's mending now. And still missing you, I suppose. Let me get that number."

My heart leapt as my head throbbed. I waddled to the sofa and plopped down, pen at the ready. Marcus read the long number to me twice, making sure I had it right.

"If he don't pick up, be sure to leave a message. He's in Iceland, filming, and he won't want to miss your call."

I could not stop my halting sob of relief. "Really? He. He wants to talk?"

"Grace, I don't know what you been hearing, love. Lily won't tell me nothin'. But he's been right miserable with waiting for you to call."

"Thank you, Marcus. Come back to the States, soon. Lily misses you, too."

"I'm working on that. You make your call."

I really hoped Evan could talk. What's the time difference between here and Iceland? I wondered.

I stared at the long number in my hand, debating what to say, wishing I could plan the conversation, and knowing I'd screw it up if I tried. I took the phone with me into the kitchen, aiming to quench my parched palate.

When I came through the kitchen door, Sheri was standing on the opposite side of the island.

"How did you get in here?" As I asked as a cold tremor shot up my spine.

She was wearing purple, non-latex gloves. My thumb twitched at the number one on speed dial.

"They'll say 'the queen is dead.'" Her voice quavered in an odd monotone while her dark, eyes stared into nothing.

"What?"

"A fantastic headline. Memorable." She held out a hand. "Give me the phone."

I heard the faint echo from the receiver as an emergency operator answered and yelled over it. "How did you get into my house? Get out!"

Sheri held out a garage door opener. I must not have heard it open. From the back waist of her pants, she pulled a black shape. A Taser.

"Are you going to kill us?" I covered my belly, protectively.

"Give me the fucking phone."

I surrendered the handset, face up on the counter, hoping the operator would hear the exchange.

"Do you really want to know?" She flipped her fingers, indicating I should slide the phone closer to her.

I stepped to one side, trying to think over my options and hoping to distract her from my fingers slipping across the face of the receiver to end the call. My lifeline.

There was a cast iron skillet in the oven and a block of steak knives on the counter. I could knock her out with the pan. A knife, I could drop. She could use it against me.

"I'm not into murder." She snapped the elastic on her gloved hand. "This is a suicide. When they find you, it will be clear."

My heart stopped. I felt the blood rush from my face and pool in my feet. My hands tingled.

Sheri cautiously took the phone in her hand, looking down to examine it.

And for the first time in my life, I wished for a smaller kitchen. Lunging for the set of knives, I felt the sting on my back and leg. It started to burn. My splayed fingers caught the handle of the coffee carafe as I fell, quivering on the tile. Convulsing.

The sound of glass shattered near me, but I couldn't see it.

When the room came into focus once more, Sheri was hunching over me, her backside set atop my belly. Her mouth was moving but the words made no sense. I could feel the spiky charges still sticking into me, see the white wires peeking from the mouth of her weapon. My uterus clenched, tight like a contraction, and I wailed.

I could not turn my head, but did see my arms. They wouldn't move. My muscles were nonresponsive, like they and my brain suddenly spoke different languages.

Sheri stood and disappeared from my line of sight. Soon, I was moving. I felt the pull on my leg, her hands wrapped around my ankle. My shirt rode up and around my shoulders as she dragged me through the living room.

"You pissed yourself," she laughed, dropping me in the mouth of the hallway. "I read up on this, but I'd like to hear it from someone who's experienced it. How does it feel? Shooting, prickly . . . incapacitating?"

I drew a deep breath, slow and purposeful. Fighting the urge to close my eyes, I looked determinedly into hers.

"No one's around to hear you. I checked. It's just you and me. Baby makes three."

Fear shot through me. I tried to use it to clear my head; instead, it froze me. "W-w-w-"

"Why?" She asked, sickeningly perky. "You really think I could let you call him? That's exactly what he wants. After all he's done to us?" She raised the Taser. "I'm not going to torture you. I want Evan to pay. And you, well, you're the closest thing he has to family. I can't get to Marcus." Her eyes fixed on my belly.

Panic welled inside my locked throat, warping, twisting me as she pulled me deeper into the hall.

"God, you're fat." She huffed, dropping my leg, again.

How long has it been? Did they trace the call? Was there time?

"We have a problem, Grace. See, I planned to make this nice and neat. But you broke the coffee pot and everyone knows you're a neat freak. But if I clean it up, they might say 'why did she do that if she was going to kill herself?' Suspicious circumstances. Can't risk it." Sheri looked deadly as she eyed me, raising the Taser. "You've ruined my perfectly laid plan, so now, I have to wing it."

Her index finger jerked over the trigger, sending me into darkness.

A Beginning

Walking along the grassy edge of the plain, I feel the dreaded pain in my back and low abdomen. The tightening muscles seize up, tilting me forward. I stop and breathe, holding the cries, counting until it stops. Not too painful, but definitely a contraction.

Not here. Not now.

It's been hours since I felt him move. It feels like hours since I reached the field, but the sun is still low on the horizon.

It was my seventh contraction—twelve breaths long and much tighter than the others.

I turn on my Nurse Voice, speaking to myself in a metered tone. Stay calm. Keep going. You can do this. Find the Jeep. Get the hide-a-key. Get help.

As the thirteenth contraction bows my back in a frightening wave of unforgiving pain, I see a glimmer off in the distance. Fifteen slow, practiced breaths later, after the tightening pain loosens, I look up again to see the blessed, old, cobalt blue Jeep Cherokee with the hatch still hanging open.

Walking—the one, surefire way to speed up my labor—is the only way to get there. On I plod, slow and steady. I have to get back. Lily and the boys are probably worried sick.

I was in labor for nearly thirty hours with Noah before the c-section, and seven with Caleb. I can do this. Time is on my side.

The next contraction is thoroughly unbearable. No amount of breathing or concentration can control it, but I keep moving towards my hope in the distance until the pain spreads into my thighs, bringing me to a halt. My legs buckle as I bend into the pain.

Every cell in my body is pushed to the limit. I watch my tensed fingers claw and clutch at each other and the ground. The pain in my shoulder is a walk in the park by comparison.

I concentrate on the bits of bark sprinkling the ground around me. One is shaped like a lima bean.

Thirty-three breaths later, it finally stops.

Crap that was a long one!

I wipe my eyes with my sweatshirt, draw a deep breath, and make a mad dash for the Jeep.

The time between contractions has shortened by half. The contractions themselves are longer than the breaks between and I'm very worried about the strange twinge, low in my belly. The pain of it feels different than the labor pains. It stops me in my tracks, as if I've just smacked into a wall.

So close!

My driveway's longer than the distance between me and my car. My escape and first-aid kit. The ragged pain is crippling. Muscles tighten, cramps like rocks. I'm writhing in the grass and earth, heaving in bouts of agony ranging from severely debilitating to absolute, gut-wrenching anguish. Nothing on earth can compare. I gnash my teeth together and scream, wondering if being disemboweled by wild animals while simultaneously being sawed in half would result in a similar pain.

The intensity's gaining as an uneasy bulge builds between my legs. The grass under me is stained with a worrisome red.

I pitifully cling to my practiced method of breathing exercises and focus on crawling to the hatch. Concentrating on each tiny movement—lifting my wide-spread knees one at a time; right then left, shifting my weight, straining as my elbows scrape along the ground. Bits of bark splinter into the sleeves of my shirt as I struggle to keep my wrists aloft. The skin around the zip-tie is raw, bruised, and bleeding. I press forward, inching closer to the hatch—focusing on my plight is the only thing keeping me from complete insanity.

It can't happen like this.

In a short reprieve, I get back to my feet and cross the last five feet, falling into my car's open hatch. Desperate, almost giggling with the joy of my small, vital victory, I dig under the back bench seat for the first-aid kit and pop it open. The bandage scissors are the first thing I see. They fumble in my swollen fingers as I thrust them between my skin and the zip-tie to snip. The relief of normal blood flow is immediate. Amazing and short-lived.

Another contraction contorts and racks my body. I concentrate on my breathing and stretch an arm over the seat to retrieve Caleb's car blanket—the one Evan used as a pillow on our trip back from Vegas—and bunch it up underneath my hips.

Oh, I need to push. The desire is overwhelming and I'm not ready. I kick off my pants and shoes as fast I can and toss them out of the way.

The time between contractions condenses to near constant as the bulging feeling of an impending explosion intensifies without reprieve. A rush of fluid gushes from between my legs. And it's dark, stained with what can only be blood.

I send a silent prayer, focusing on keeping calm.

I've given birth naturally and by cesarean, but never delivered a baby. All I know about that side is basic procedure from college textbooks. I close my eyes to focus.

Uniform procedure. When in doubt, count it out. Procedure. Disconnect and remember the steps. Pictures from old textbooks and course manuals flash through my mind.

Aseptic environment. I snatch the alcohol wipes, eye drops, and Kelly clamp from the small surgical kit inside the first-aid box. I open a few packets of wipes and begin cleaning my hands, the scissors, clamp, and the bottle of eye drops. Then, empty the bottle of drops out onto the ground. It'll have to do for suction. I wipe my hands again and slip on one of the two pairs of rubber gloves in the bottom of my emergency kit and use another wipe to sterilize the lid to the first-aid kit to function as a tray for my supplies.

