Page 32 of One Wrong Move

It had shrunk around me until it was like Saran Wrap, invisible but swathed tightly like a noose. And he hadn’t listened to any of it. Any of my concerns, my thoughts…

I didn’t think you could be alone in a relationship until I started dating Dean. Until I woke up one day and looked across the bed, realizing that he knew nothing about my inner thoughts. And worse… didn’t care.

The final blow had been a conversation I overheard. He was up earlier than me, and on the phone. He’d always been a loud speaker. I don’t think he was even trying to be quiet this morning; didn’t care whether I heard or not.

He’d been speaking to his brother, I’d later figured out.

He’d said that he was planning on my career being over after the wedding. When we have kids, for sure. There had been a pause, and I’d felt my stomach sink, because this was a conversation we’d had before. He wanted me to stay at home. I was adamant I wanted to work when possible.

And then he said the thing that broke something inside of me. It’s not like she has much of a career to begin with. An art degree is pretty much decorative.

It was not the worst he’d ever said. But piled on top of my own misgivings, the panic I’d been feeling as the days edged closer to the wedding, and the application I’d sent into the London gallery without his knowledge…

It had become painfully clear that he didn’t think I was capable. That I was someone to be controlled, guided, escorted. More of a pet than a true partner.

I’d packed my bags right away.

I remind myself of all of that as I walk the final blocks to Nate’s home. Remind myself of where I am, that I got out, that I’m better now. That I made the right decision. That I don’t have to feel guilty for my choices. Hurting him wasn’t great, but marrying him in the state I was in would have been far worse.

I hope he sees that someday.

I stop outside Nate’s enormous townhouse. The key is heavy in my coat pocket, and I turn it over once, twice.

Then, I walk up to the gates of the small courtyard park instead. If Nate’s already home, I’m not ready to talk to him. Not ready to talk to anyone until the ball of knots inside my chest has started to untangle. Or at least not ache the way it does right now.

I stop at the wrought iron gate and try to push it open. It won’t budge. There’s a lock on it.

Beyond the gate, I can see the winding path, leading to a small grassy square that’s surrounded by hedges. There’s a fountain behind them.

Locked.

I didn’t see that coming. For a few long seconds, I just stand and stare at the nearby garden. So close, yet locked away.

A moment later, a dog barks, and then there’s activity around my feet. I look down to see a spotted dachshund at my feet—dancing around, the ears flopping.

“Well hello there,” I say.

The dog is quickly joined by another, all-brown dachshund. Their leashes are held by a man, probably in his seventies, standing beside me. He looks dignified in a small cap, a tweed jacket, and a pair of green chinos.

“Hello there,” he says. His accent is all British upper crust. “Were you trying to get in?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, I was. I didn’t realize you needed a special key. I’ll get out of the way for you.” I reach down and pat the spotted dog on the head. His front paws are on my shin, his tail wagging rapidly. “Beautiful dogs.”

“They are, aren’t they,” the man says. “Tell me, where do you live?”

“Number eight.”

“Ah,” he says. There seems to be a whole world in that single word. “I live in nine.”

“Really? Then, we’re neighbors,” I say.

He nods. “It would seem so. You’re living with that American man, with all the cars.”

A blush creeps up my cheeks. “Yes. We’re friends, and he’s letting me stay at his place for a while.”

“Hmm. Well, in that case…” He holds out his key demonstratively and uses it to unlock the gate. “The house keys all go to the gate.”

“Oh, really?”

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