Page 57 of The Woman in the Warehouse

She had no idea.

“It’s… complicated.”

“Is it complicated, or are you overthinking it?” she shot back.

“Valid,” I grumbled, looking at myself in the mirror, my skin still a little flushed. When I looked closely, I could see a bit of beard burn on my neck from Anthony neglecting to shave for the past two days.

“What’s the problem? Is he not good in bed?”

“That’s definitely not the problem,” I admitted.

“Then what is it?”

My gaze cut from the mirror, not able to even look at myself when the next words escaped me. “I like him.”

“Oh, heaven forbid!” she teased, then exhaled hard. “I worry sometimes that by never dating again after your father passed that you may have developed an unhealthy sort of hyper-independence.”

“This isn’t your fault,” I said, always quick to defend her. She’d busted her ass to raise my brother and me without any help.

“I should have worked harder to have positive male influences in your life. Maybe you would have grown to trust men more.”

“It’s not that,” I said. “I do trust him,” I admitted. It was true. I knew he would have my back. I believed he wouldn’t intentionally try to hurt me. If for no other reason than his mother would beat him with a spoon for it.

“It’s okay to want people in your life, Saylor. It’s healthy. You’re not supposed to go through life alone.”

“I’m not alone.”

“Yes, you have me. But it’s different. You know it is. Let me ask you something…”

“Okay,” I said, sucking in a deep breath as I leaned against the bathroom door.

“If you and Anthony got more involved… what is it you’re afraid might happen?”

That question stopped me cold.

Because I honestly had no idea.

I just knew that when things felt too good with him, something within me said to panic, to run, to put my walls back up. I never stopped to ask why.

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

“Is it because you’re worried about losing someone again?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Even just the mention of it had my belly twisting into knots.

“Honey, I feel like it’s my place to remind you that the fear of loss is not a good enough reason not to love.”

“Who said anything about love?” I asked.

“Saylor…”

“As someone who has lost many of the loves in her life,” my mother went on, “I have to tell you that the grief is proof of how much love there was, that there still is. And believe me, having that love is not something I would ever take back. I would still do it all over again. All that happiness was worth every tear I had to cry at the loss. Just keep that in mind, okay?”

“Okay,” I agreed, mind flashing back to how good it had felt to be held by Anthony before my anxiety about the situation kicked in and stole that joy. Even standing alone in the bathroom, a part of me ached to feel that comfort again.

“Okay,” she agreed. “And, hey, if all it is is sex, enjoy that too. You work too hard.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I said, shaking my head.

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