This boy's determined and there's no stopping him.

I feel the rip of him crowning and know I'd give anything for an episiotomy right now. Assuming a flexed position, I give in to the urge and push. Chin to chest. Bearing down, quaking from the shredding pain in my groin and back. I feel the gush of life splitting my insides and keep pushing, holding my knees in my hands. Praying. Screaming.

The thrilling sounds of life erupt with his cries. I scramble upright to take hold of my newborn son. He is so beautiful, covered in afterbirth. Three weeks early and so chubby. Using the corner of the blanket, I wipe his little eyes and face. His powerful lungs are already being put to the test. A shock of dark hair is pasted to his head over his scrunching eyes. The lovely cry rings from between a set of full lips that perfectly match his father's.

Quickly and carefully, I squeeze the eye dropper bottle and place the end in Baby's nose. He reacts with a jump as the suction clears each tiny nostril. I sweep my gloved pinky finger over his tongue to remove any remnants of fluid. His responsive suckling is encouraging. Seeing him is calming. Remarkable.

I go through my mental checklist, mindful of the elongating umbilical cord as I wrap Baby in Caleb's blanket and set him beside me to go about the business of expelling the placenta.

After inspecting to make sure it's intact, I decide to wrap it inside my dirty sweatshirt—which turns out is only solid black in the front. The back has a large, reflective, neon green logo. One of Noah's favorite Emo bands. No wonder I couldn't lose her in the dark, I was practically glowing!—and carefully balance it on top of the seatback to keep above Baby's head. I count to sixty, massaging my too-soft abdomen, and then clamp the umbilical cord and cut.

My hands shake as I take Baby up again. He's calm and alert. His sweet eyes appear dark blue over the fuzzy clown blanket. One of his perfect, long-fingered little hands clings to his cheek, as he yawns and slowly closes his eyes.

I set him on my chest, kissing his sweet head before latching him to my breast and then leaning back against the spare tire.

"It's okay, Baby." I whisper into his tacky hair.

The red flow that began in the grass is still seeping into the thin carpeting of the Jeeps' hatch. I feel it, draining the strength from my limbs. Propping my arm on the back of the seat, I tuck one corner of Baby's blanket under my elbow to keep a solid hold on him as long as I can.

My chest constricts knowing the worry my family is going through—what they have yet to go through.

My sweet boys. I kissed them goodbye yesterday morning, assuming it was temporary. Noah was wearing one of his favorite plaid shirts. It had long sleeves that he rolled up high above his elbows. He looked so responsible, hurrying his little brother out the door. He would have been the first one to come home. And my precious Caleb. He won't understand.

Lily. This will be hard on her, too.

My vision begins to blur. I set my head back. Staring at the sky, I send up a final prayer.

You have to take care of them. All of them.

The sky above is a gorgeous blue with traces of clouds. But there is no peace in it. A long, noisy bird streaks across my view. A horrible wind kicks up. Dirt and pine needles fly around us. It takes all my strength, but I manage to cover Baby with both arms.

His perfection blurs further, melding into the black that's started seeping in the edges, dimming the world. I'm exhausted and can only relax into the peaceful blank that steals me up and away.

# Part Two

Evan
Evan—

# Ready-Set-Go

Marcus rang a bit ago, inquiring how my talk with Grace went. I had to sit down. Apparently, he spoke to her directly. She asked about me and gave the impression she was going to call.

I've called her several times since, but she's not picking up.

I know how timid she can be when it comes to confrontation—Grace will jump to defend anyone but herself. She's probably sitting there, biting her nails to nothing, listening to my messages and over-thinking everything. The reason she wants to talk is the very reason she won't answer.

Grace doesn't know I've spent the last two months preparing for this conversation. That I've contacted the family who owns the home she grew up in. It's a little white house with blue trim, nestled in the evergreen hills of a tiny community called Bothell, a stone's throw from Seattle. I convinced the owner to sell and am renovating. It's small, only two bedrooms, but the basement's being converted. There'll be a movie theatre, gym, and master suite with an intercom system to link every room in the house.

Just last week, I picked up her new ring—fire opals this time—because I'm planning on going big with this proposal. I'll make it all up to her; show her how much she means to me. I'm even arranging to have her family flown in. Her timing puts me in a pinch because we don't wrap for another few weeks, but she showed interest in speaking to me and that can only be a good thing.

If I know her, she's probably convinced herself to forgive my imagined sins and now she wants to talk. What she doesn't realize is that, though there are millions of reasons I seek her forgiveness, none of them involve other women. I'm no monk, but have a very singular taste. Even if I wanted another, I couldn't. She's ruined me.

I went to see her on her birthday, to give her Nigel. I heard her on the phone with Ronnie, telling how she was in love. As if what we had meant nothing. I wanted to find out who he was and beat the living shit out of him. But honestly, it would've only pushed her further away. She was already so far from my reach I couldn't have her out of sight as well. And I had no right to complain, not after what I did.

Up to that point, I'd only done what I wanted. I wanted her to want me and stayed until she did. I wanted to marry her. I wanted her to live and breathe for me. When she didn't, I didn't know how to handle it.

I followed her home when she left my hotel, waited for her while she visited her brother in Kansas City for spring holiday. While she was gone, I stayed at the house, she said I could have the two-weeks to go through it. I took the opportunity to touch her world since I couldn't touch her. I slept in our bed, with her laundry piled beside me. The day before she came home, I knew I had to go—that was what we had agreed upon—but I took her pillow with me. She said I could have whatever I wanted.

Through all of that, I imagined myself explaining everything to her. So, when I saw her in the back garden, it made perfect sense to speak with her. But things didn't go like I thought they would. As we stood there on her porch, I reached, and she shied away. I couldn't touch her and all became clear—a positive reaction on her part was only going to happen in my head. When she looked at me, I saw disgust and pity.

In my addicted haze, she was the one at fault. She rejected me and I took it out on Marcus' kitchen, and inadvertently her, as well.

What most people don't know is that I've been using, mostly meth, recreationally since I first came to LA. I like the energy, the clarity, and control that brings everything into focus.

When she and I talked that day at the museum, I could tell she wasn't the type who'd tolerate that shit. I stopped cold and it was easy. I was with her and she became my drug. But the pattern repeated and I lost control with her, too.

I never hit rock bottom, so to speak. Instead, I slowly sank further and further down, without noticing how far I had to look up to wipe my own ass. A side-effect of the meth, I suppose. By the time the clock struck one hundred and seventeen days, thirteen hours and counting, nothing had changed since the day she walked out on me. Except that I was drunk a solid seventy percent of the time, strung out, high. I ate very little, slept even less. The only thing I did unfailingly was think of Grace. She was in my every thought, conscious or not.

So when I took her the dog, I needed to talk to her, but had no intention of being seen. I wanted to shoot straight out of the neighboring shrubs and shake her, but couldn't let her see how awful I looked.

On the way back to my beach house, I decided I'd had enough. I was going to clean myself up, go back into treatment if need be. Then the whole show with Sheri ensued. She met me outside the front door with an envelope. Grace wanted a divorce, she said, and it was in my best interest to sign. She wanted to keep the house and property, and pretend like we never happened. It didn't matter to me if Grace was happy and trying to move on; she wasn't going to get a divorce decree from me.

More so, it wasn't Sheri's place to give the impression that I would make things easy for my wife. What was easy was firing Sheri. That felt pretty damn good.

I'm not going to lie. As I sat there in the sand watching the sunset, I wished for the courage to swim out and keep going. I nearly got that wish a bit later, after I passed out on the beach and woke in the Pacific. Lost my wedding band in there. When I woke in hospital, Grace wasn't there and I knew she must really hate me. Sheri was hovering, doling out her I-told-you-so's. I had her barred from the building.

While I was there, I put some serious thought into what direction I wanted my life to take. I took in everything that'd happened, weighed my options, and let myself wallow in the pity until it became fuel, the same way I did after Mum passed. I checked myself into rehab, got a new manager, and got back to work.

As I stand here, in my seventies-inspired swim trunks at the edge of the hotel pool we're using for this scene, my stomach churns. Not because I've got to get into water, either.

I've left the phone numbers of every assistant director that works with me directly and the landline where she can reach me on her answering machine. No matter where I am on-set, she should be able to get hold of me. I'm going to give her another hour, then I'm calling Lily.

I adjust my posture. Director calls action. I stride into the pool with weighted ankles, treading along the bottom until I'm in the deep end. Bobby Fischer was an avid swimmer. I didn't realize I'd be treading water when I took the role, because I hadn't read a script. I simply wanted to work with a great director and said yes, straight away. When I got the script, it was really good and I'm glad I'm doing it. I read a biography on Fischer some years ago and always found him fascinating. A self-destructive, brutal genius he was.

On the bottom, I work into my Lotus position, take a bit of air from one of the two crewman holding tanks on stand-by just off-camera, and wait for them to get the shot. This pose takes a minute to get in and out. They're here so I don't have to go up for air.

When we first met, I found Grace's immediate openness intimidating. And inspiring. I wanted to know everything about her. Her absolute honesty is just one of the hundreds of things I love. There was nothing I could ask, to which she wouldn't offer a sincere answer. Grace always told me what she thought, even if she was afraid I wouldn't like it. If that were the case, she'd crinkle her nose.

