Page 30 of Bitter House

“And you? When did you have your first kiss? The ripe old age of ten?”

There’s that lopsided grin again. “Twelve. And then sex at fourteen.”

My heart picks up speed. “That’s so young.”

He shrugs. “Probably, but it didn’t feel like it at the time. I’m not, like, traumatized over it or anything. It was with a girl I liked well enough. Didn’t work out, which was fine, and then, once I got the hang of things, I figured I may as well have fun.”

None of what he’s saying truly surprises me. Cole was twelve when we met, and I watched all throughout his teenage years while he dated and hooked up with several girls, many of whom I didn’t know since he’d met them through his job or friends, and they went to different schools, but none of whom ever seemed very nice.

“Are you still that way?” I ask, posing the question I’m dying to have an answer to as simple curiosity. “Wild and free? Or have you settled down some?”

His smile is soft, distant. Clearly, he’s thinking hard about something. “I’m not the kid I was, no. I’ve grown up, but I’m no saint if that’s what you mean. I like to think I choose women that I’m a better match for now.”

“Well, you must be pretty different, since you haven’t had a single girl over, and it’s been all of, what, three days? The old you would’ve been going stir crazy.”

He sucks his drink down. “You’re awfully interested in my sex life, B.”

“Just trying to decide if—I mean, if this thing is going to be long term—we should come up with some sort of system. Like a sock on the door sort of thing. I’d hate to walk in on something I may never recover from.”

“Same here.” He eyes me. “Do I need to worry about that?”

“Do I?”

His lips twist together, his gaze positively searing. “How about I let you know?”

“Same.”

He nods, then stands, rubbing his hand over his thigh. “I should get to bed. I’ll see you in the morning, Cactus.”

Once I realize what he’s said, I turn to tell him to stop calling me that, but he’s already gone. I feel his absence in every part of my body.

What the hell is happening here, and why do I not want it to stop?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

VERA BITTER

When I met Reggie, I was still bitter. Still grieving the loss of Harold—though I don’t think that will ever stop. I was a relatively young woman, with two daughters away at college and a house much too big for me. Despite its enormity and—some might say—impracticality, I know Harold always wanted me to keep Bitter House if anything happened to him, and I have absolutely no intention of ever leaving, much to his family’s chagrin. The house had belonged to the Bitter family for generations, and with him gone, I have no doubt his brother is seething at the thought of us here, but this is my home, my children’s home, and this is where we will stay.

Reggie came along when I was still trying to find my place. I’ve always been a stubborn child. Momma and Daddy used to say I’ll be too stubborn to die one day, and I have no evidence to the contrary.

As a girl, I spent many a night dreaming of things girls back then had no business dreaming about. A career. A life. A legacy. I never dreamed of men. Or women, for that matter. I dreamed of myself. Of changing the world, making a name for myself.

Of course, eventually, you start to realize the world has other ideas about what women should be doing with their lives. Meeting Harold gave me a reason to put all of that aside. To set my dreams down with love and hope that someday I could return to them.

When I met Reggie, I swear I felt all of my dreams shrivel and die. Not at first, no. He was much too smart for that. Aren’t they all? At first, he was everything I needed. He was loving. Attentive. He made me laugh. Made me feel—if not completely whole, at least the closest I’d been since Harold’s passing. Stupidly, I believed he could fix me. He could make me feel the things I’d resigned myself to never feeling again.

I thought he could love the girls as much as Harold had. That he could be there for them the way a girl needs her father, walk them down the aisle in his place, dance with them at their wedding. I thought by marrying him I was not only healing my heart, but healing our family.

No one could ever replace Harold, but to have someone who wanted to step into his space in our lives was such a relief when my heart desperately needed respite. It was a balm, not a fix, but I believed I could learn to love him like I needed to.

We had a quick courtship and were married six months after we met. That should’ve been my first sign of trouble, that he was too good to be true, but my mind was such a mess back then I just didn’t see it.

He was, and shall remain, my biggest mistake.

It only took two days after the wedding for him to hit me for the first time. And I noticed the way his eyes lingered on my girls when they were home from college, the way he’d watch them in the pool with their friends.

I may have been blinded by my pain, but I wasn’t stupid. I was stubborn and, I’ve learned, that can be a superpower.

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