Page 182 of Never Let You Go

Honest to god, I don’t give a shit what family she’s from, how much or how little money she has. I love her, the core of who she is, and I let my past, my demons, fuck with me and get the better of me. I let my fear of being hurt again jeopardize my future. Alexandra was not like that. I should have known better.

“Anywho,” Wendy is saying, “Emma came to the inn late at night, rang the doorbell seeing as it was past midnight. Remember?” she says, turning to Emma. “You said you absolutely had to talk to Alexandra. I remember telling Todd after letting you in, and I slipped back in bed, ‘Well, that’s what friends do. They show up when the going gets rough.’”

Emma’s face goes from deep red to ashen, and blood coils in my veins. Did she really do that? “What the fuck did you tell her?” I groan, knowing the answer.

She bites her lip and says nothing.

“I told you!” I boom. Grace’s hand on my arm reminds me we’re in a public space, and I bring my voice down. “I told you you had no right to share that information with her. I told you what would happen if you did.”

“Chris. I was looking out for you,” Emma says, then straightens her shoulders. “End of the day, I was looking out for her as well, seeing as—”

“Don’t you dare,” I hiss. “Don’t you dare say you were looking out for her.”

Cassandra protectively wraps an arm around Emma, who’s shaking now.

“I should drive you out of business, like I said I would,” I continue.

“Now, now. No one is driving anyone out of business,” Cassandra says. “Come on, sweetheart, let’s talk about all this somewhere else,” she says, thankfully walking Emma out of my sight.

Wendy narrows her eyes on Emma as she walks away, then turns to me. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything earlier. Might have saved you and Alexandra a lot of trouble.”

I run a hand through my hair. “Don’t be sorry. Bottom line, it’s all my fault. I should have known.” I should have known Alexandra would have been true to her word. I can’t believe I was angry and bitter when I received her results via email. Selfish bastard. She did it for me. She sacrificed herself so Skye and I would have financial security. Why did I not see earlier that Emma played her dirty card?

I blamed Alexandra for not trusting me with her secret, and meanwhile I couldn’t even trust her love.

How do I fix this?

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Stupidly hoping it’s Alexandra, I look at the screen.

It’s not her. Of course it’s not. I still have her phone.

But it’s Barbara, and she’s been leaving me messages to call her back.

Maybe it’s time I do just that. Maybe she can help me.

I leave Lazy’s to take her call.

fifty-five

Alexandra

The next day, we say goodbye to the Appalachian Trail in Bear Mountain, New York. We check ourselves into an inn that offers hearty dinner options. It’s a little on the pricey side, but after more than two weeks on the trail, we need the indulgence. We’ll spend the night, then make our way back into the city by bus tomorrow morning. Then onto the subway to haul ourselves all the way back to Brooklyn.

After dinner, I plop on the bed while Sarah is in the shower. Such luxury. When it’s my turn to clean up, I take extra time shaving, wash my hair three times, and finish their outrageously good-smelling conditioner. I loved my time away from civilization, but I’m ready to go back, now. And even if I have a pinch of apprehension at the idea of running Red Barn Baking, I’m looking forward to having so many things on my plate there’s nothing—no one—else I can think about.

The next morning, I dig out a summer dress and sandals Sarah somehow threw in the backpack. I give the dress a quick iron and slip it on, relishing feeling feminine again. I’ve lost weight over the last couple of weeks, and my legs and tummy are toned from the hiking, but my breasts still fill the low-cut dress in a sexy way. I tie my hair in a French braid and finish my look with a clean cotton hat and sunglasses.

As we check out, the front desk clerk narrows her eyes on us. “What’s wrong with her?” Sarah whispers as we leave.

I shrug.

The bus stop is a short walk away, and we’re early for the ride to New York City. There’s a diner nearby with outdoor seating and a sign that says Ice Cream All Day.

“That qualifies as breakfast, right?” Sarah asks.

“It’s dairy,” I confirm.

We sit under an umbrella, bask in the sun, and relish the cool taste of ice cream cones on our tongues.

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