Once, when we were out for sushi—when I discovered she loved ginger—I learned she had no interest in watching my movies. When I asked her about the aversion, she explained simply, "Because I like getting to know you. Just you. But I reserve the right to view your work at any time. For now, knowing you is enough." She flashed a brilliant smile.

Why hasn't she called?

I open my eyes, feeling the sting of chlorine. Eric's rippling figure appears at the edge of the pool. He taps a hand on the water, beckoning me topside.

"My call?" I spit the water away; it rolls down my head and face.

Craig, one of the assistant directors, gives me a towel and robe, another tosses a bottle of water as I pass, following Eric as he navigates a network of equipment, pulling me into the first empty room we come across.

When he turns, his face isn't what I expect. Eyes saucer-wide, neat hair and suit like always, but his tie's undone. He's composed, yet wringing his hands.

"What is it?"

"Rhys." I've learned from my mistakes. We aren't friends. He works for me so he calls me Rhys. "Your wife is missing."

"No," I shake my head and reach for the nearest phone. "Lily knows where she is."

If anyone wants to know about Grace, where she is or what she's doing, they need only call one person.

# Evan—

# Travel

Reykjavik, Iceland is seven hours ahead of California. I'm technically travelling back in time. Not even the clock can give back what's been lost.

It's a twelve-hour trip by corporate jet on loan from the studio. I spend it making phone calls. Lily's in a state. Marcus is on his way back, as well. I've done everything I can think of, remotely—hired an independent security team to sweep the property, a private investigator to assist police, reported her car stolen, talked with Noah and Caleb to be sure they're alright, and called her brother. Bloody awful conversation—and there's still seven hours to go.

Eric's issuing a press release as we speak, asking anyone and everyone to help with the search. She's sick and pregnant and she never would've left of her own volition.

My estranged wife is pregnant. We're having a baby. Another boy. As excited as I want to be, I'm bloody terrified. Grace's car is gone. It's an old piece of shit. No way to track it. I bought her a fucking GPS and she never used it.

I guess Lily got a worried call from Noah. He'd come home with Caleb after school and couldn't find her. Lily said her cell was on the bed beside her purse. Grace never leaves home without those two items. Ever. We've all called every hospital and clinic in the greater Los Angeles area and no one matching her description has turned up. None of her co-workers, church affiliates, or doctors have seen or spoken to her. Not even Ray or Sergio, the neighbors whose house I bought. There are no signs of forced entry and nothing's missing. Nothing except her.

My chest is tight; held together by a taut string. I press my hands to it. If it breaks, I'll lose it. I need her to be alright.

Near the last time I was in the house, when we were still good, I begged her to come with me. I should've fought her decision to stay. Then none of this would be happening.

When we find her safe and sound, I'm going to make her get a new car, then flog her for worrying us this way.

Supplications keep me busy for the remainder of the flight. I pray, begging God—who I'm not even sure exists—to make her come back, as the burden of possibilities crush me.
Evan—

# House Again

It's just after three in the morning, local time, when I land at the Municipal Airport. Eric's going his own way at the moment, taking care of details I can't handle right now. He nods a farewell as I step into a waiting car on the tarmac.

Inside is a crew-cut fella in a suit. We've crossed paths once or twice. He owns the company that provides me with bodyguards when I need them. His jacket's off, neatly folded on the seat beside him. This small detail sends me shithouse mad, but I keep it, use it to focus. He acknowledges, but barely looks at me as he works in two conversations at once. A Blackberry and a Bluetooth.

The driver shoots straight for home. A short distance, long ride.

The first time I saw Grace, she didn't see me and I ended up with her wine in my shoes. I left the bar without talking to her and regretted it straight away. The second time was pure chance and I knew there wouldn't be another. I could've given her phone back before she left the lift. I might have, had I not been rendered speechless by her bright blue eyes and easy laugh. Those stunning eyes. I had to see her again, to talk to her. And when I did, I never wanted to stop.

Last night, as I tried to fall asleep, I thought of our wedding, when I laid eyes on her in the aisle. There was something my mother used to say—that God saves a woman's beauty. She said, He never allows it to be fully realized until the day a woman marries. I never thought it was true until that moment. She was radiant, an exceptional flower blooming just for me. I hold that picture in my head, now, hanging on for dear life.

Lights are burning along the tree-lined street. Out front, groups of people have gathered—throngs who don't know a thing about her standing shoulder to shoulder—holding candles and signs, singing prayers. Stuffed animals and cards, ribbons with balloons are clumped against the outer wall. Their song turns to cheers as my car rolls up.

All they want is another piece of my soul.

"We'll find her." Crew Cut says. This isn't the first time he's spoken, but it's the first time I look at him. He presents a hand. "John Marshall."

Every light in the house is burning. There's a bland beige rug covering the floor of the formal living room. It's plain and ugly. I want it back the way it was.

Lily's on the sofa, holding herself. When she sees me, she starts bawling. Cue run-and-hug sequence.

I knew she was upset. I talked to her, heard her crying, but couldn't picture it. Lily has only ever shown me two temperaments. She's Party Girl and Betty Bad Ass—joy and anger. She's in pieces. This is really bad. Grace would hate it.

"It's alright," I pet her hair. "We'll find her."

"Eigh-teen ho-urs." She halts with each syllable, staccato.

"The kids?"

"Sleep-ing"

"Marcus?"

"Lands-two hours." She takes a deep breath and lets it out. "Ronnie, tomorrow—today. Later."

My cell rings. "Yeah?"

"Mr. Matthews, could you come next door?"

I grab Lily's hand and take her along with me through the kitchen, heading for the back door. It still looks the same.

"Where's the pot?" I point at the empty shelf where the coffee flask should sit but don't stop. Past the patio, through the grass and back gate, into the adjacent garden. "Maybe they've found something."

John meets us in the doorway. Dress shirt, tie, still no jacket. I wonder where he's taken the time to set it now and if it's still pristinely folded. He herds us towards the nearly empty three-car garage. My car, well, Marcus' Range Rover, is still there. The cover's been removed, now sitting crumpled on the bonnet. The driver and passenger doors are open. John points to the opposite side at a shelf hinged to the wall. In front of it, a pile of clothes sits on the floor.

"Ma'am, are these yours?"

"They belong to Marcus, like the car. But they were in a trunk."

John looks at two other men, clad in gloves, firing questions while Lily describes a large green and brown camouflage trunk.

"I know it, I gave it to Marcus." The lock was broken, so he didn't take it back to England.

John's hands go up—one to his earpiece and the other becomes a barrier between him and his assistants. A command to pause.

"Yes. Direction? When? Is that confirmed?" He looks to me. "I'll talk to him myself. Coordinate with locals upon verification." His raised hand drops and he starts talking to us, rather than near us. "One of my guys picked up a possible lead near Kings Canyon. A forest ranger reported a vehicle of matching description heading into the Reserve just before nightfall. Does she know anyone up there?"

Lily and I look to each other and give identical answers. "No." "Nobody."

"Is there any reason you can think up that might put her there?"

Utter stupidity. "She's been put on bed rest. I thought we all agreed? Someone had to take her!"

He nods. "Yes, sir, I know. I'm trying to cover all the bases. When I take this information to law enforcement, I want them to jump on it. No excuses."

"Right. Sorry." I let him ask as many questions as he wants, then.

Lily has gone with my driver to the airport to pick up Marcus and Eric. The boys are still asleep, despite the shuffling of bodies through the house. The garage, great room, and kitchen are off-limits. The carpeted hall's been covered in plastic.

Nigel's curled up with Caleb. All three are in Noah's bed.

The house looks nearly the same, except for the carpet and the French doors in the master suite that lead out to the covered pool.

Her bed is made up with neat hospital corners, fluffy pillows atop a black and white striped down comforter. Her iPod's on the nightstand beside a dried rose. I gave it to her the night of our first date. I take up the music player and put her earbuds in my ears.

The playlist doesn't come up, but the last song she listened to starts to play. A smoldering tenor croons desperate poems of messages in bottles and songs on pages. It's Paper Tongues, the band she loves and missed that night I slipped and fell for her.

She's gone. Missing. And it's my fault. I don't know how or why, but I know in time, it will lead back to me.

Lying helpless on the bed, I roll to my side, clinging to the vision of us in my head and the impression she left on top of the covers. Gracie, that day in my hotel room. We don't fight. We talk and she doesn't believe the lie. Everything's as it should be. She glows, making her announcement—pregnant and lovely. I feel the would-be joy welling in my chest, filling my throat. She would have touched me, uncontrollably, the way she always did. I might have joked, pretending to withdraw only to feel her chase, to sense her desperation and measure it against my own. The night would have come and gone before we noticed, too rapt in one another to care about anything outside our bubble.

Supplications come naturally in times of destitution. Even for us morally bereft. I beg God to make her come back. I barter and bargain, offering up things that aren't mine. My heart—He knows it belongs to her. My soul—though I'm sure it was lost long ago. I pledge eternity, offer eternal servitude, anything, everything. My money, my future, my so-called talents.

But what use has God for such things? If I could give them up so quickly, why would He want them?

A soul is useless—pass. Eternity's just wasting time if it's spent alone. I don't want anything if I can't give it to her. I only ever wanted for her—to be a man she could be proud of, to make her smile.

Her smile . . . it warms the air, lights the room. I'll give anything to see her smile again.
Evan—

# The Trail

SMASH CUT.

The closest the plane can get us is a farming community called Visalia. From there, it's roughly an hour's drive to the park. Dispatch has video surveillance of her car at the southern entrance of the Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Park via Highway 198. It's too grainy to identify the driver, but it doesn't look like her.

Everyone is on high alert since there was a 911 call placed from her home in early-afternoon. I've listened to the recorded call a hundred times. The voices are barely audible, like someone may have accidentally hit the auto-dial. Or she was in distress and couldn't talk. It seems the authorities were leaning towards the former. In accordance with standard procedure, a unit was dispatched to follow-up on what they thought was an accidental call. Noah and Caleb were there alone, searching for Grace.

It's a full-scale search and I'm pulling all resources, calling in favours from everyone I've ever met and everyone they've ever worked with. Eric's got a publicist working on another press release and they want something from me.

"I don't care how big the space is. I'll move heaven and earth for the chance of finding her." My hand brushes through Caleb's hair. He fell asleep in my lap on the plane and I haven't the heart to wake him, though my legs are going numb. I can't answer his questions. I don't know where Mummy is.

The trunk. Her car. The garage opener I left in the Rover's gone from the visor. It might have gone unnoticed, if not for the imprint left in the leather.

Sheri's nowhere to be found, either. Not that I've looked very hard.

I keep hearing Grace's voice in my head, the way she says my name like a prayer.

"What the bloody-hell was Sheri doing talking with her?" Marcus is confounded.

"I don't know what makes people do what they do." A ten-year character study couldn't crack that nut. Apparently she's been a regular visitor these last months, though by my reckoning, she never liked Grace much. Still, Lily said she'd dropped by a few times, in the daytime, when Grace was alone.

Noah's on the seat beside me, taking in every bit of information from John, who sits in front of him in the passenger van. He's asking questions and answering as many as he can about how Grace has been spending her time. He's had the brilliant idea of remotely activating the GPS in Sheri's car. If Sheri was with her yesterday at all, they want her input. Maybe she saw someone in the area that didn't belong. Once we go through the proper channels to do that, we should have some idea of where she is within a few minutes.

Grace placed that call. I know it in my gut. Her phone records indicate it was only a few minutes after Marcus spoke with her. Between those two phone calls, something happened. And whatever that something is, it's the reason we can't find her. Dread wells in my stomach, churning bile at an alarming rate. I press her earbuds further into my ears, straining to listen to the recording of her phone call. Over and over, I try to make out the sounds, but there isn't much to hear. Muffled, static-filled voices. One's definitely Grace, but the other's too low to pick up.

She wasn't alone when she called.

My mind goes back to the young girl Grace mentioned. The one who camped outside for days on end. She has a deceptively sweet face. I used to see her at fan events. Not just around LA, either. Then, she started showing up where I was staying. No matter how many posters and shirts I signed, or how much time I spent talking with her, she wouldn't leave. The more she got, the more she wanted. She used to leave letters for me with the concierge. She'd threaten to hurt herself if I didn't come down. Hotel security made her leave each time they saw her. She did go away for a bit, but resurfaced outside the house after I'd gone off to shoot. I've thought of her as more weird than dangerous. Still, I wonder if she was hanging around and try to recall the sound of her voice as I rewind and listen.

Fresno and Tulare County Sheriffs, CHP, dozens of park staffers, and rangers with ATVs are gathered in and around the park's main office when we arrive. Eric thanks everyone for me and makes arrangements for a place to lay Caleb. Lily and Noah will see after him.

Everyone's talking and I'm gutted. People without faces are trying to chat and I can't make out their words. All I see are the poorly placed smiles.

"Here, mate." Marcus gives a paper cup of coffee. "You're knackered." He leans in, speaking low. "Get your head straight. They might be here for you, but they're here, so thank the volunteers or Grace'll string you up."

"She would, wouldn't she?"

His shoulders draw up. "She will."

Evan—

# The Search

Deadman's Canyon has a body in it. The old grave of a sheep herder—that's how it got the name.

Near dawn, as I'm making my case against being forced to stay behind to answer phones, a call comes over the radio. Two hikers camping inside the eight-mile-wide canyon have found something.

The room of bleeding hearts collectively stops. Mine just breaks.

John takes my arm and makes for the helipad, double-time. He points to a seat facing the back, instructs me to buckle up, and keep quiet. I put on the huge headphones corded to a box on the ceiling.

When the rotors start up, the wind is enormous. Great evergreens sway and shrink as we sail up into the sky.

Helicopters are bloody noisy. You have to wear headphones to hear anything; and the others, John, a ranger whose name I forget, the pilot, and co-pilot are having a conversation I'm not allowed in on. Their lips exchange silent words while I stare out at the snow-capped peaks not far off and the groupings of trees below. Someone hands me binoculars.

"We're nearing Elizabeth Pass," says the voice in my headset. "The canyon's beyond that. When I set her down, I need you to stay put, Mr. Matthews."

John nods in agreement.

I can't consider what I may or may not do. Trying to think about anything beyond this second is like hitting a wall. I resume my inspection of the forest floor and meadow. The appropriately named canyon is probably something to look at in spring, but right now it looks desperate, lonely, and dangerous.

People—three women and two men—come out from a patch of trees, waving their arms. Every bit of vegetation looks as if it's trying to bolt as we land. The canyon's huge, surrounded by steep granite walls and traversed by a stream. Patches of trees sprinkle the edges of a line that I guess is a hiking trail. As the noise of the blades dissipates, everyone unbuckles. Everyone except John and me.

I guess he's decided to make sure I do what I'm told. Obedience has nothing to do with it. I'm scared shitless.

"You should start on the other side. Keep'em even." John removes his headset.

"I hadn't noticed," I say, taking my fingers from my brow.

"We'll wait for them to call us. They have pictures of her."

Pictures may be all I have, as well. "They aren't enough."

The boxy radio on the wall of the craft starts squawking. John's quick to grab it. The voice is loud, fuzzy. I can't understand what they're saying.

I don't even know what she's wearing. Lily and Noah told the police what she had on when they left and I couldn't picture it. My pregnant wife in maternity clothes. My unborn son's picture was posted on the ice box and I couldn't look at it. I can't understand any of this. Why is this happening?

"Mr. Matthews?"

"Yes?" I take a deep breath.

"Your wife, sir, what was she wearing?"

"Um, blue, button-down maternity top and jeans," I'm just repeating Noah's description to the police.

"Does she have any distinguishing marks? Tattoos or birthmark?" John's hand holds the radio beside his mouth. His index finger hovers over a red, oblong button.

"Tattoo." I want to vomit. "A circle of four small rosebuds end to end. Three red and one white." I can see her sitting on the bar stool at The Hard Rock that night, talking and smiling. Covering it up at my mention.

"Where?"

"Right side, on her hip bone." I used to kiss it.

He relays the information to the radio. And waits.

My throat suddenly bulges. I leap from the seat in time to chuck my coffee out the door. As I gag, the garbled voice blares from the radio.

"They've got her!"

I dart from the doorway, stumbling on numb legs until John's forearm pins me against the side of a Sequoia. My shirt's in his fist, his elbow near my jaw.

"Not in there. Up there," he points.

I follow his direction to the rocky ledge and up the wall of the canyon. High overhead is a white helicopter with a large red cross painted on the bottom.

Once, Grace and I walked Caleb to the park down the road. She sat on one end of a bench while I lay across it with my head in her lap. She pointed up at a passing helicopter. "That's a Medivac 'copter," she'd said, and went on describing how they could be any color, but the large red symbol on the bottom gave it away. She said they were used for transporting patients in the gravest conditions.

I'm under the waves again—drowning, lost in that black seawater. The clock was against me. That much I know. I also know it was my own fault for lying so close to the water when the tide was out. I was too drunk to notice the proximity and got pulled into a rip tide. I was lucky to have surfaced at all.

"Who's in there?" I ask John, pointing to the woods of the canyon.

"Let the police worry about that. We gotta get you out of here. She's heading for Kaweah Delta." He breaks into the trees to relay the information to our pilot while I put together the pieces of what's happened.

The radio call didn't come from anyone I'm with, as I assumed. It had to have come from the other helicopter. And they asked for description because they've found her and now she's bound for the nearest hospital.

"Shit."
Evan—

# The Finding

Where was I? What was I doing at the precise moment someone decided it was okay to touch my wife? What was I thinking about when someone zip-tied her hands and stuffed her into a trunk? What was she feeling when she realized what was happening? What was I doing when she gave birth to our son? When she was alone, bleeding out?

How is it that the world can simultaneously end and begin? Here one minute, gone the next. I'm an absent husband, then widower. Childless child, then a father.

As I sit here in this tiny room, surrounded by the people she loves most, I can't quite figure out how it's possible.

This isn't the way things are supposed to happen. It's shit you see on telly and shake your head because the world's a fucking cesspool. It's a news-at-eleven story that makes you hug the ones you love a little tighter, but it's not supposed to be real.

I can't process anything. It's come at me all at once, from every side. The one person that might understand what I'm feeling is the reason I'm having these feelings.

"Mr. Matthews, I'm sorry to say, but your wife has passed."

"What the fuck does that mean? Passed what? A turn? Will she be coming back 'round again?"

He doesn't react, but continues with very little visible emotion.

"Your son is fine, a healthy eight pounds. His body temperature's a little low. We've got him in a warmer. We're treating him for a minor eye infection, common among newborns. We can take you up to see him whenever you're ready."

I need someone to call 'cut.' That line was delivered all wrong. I can't grasp it because he isn't saying it right. He should say it slowly, draw out the words. Give them some feeling, a sound more guttural. Add a facial expression, something. Anything to give indication that you, dumb-shit doctor, understand what you've so ineffectively glossed over.

Start with a solid kick to the gut, make sure there's no air left in my lungs before you make your pronouncement. "I'll just be ripping you in half now. Cheers." Or, "I'm going to drive metal spikes into your ears, alright?" Grin.

"Is anyone hearing this?" I look around the small room that's more like an office, but absent of desk and computer. There are soft chairs along every wall and a small table in the centre, a water cooler and boxes of tissues. It's a Bad News room.

Noah's sitting on a short bench, holding his head in his hands. Lily's face is tucked into Caleb's neck as they cling to one another. Marcus's eyes are red. His hand's set on my shoulder and his lips are moving, but I don't think he's saying anything.

"Noah." He doesn't answer. I sit beside him and he yanks me into a desperate embrace.

"I'm an orphan," he mumbles.

Intense, ugly words. Uttered once by me, to Marcus. "No, no. We're a family, mate. We're in this together."

"What's the cause?" Lily asks.

The doctor clears his throat. I can't take my eyes off his name tag. Brian Ying? Brian—American. Ying—Asian. What kind of name is that? He looks Mexican. How am I supposed to take him seriously?

"Coroner has to make the final determination, but it looks like a uterine tear—most common with women who've had c-sections. Mr. Matthews, has your wife ever had the procedure?"

"Once," Lily answers quietly, casting a glance at an oblivious Noah.

"This was her third?" He asks Lily directly this time.

"Yes. Gravida four, Ab one at twelve weeks, natural elimination." She blinks and the welled tears spill down.

"Did she suffer?" I ask, knowing bloody-well she did. What is wrong with me?

Dr. Ying looks first to Noah then to Caleb. "Mr. Matthews, childbirth is naturally painful."

"After. Did she suffer after?"

"Evan, come with me." Lily has passed Caleb off to Marcus and is now standing in the open doorway.

The empty linoleum hall awaits. I follow as she leads out and into another room. Another Bad News room—it's a bloody network!—She shuts us in before bursting into sobs, leaning against the door.

"You want to be angry? Good. You should be. But don't plant those images in their heads! We have to protect her boys. Do you understand? Losing her is enough. In case you haven't noticed, Noah is exactly like her. He'll carry this around—take it all in on himself—what effing . . ." she breaks up again.

I can't believe I'm having this conversation. Nothing in the world could ever keep Grace from those boys when they need her. Yet something has.

"I can't cry. I want to, but—why is that? Of all things I should cry about, this is it. The fucking worst."

Lily wipes her entire face with tissues. "Take advantage. You are her husband and she needs you to be strong. And your head's probably clearer than mine."

She claps a hand over her mouth and wilts like a flower in the sun. "What will we do without her?" She answers with a sob before clearing her throat, and then continues, "I can't think. Marcus is a zombie. Decisions have to be made. People have to be told. Ronnie lands in an hour."

"Why didn't anyone tell me? We wouldn't be in this—" I can't say it. I need to break something. Everything. I want to scream, because I know the answer.

Grace's actions have never been a mystery to me. She's surprisingly easy to understand, most of the time. Like, when she gets upset, it's in readable phases. The first phase is her foot, which she taps. She doesn't yell or scream, or throw fits like I'm accustomed to. She always asks questions and waits for a response, reasonably trying to decide if her anger is justified. If she feels it is—stage two—she'll raise her voice, stomp a foot. She speaks in firm, polite ways, never demeaning or offensive. At stage three, she stops talking. Her mildly abrasive attitude will shift and retreat. She starts cleaning. It doesn't matter if she has finished the whole house, she's scrubbing, mopping, vacuuming, whatever she can think of.

She's also the person who takes care of everyone and never asks anything in return. Except, maybe, this one thing. This small matter of keeping her secret until she musters the courage to tell me, her husband who, admittedly, did not want his own children. A difficult conversation for her, considering. Grace shies away from confrontation at every turn. She must've been expecting me to fight.

"She was scared that you'd feel trapped."

"That's nonsense." I was trapped the second I saw her. "Where does she get this guilt complex? She's not Catholic."

I don't know why Lily bothered to dry her face. It's wet again.

"All that matters is that we're here for them. The boys . . ." Her eyes seem to float in every direction. She squeezes them shut and covers her mouth. She can't do a fucking thing.

I put my arm around her. "We are."

When we open the door, Ronnie's marching up the plain white corridor ahead of Eric, a man on a mission. We've never met face to face, but I've seen pictures. I never noticed how much they look alike. When he looks at me, I see her eyes staring back and can't move.

I feel his fist hook into my stomach. I'd vomit again if there were anything in there. I don't resist it or even flex, but let myself absorb the blow and fall to the floor. And, eventually, start breathing again.

"You deserve that." He points down at me, changing his daunting posture to help me up.

"That and more." I agree, then take him with us to see the kids.

I notice straight away how the boys stiffen when they see him. Not in a creepy way, more of an oh-shit-this-is-real way. They don't cling to him like they do me or Lily. They nod and wipe their faces as he tells them he's sorry and, "everything will be fine, don't worry."

Dr. Ying's gone and Ronnie starts a round of questions. Rather than put anyone through trying to answer, I decide to help find the doctor. Besides, I can't recall any real information about what happened. I don't remember what he said.

Eric follows along until we find Dr. Ying at a nurses' station. When he spots us, his shoulders drop. My stomach hurts. He introduces himself to Ronnie and since we're absent of children, I ask for the hard truth.

Dr. Ying looks to Grace's brother. "And you, sir?"

"Tell me everything." He crosses his arms over his chest.

Dr. Ying passes off a clipboard to a nearby nurse and gives her instructions as she gawks at me. Unflinching. Like I'm a damned television set. I cover my face as he leads us back into another damned room and sits us down. He takes a napkin from beside the water cooler and starts to draw on it. A human-like figure meant to represent my wife.

"As I said before, she passed en route, so the extent of her injuries and the exact cause of death will have to be determined by the coroner. But we suspect it was a uterine tear which caused the blood loss.

"She had notable markings to her head," he draws an X on the drawing's head. "Her left shoulder appeared dislocated. There were signs of injury and a large hematoma," he makes another X on the drawing's shoulder, then in the right knee area, lines on her wrists, and makes a separate picture to describe the uterine tear that caused the bleeding.

"Had she been in a hospital setting, we would've detected and stopped the hemorrhage."

"She's dead because she was alone. Because I wasn't there to protect her."

"No, man." Ronnie clears his throat. "She's gone because . . . well, because sometimes, bad things happen to good people. It's nothing more than that."

I look into his eyes, her eyes, and see his broken spirit. "I'm so sorry."

"We all are," he nods.

Finally, Dr. Ying crumples the paper napkin and looks up. "The police are still down in the lobby, Mr. Matthews. They're waiting to speak with you."
Evan—

# The Meeting

My wife is practically inhuman, they say. She showed impossible skill, if the secondary crime scene they've been surveying tells the story they think it does.

The detectives and John are all kind, personable, and sympathetic. I want to rip them all apart.

John's wearing his jacket this time, buttoning and unbuttoning as they relay the findings. I want to tell them to stop talking, I've heard enough. But Ronnie seems very interested in every detail. He's absorbed, almost disconnected, as he listens to what they know so far and asks more questions.

The baby was one to two hours old when they found him. He was lying on top of her. She was in the open hatch of her Cherokee, without dignity. They found, surrounding her inside the car, her pants and shoes, items of a first-aid kit she kept. They say she must have gone into labor on her way back to the car.

"What do you mean 'back'?" Ronnie asks.

John looks to me, asking without words if I explained anything. I shake my head. So, he goes back to finding out the trunk was missing. It was found, empty, about ten yards from the back side of Grace's car. There was also a shovel and a very large hole. Their best guess thus far is that the body in the canyon must have something to do with Grace being there, but none can say for sure until it's been identified, which might prove difficult since animals have already gotten to it.

From what they've pieced together, she was taken from the house, possibly the kitchen. That's where the cordless phone was found, atop the island counter. Pieces of the broken coffee carafe had been swept into the trash. She was placed inside a tarp, smashed into that trunk and taken far, far away to a place where no one would ever think to look for her. Kings Canyon. The irony sickens me.

She found a way out of the trunk, or was let out and got away. They believe she had to have hid somewhere, or been chased and found her way back to the car, where Baby was born.

"She wanted to name him Ethan. Or Daniel," Ronnie says, wiping his eyes. He turns to me, "I want to see him."

There are still a lot of unanswered questions, the main being why do GPS coordinates for Sheri's car show the location three blocks from the security gate at the bottom of Grace's hill?

The lead detective, whose name I don't care about at the moment, clears his throat. "A search of the vehicle produced several items that lead us to believe that your former manager may be involved."

John sets a hand on my shoulder. "They found a receipt for a shovel. The UPC numbers match those of the shovel at the scene. And a binder full of research from websites on suicides."

"Sheri? That doesn't make sense. No. Why?"

"Mr. Matthews, is it true that Sheri Barry used to work for you?"

"Yes."

"What were your reasons for dismissal?"

"Confidentially, we suspect she paid someone to film intimate moments between my client and his wife, then sell and distribute the material." Eric's voice sounds from somewhere behind me. "He's in the process of suing her." His hand appears near my shoulder, holding out several business cards. His and my lawyer's.

I ask to be excused, which they kindly grant.

Turning to leave the Bad News room adjacent to the lobby, I look to John. "If I see any press upstairs, everyone's fired."
Evan—

# Aftermath

I've spent the last few months readying myself to have a conversation and I mean to have it. Lily says it isn't a good idea, but I need to.

They have me in the hospital basement, alone in the hallway. There are three metal framed chairs and a long, gray wall that looks like it's been built from cinderblocks. More than an hour passes before they take me into an adjacent room lined with metal cupboards, accessible by swinging rubber doors.

A thin woman with mousy hair passes through. Her hair's pulled back, far too tight, in a low braid that hangs down her back. She's leaning over a lumpy gurney cloaked in a long, white sheet. Between her arms, I see traces of hair.

And there she is. Covered from the neck down by the draping white sheet. Her hair's grown out since I saw her last. It's her natural color and much shorter. Cut at the shoulder.

The room's cold, like her, and my carefully prepared speech means nothing.

The girl is joined by an older gentleman, who seems to have nothing remarkable about him, except that he's giving instruction on things that I can't grasp.

She's right there and he wants me to listen? I nod as to comply so they'll leave and move closer.

She's pale, looks like she's sleeping. And my knees can't hold me.

It's my fault.

My face falls onto her sheet. My fingertips stroke her cool cheek. Her hair's damp. I touch it with my lips and feel a lump that shouldn't be there. Grace never cared for sacrilege so I keep my cursing inside while examining the rest of her head.

"I'm so, so sorry," my apology starts at the beginning and won't stop. I never told her about my addictions. One secret I managed to keep from the public was a short stint in rehab right after my first film took off.

"I was afraid you'd think I was no good, especially after what I told you." I think over my reason. "It makes no sense, I know. I put you in the position not to trust me when I lied about Noah's truck. I knew you'd hate the idea of him driving but . . . I wanted to give it to him. I also knew your tunneled method of thinking would never allow you to consider it. So I made your choice by putting it in front of you."

It seems like a lifetime ago when we stood in the garage, arguing over a birthday present.

"Then, the whole disaster with the rubbers," I thought I was doing the right thing by Noah. "I didn't want to offend you. I was afraid of betraying his trust and broke your faith in me. "But I wasn't unfaithful, Gracie, not like you think."

I imagine her eyes are open and bend in to clarify. "That night in my room, I looked in your face and knew it was over. You didn't believe me and I was so pissed."

I want her fixed, blue gaze to burn into me, make me explain myself. "I should have lied. The way you are, I could've told you whatever you wanted to hear and you'd forgive me. We'd move on. My pride wouldn't let you think of me that way. And then, my vices got worse and before I knew it, I changed the way you thought of me."

My brain conjures contrasting images—one of her looking at me, smiling, and another of her that day in the back garden, crying with a red line across her forehead. From when I hit her with the chopping board. "I'd hurt you so much. And I couldn't stand that piteous look."

"I was pathetic to you. If I'd kept at you like I wanted, you would've hated me and I wouldn't have blamed you." I stare for a long moment. "Do you hate me, Gracie?"

I imagine her soft expression, her hand on my face. Forgiveness is her way—I have no reason to keep anything from her.

"What was I supposed to do? I bared my soul to you. I showed you who I was when I could barely look myself in the mirror. And then you walked away. You took everything. My home, my family. You broke me before you even had the facts. You decided we were over before I knew there was a problem."

I take a deep breath, warming to my cause and imagining that she's listening. And she understands.

"It was all or nothing with you wasn't it? I chose all. You chose nothing. Not a damned word. What am I to do now? I'm here. You're gone."

I look around the room, not seeing any of it. "And I've got this boy—our boy—that I never knew existed. What do I do now, Gracie?"

There are no answers to be had. Not from her lips, not from her table, in this cold room. There's nothing but me, my empty questions, and their instructions not to touch her.

"I miss holding you."

I press my hands beneath her, shocked at how heavy she feels, and draw her into my arms. Her head falls back as I lift, and I remember how I used to pull her hair to gain the same effect, to kiss her lovely neck. Her lips pull apart, but there's no answering smile, no lighted gaze of silver blue. I squeeze her tighter, watching the sheet fall from her shoulders like her robe that first night, but her skin isn't soft and pink. It's blotched with purple. Her arms don't give back, but dangle limply from her sides.

"It's not fair."

We were supposed to grow old together. I wanna roll my eyes when she complains about wrinkles and bring her flowers for no reason. Take her to New York and her first premiere. I was supposed to show her the world. We were going to have a home in London and watch the boys grow up and be grandparents.

The room has become very noisy. White coats with high-pitched voices wrap their hands over my arms. I fight them, but soon can't hold on.

I bend to kiss her before she's gone and spot a silver chain 'round her neck. As she rolls away, the metal's wedged between my fingers. Her wedding ring, hanging from a broken chain.

And the taut thread has held me for too long. All at once, the strings untwist and I'm coming undone.

Evan—

# Four Days and Counting

Though it feels like the world should stop and pay its' respects, the clock manages to keep ticking. Time goes on, carrying me further from her.

There are no words to express the absolute furious contempt I hold toward myself for allowing this. There's no excuse. I should have been there. Then we wouldn't be here.

Lily's holding the baby. He's perfect and beautiful and so needy. I've got nothing for him. For Ethan Daniel Matthews.

I can't get my shit together. Things are happening, people are moving, but I can't focus. I'm here, but not really there. I've got about three feet of clarity; and beyond that, it's as if there are no true shapes. Only fuzz on a blank slate.

I can't eat or sleep, or think past that moment I found out she wanted to talk. What was happening to her at that moment? Was she still at home, did she hear my messages? Who broke the coffee pot? Who swept the shards into the trash?

I gave very specific instructions not to let anyone in unless they verifiably, personally know Grace, but there's lots of fuzz behind us.

We're not in a church because I can't bring myself to set foot in one. I'm so angry and full of shit, I'd probably catch fire at the threshold. Her vicar, Tony Something, an Italian Southerner as far as I can tell, is conducting the service, here, at the cemetery. She's being laid to rest in one side of our mausoleum. Sol's nearby, in the family plot beside his father. There are people outside the gate, people on the grass, people, people, everywhere.

Noah's hands are shaking around a folded paper. I try to reassure him, but my comfort sounds like random words strung together. I hear myself tell him he's strong, he can do this, and it doesn't make sense to me. I've got no idea what he's doing.

His eyes are dry and red as he stands. His suit's sharp, shoes shining through the rain as he walks the carpet set atop the grass, sheltered by the tent. When he reaches the podium, he unfolds the page and mumbles.

"Mom wrote this just after my dad was killed." He clears his throat. "'I live a small life. When it's my time—long after all chances of greatness have passed me by and I've humbly settled with my remarkable family—I expect to have a small funeral gathering. This is good, because grief makes people crazy. I don't want anyone to make a fuss over me. But funerals aren't for the guest of honor, are they?'"

He stops and takes a deep breath. "'I hope that when people think of me, they remember I truly believe that the next life is the best life and the purpose of this one. All I want are a few friends and no tears. If Lily outlives me, she'll get to play dress-up one last time. And though I don't really care one way or the other what happens, I might like it if she chose something silly and inappropriate. Like me. Rainbow wigs and clown noses all around.'"

Noah looks up from the paper and pans the crowd. "You're wrong, Mom. You lived larger than you thought. We're all here because we love you."

I'm sitting, wondering what's happening as people actually applaud. When he takes his seat back beside me, I see he's wearing a red clown nose. He opens his palm, where there sits another. He offers it to me, along with the paper that's folded again. I take them both, but the nose won't stay on.

Her script stares at me from the stapled pages. Half of one page is highlighted. The part he's read from. The other page has my name and that's where I start reading. An entirely different entry photocopied from her diary.

"It's ridiculous," she writes. "In such a short time, he's become an intrinsic part of me. He's beautiful and funny and I know I'll never have enough, or get tired of him. I may get tired from him (Evan snores so loud! It actually wakes me up at night. I'm thinking of checking him into a sleep clinic!) But never tired of him."

After her casket is in place, the service ends. The crowd starts to disperse. A woman steps towards Lily and introduces herself. I hear the name Esther and look up from the ground. There's a young girl clinging at the womans waist. The girl's wearing a brightly colored dress, and her mother's dress is black, covered in tiny little fluff balls. The kind cheap t-shirts get when you sleep in them. She says she knew Grace through a women's shelter. And I remember her.

I took Grace down to Vine Street to show her the star of James Dean. I'd been offered the role of Jim Stark in a remake of Rebel Without a Cause. I was excited about it and Grace thought it was a horrible idea. I was too old for the part, she said, and remakes are overrated. As we stood, talking, Grace spotted a homeless woman. Esther's mother. We crossed the street so Grace could talk to her. I remember bristling when the woman, reeking of alcohol, asked her for money. She said it was for a taxi to go visit her daughter, the clinging girl. Of course, Grace gave her all the cash she had on hand. When we got back to the car, I told Grace she was naïve to think that this woman was going to use it for anything besides drink.

She'd looked at me with her large, lovely eyes. "It's her money now. She can use it for whatever she wants."

The sound of a chuckle pulls me from my musings. It's Lily and the homeless woman. They're laughing over something Grace did with a bag of dinner rolls. I make a mental note to ask Lily about it later.

Behind them is another woman, underweight with missing teeth. She knows Grace through a church charity called Food Closet. They used to chat about life and her addictions. Grace listened and never judged her. She says that my wife, the aggressive retreatist, told her, "Anything worth having is worth fighting for." She smiles and I know that, to her the fight is for sobriety.

Another woman stands before us. She says she knew Grace from a place she calls The Kitchen. A soup kitchen, run by a church over in Eagle Rock. Grace did volunteer work there and always gave her extra bread when she passed through the line. "She talked to me, not at me," the woman says as her eyes fill. She gives her thanks and blessings, and moves along as someone else steps up.

Maria joins Noah as he takes Caleb towards the car. Lily listens closely, shifting Ethan from one arm to the other, as the line that has formed slowly moves.

I take the baby before Lily's arms give out. Staring down at his sleeping face calms me. I pretend I'm a fly on the wall and just listen.

Each person has a story, some way that Grace affected them with her kindness or her simple honesty when they needed it. She made them all feel valued just by being who she was. This is what Noah meant when he said Grace was wrong. The fuzz is actual people. They may have barely known her, but they loved her. And she loved them. So, they're here.
Evan—

# Notebooks

"She wrote down every detail," Noah sets the box on the bed. "Her work schedules, doctor's appointments, notes about everything."

My wife has always had a very fixed method of thinking, focusing on one matter at a time. It seems, through these last eight months as she went about her sorted routine, she was focused on me. She's filled hundreds of pages with her thoughts, ideas, things she'd say to me if she could. Journals, letters in sealed envelopes, and diaries.

I want to read them all, soak up all her words, but it hurts too much.

I shove the container back beneath her side of the bed. As my arm comes away, the corner of a small, burgundy book catches on my buttoned sleeve and flies onto the floor. Open, calling to me.

When I was fifteen years old, I found a box of letters whilst nosing through my mother's closet. Love notes, they were, from her estranged husband—the delinquent, adoptive figurehead of what manhood was supposed to be, though he never got 'round to teaching me anything except what not to do. I counted and there were thirty letters he'd written to her and she hadn't opened a single one. I read through them, though. He mentioned me twice, both times in reference to how he was unable to pay her support. Right bastard, he was.

Ronnie and his family, Maria and her sister, Marcus and his new fiancée, Lily, are in the living room with Noah and Caleb. I hear them talking. Some murmur weepily, others recall stories. Nigel barks from time to time for attention.

I take the journal from the floor. The date in the top corner is the day we met at the museum. I move across to my side of the bed, nearer Ethan, sleeping in the bassinet she picked for him.

He's eaten, had a clean nappy, been burped. He's sweet and contentedly sleeping and I can't even appreciate him. All I can think is how much he looks like me and how much I love him and how I'm supposed to do this alone. I know nothing of babies. I'm all thumbs at preparing bottles. I can't change him without gagging. I barely know how to put myself to sleep and I'm so selfish.

I clutch the aching in my chest as the room shrinks. My heart burns, a shrieking fear. It digs deep into my bones, reminding me what a shit I am. How am I supposed to be a father?

The room distorts as I force air in and out. Leaping to open the French doors, I step into the back garden. Breathing in the nose, out the mouth, my head bobs like a balloon in the cold air. I'm the boy who let go of the string ribbon to watch my inflatable fly away. Now I'm crying because I can't get it back.

I concentrate on slow, deep breaths—it always worked when I got too high—and feel my way back to the bed. I set my head down between my knees for a few minutes, until the dizziness settles. But the knots are still in my stomach.

All my issues might be resolved with a single solution—I stop the thought right there. I don't do that anymore.

More fixed breathing, in slowly, out slowly. My heart calms, but my head aches.

I'm a grown man, having a panic attack over a baby—three harmless children, two of which already wipe their own ass. People have kids every day. And many are born into much less fortunate circumstances than ours has been—though I can't actually think of anything worse—but there's plenty of money and I can take time off.

After a bit more deliberation, I decide I'm not afraid of being a dad, just doing a shit job. Growing up without my own father left no guideline to gauge an appropriate course. The only thing I'm sure of is that I love these boys and I can't walk away.

Opening the book again, I read over her feelings, her first impressions. She describes me, a handsome Brit wearing too much cologne. I flip a few pages ahead to find the way she felt when I kissed her. I'm putty, it reads, I want to be with him every minute.

I was mesmerized, watching her with her family. Every part of her day centered on them. She treated her children's every word as if they were the most important words in the world. She explained things to them, answered every question they had, no matter how ridiculous. They ate dinner together every night. My mother cooked for other people's children while I waited at home, alone.

I decided I was going to marry Grace after that first night I spent at her house. It was the day Lily told me Grace was too religious to engage in sexual-congress outside marriage. I think she was hoping I'd leave her be, but it had the opposite effect. Something carnal reared and I imagined a hundred different ways to seduce her over dinner that night. The ideas became more explicit as we played Quarters.

My silly girl, she thought I'd never heard of the game. Of course I had. I played it, rather successfully, for years.

I knew Grace wasn't ready for what I wanted, but I also knew I was willing to wait and that surprised me. I'd never waited for anything, especially women. Then, I got thinking on how our lives might work together.

It's a strange thing, to realize your life is not your own anymore. By virtue of her existence, she'd turned me upside down. From that point on, I couldn't imagine myself without her; and contrary to the way things have turned out, I still can't.

I'll have to make do with the parts she's left behind.

It's a tragedy that so few people actually knew her. Many knew of her, but as Grace so skillfully pointed out, knowing things about a person is not the same as knowing them. Knowing what a person might do is different than knowing the why. It's the whys that makes them interesting.

I knew Grace's whys right off. She is–was the opposite of every other person. She lived in the same world as me, yet had no calluses. She couldn't get used to seeing people in pain. Whether self-inflicted or not, she couldn't stand by and watch. She wanted to heal them all.
Evan—

# The Ever After

The book was Lily's idea. She'd probably been kicking it around for a while before she brought it to me. The first time she brought it up was about three months after.

I was having trouble with Ethan. He'd been up the previous night, crying and squirming. And no matter what I did, he wouldn't stop. Finally around five in the morning, he passed out.

The next day was busy and I barely got a nap in before the crying started, again, around ten. Ethan developed a small rash, so I'd taken him to doctor. Then he started shitting through everything and I kept having to change him, re-apply the cream, wash his clothes and sheets. By eleven that night, I was bloody exhausted and he wasn't getting better.

We were both having a proper fit by the time Noah got up. He asked to help and I was out of ideas. He tried everything he could think—which took all of five minutes—before dashing next door to wake his aunt.

I swear, the second Lily put her hands on Ethan, he stopped. It was magic. He just kept staring, sweet and quiet, as she cooed at him.

"Babies sense your stress, Evan. They don't like it." She'd kept her eyes on him, used the same whispery manner.

"You're going to be a great mother, Lily."

"I can't have kids. No, I can't," she smiled, shaking her head, still staring down at Ethan, who smiled widely back. All gums. "Ah, he's teething." She finally looked at me and pressed a finger to Ethan's mouth. "See how his gums are swollen? In a few days, you'll be able to see little white lines, the tops of the teeth." She looked back to Ethan, "That's why you're so grumpy, isn't it? Why didn't you say something, Ethan?" She blew a raspberry on his tummy and his smile widened. "That's your culprit, the crying and diarrhea, he's teething. He might even get a low-grade fever, but he'll be fine. The doctor probably didn't notice because he's a little young."

She started lecturing Ethan on the trials of trying to grow up too quickly on her way to the nursery.

Grace painted it for him. He hasn't slept in there yet. I keep him in the room with Caleb and me so I can watch them sleep. Ethan's got a very active mind and makes funny faces when he's dreaming. Caleb just can't sleep alone.

"Grace never told me." I often wondered about her vicarious mothering. "Neither did Marcus."

"It's not something I advertise." Lily pulled a tube from a drawer at the bottom of the changing table. I don't use that, either.

"Open this." She handed me a small white tube.

I obediently opened it and waited for instructions. She chuckled, telling me how to lightly apply the numbing agent to Ethan's gums. We both laughed at the face he made and I noticed the tip of my pinky finger was also a little numb. Lily told me to be careful to follow the instructions and only give it to him if he needed it, then handed Ethan back before heading to the kitchen to make coffee.

She decided to stay and watch him so I could get some sleep. She didn't ask, but assumed, it's what's best for all of us. Just like she assumed—and rightly so—I was going to move back in with the boys and help care for them. We never discussed it, it was simply the way things were going to happen. I was going to be part of their lives and she let me, even though she didn't have to and I didn't deserve it.

She and Marcus will marry next fall. I'm sure once I'm able to handle more than the moment I'm living in, I'll have something to look forward to.

I cry all the time, like a little bitch, at everything. Over the kids, mostly, when they do something that reminds me of Grace. Anytime they do something good. The day Ethan found his hand.

I started again, then—sleep-deprived, appreciative, and suffocatingly lonely—as Lily passed me a cup of tea with milk and sugar.

"You know what might help? If we do something for her."

"What do ya mean?"

She sighed, lowering into the chair opposite me. "Marcus and I were talking and we both think you need to get some things out of your system."

I didn't know what she meant. Rather than repeating myself, which I hate doing, I waited.

"Evan, you had a whole life mapped out for you two. And none of us got to say goodbye." Her eyes watered. "She was there and then . . . it was so abrupt. To me, that makes it harder. I feel like she's hovering over us, like she's saying that it's not finished yet."

"In my head, I had this whole fairy tale planned. But we probably would've had a fight."

Lily cracked a smile and she sipped her coffee. "What about a book?"

"I'm not letting anyone tell the gory details. Fuck that."

"No, no," she waved a hand. "We'd use her journals. Tell her story, from her point of view. Everything through her eyes."

"I'm not that guy, Lily. I'm not . . ."

"She loved you, Evan, and neither of us are the saints she made us out to be. That was part of her draw. People either loved or hated her for it."

"I loved her for it." God help me, I do.

That very moment it hit me—how much I needed to express, how much I need my wife. It was the first time I felt like I could breathe and the first time we really talked about her. And we started talking as if we were really going to do it, though I wasn't convinced. Lily pointed out most of her last year would be easy to write, because Grace wrote it herself and Lily almost always knew what she would do, though she could hardly figure out why, and I could never tell you what Grace might do, but I could tell her motives after.

Lily and I agreed that someone as rare as Grace deserved to be known, but I didn't want me—my shadow, as Grace liked to say—to dominate the story.

The hardest part would be telling what Sheri did and we still only know what forensics could tell us. Science is a wonderful and terrible tool. I love and hate what it tells about her final moments.

"Truth. The way she saw it."

"Warts and all?" I asked, knowing Grace would never tolerate anything less than absolute honesty.

Ethan stirred, rescuing me with a whimper. Lily took him to the nursery, laid him in his crib, and took off his nappy. To let his skin breathe, she said. Something I never would've thought of. She rubbed his belly until he fell asleep, giving helpful hints the doctor forgot to mention.

I made my way to the bedroom, hoping to find rest.

My insomnia came back with a vengeance since her funeral. Those first few nights were spent reading through her letters to me, one painful line after another. She was angry with me there towards the end, but I try to take comfort in the fact that Marcus told her I wanted her and that I was waiting. I wished he'd told her how much I missed her, too.

When I was done with the letters, I still couldn't sleep, so I started on her journals. I read them consecutively, just as she wrote them. I walked through the year she lost Sol, felt her pain, heard her cries—they are my own. And the year that followed, the one she was supposed to spend with me. From then on, I couldn't think of anything but what she went through, what that must've felt like. It keeps me up at night.

It's a form of punishment, this need to know everything. But writing's not really my medium and I couldn't consider myself properly informed nor punished unless I went through everything she did and I wasn't ready.
Evan—

# Oppressive Impulses

I knew her for years. Since I first came to LA. Rehashing every moment we spent together a dozen or more times, I'm still not sure when or where things changed for Sheri. I knew she was shrewd; that was part of what made her able to do her job.

She was cross with me—that was nothing new. She was always cross with me. I could never do enough, never meet her standards. In her mind, I wasn't successful until I had the esteem of my esteemed colleagues with mantels full of golden statuettes. She complained about everything I did or didn't do, every role I took, every house I never bought or trip I didn't take. The only time she seemed pleased with my success was in front of other people. I thought it was her way of pushing me to be better. For a while it worked, but sometimes I just need a sincere pat on the back.

I guess that's where Grace came in, why I wanted to be around her. She wanted me, not Rhys. And Sheri at first, seemed to like her, which surprised me, because she barely liked anybody.

Looking back, knowing what I do, I can see where that sweetness turned sour. Once I left to shoot, Sheri was lax in passing Grace's messages. When I got onto her, she blamed it on other things. And though she had never spent an extended amount of time with me while I worked, she suddenly had to be there on-set. I attributed her presence to the loss of Marcus, whom I'd always had with me while filming. I didn't notice that her visits coincided with those of my wife. Like a bloody fool, I sought her advice on my marriage. I expected her to help me, back me up, but every one of my mistakes was her opportunity. And I never suspected.

And then, the video. I never would've thought, never in a million years. But that chubby fella, the one Arnold pissed on, he sang like a canary once the police had their mitts on him. He bought the phone, he posted the video, he flew into Ontario that week, and had temporary access to parts of the set because he's supposed to be a journalist for some supermarket rag. But he also had proof of at least one payment for services rendered. Filthy slag paid him with a damned cheque and that was enough for me.

Yeah, once upon a time, I called her a friend. And, odd as it seems, I can understand the anger and jealousy. She and Marcus were the inner circle. Us three and that was it. Everyone else was just people who crossed our path.

But this? This was her reaction? My firing her was an automatic warrant for the lives of those I hold most dear? I want to know why—the real reason, not a trumped up excuse.

Would I allow myself to think this was all because of me and not due to who she was . . . No, Sheri had to be predisposed. This isn't a normal response.

Marcuse says there are some things in life that you must simply accept. He says this is one of those things because we will never know, effectively, what her real motives were. Maybe she really was obsessed. Maybe she hated Grace because I didn't, or because she couldn't control her. Maybe she really thought she could live my life better than I could, like she was always saying. My money wasn't a factor; she never had access to it.

That fact is, no one foresaw and no matter how hard we try to understand or change it, we can't. The bitch did what she did and we've all had to pay. My wife, my only love, paid most dearly. I've no choice but to accept it. But it doesn't help with the hatred. I hate her for what she took, what she tried to take.

It's like Lily says—in the end, you have to let go of the things you can't help and take hold of the ones you can. All that matters is that we're still a family. We have each other. We have her words and we remember her.

And for the rest of my days, I will savor the love and life Gracie brought me between those Octobers. Because of what she showed me and all that she gave, I can find the strength to keep breathing.

The End

. . . for now
Dear Reader,

I just wanted to thank you for taking the time to read my little story. I know how valuable your time is and I truly appreciate that you saw fit to invest some to my work.

Now that you have read my book, I would like to know what you think about it. If you loved it, GREAT! I'd love to hear about it. And if you didn't, I'd love to hear that, too.

Book reviews are an important tool that perspective readers use to decide which books they'll read. So, if you've got just a little more time, please take a moment type your thoughts on any site where my books are sold.

Your opinions are important to me.

Thank you.

**Don't like how things turned out? Checkout A.R. Rivera's blog. Click the tab labeled Alternate Ending to read what might have been**

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Acknowledgments

First and foremost, I have to thank God and His Son, Jesus, who gave me a dream and the will to chase it.

Thank you to my mommy, Linda, my daddy, Denny, my honey-bunny, Cesar (AKA world's greatest husband), and the planet's most awesome kids—Michael, Cesar II, Lucas, and Sebastian: You all have been so patient with me during this writing process. Thank you for listening to my character ideas when you would rather talk about real people, for letting me interrupt you with absurd questions, and taking the time to answer those questions with complete sincerity.

A major thanks to Elizabeth and Courtney—the wonderful ladies of Take Two Publishing. You've offered more guidance, sweat, and creativity than I ever expected or deserved. Thank you for believing in my story and giving me my first "Yes."

This page would not be complete without recognizing the people who, some without knowing, helped mold my obsession into an admissible manuscript. My husband—thank you for being who you are; your personality is all over these pages. My brother, Jasen—thanks for calling long distance to listen to my ideas and for encouraging me on my quest for publication. My wonderful critique partners: L.N. Russell—my fastest CP—thank you for asking the tough questions, for having such a big heart, and such a sharp eye. J.C. Emery—you were the first to meet Evan and you loved him right away. Thank you for your gentle brutality, expertise, infinite encouragement, and help with the editing process. Thank you to Gina Denny—through reading your work I found a way to build better sentences, and thus, better chapters. Your lessons in the proper use of the apostrophe have stayed with me. And last but not least, Kari Nunes—for introducing me to Nora Roberts and her Public Secrets. That novel, though nothing like Octobers, really helped me find the structure mine needed. If it had not been for your casual recommendation, this book might have remained my secret.

_~Rivera~_ 278

