Page 55 of Until We Break

“Did you find any damage around the house?” I asked. We needed a minute to reset.

“I didn’t get that far,” she admitted. “The books knocked me off track. I still can’t believe I left them out there. I’m not takingcare of the cottage or the yard. I can’t handle the piers or the docks. I’m not doing anything I should.” She sounded defeated and exhausted.

“You’re only trying to get your bearings. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“I don’t know any other way to be.”

I hated she felt as if she was in this alone. Walt was the one who let the property fall apart—not her.

“Why don’t I walk around and take a look for you? The coffee’s going. I’ll be right back.” I left out the side kitchen door before she could argue with me. I found a few shingles on the ground, but no wind damage.

I stood outside the house. I wanted to know what happened with the books. I wanted to understand what kept dimming the light in her eyes and dragging her down. Last night was fucking incredible and now everything seemed fucked up.

TWENTY-NINE

Margot

The coffee aroma filled the kitchen. The coffee bubbled and dripped in the carafe. It gave off the illusion that everything was fine. It was safe and normal inside these walls. But Caleb wasn’t here. He’d gone outside. He’d left me alone to deal with what I’d revealed in the yard. He’d seen what I’d been hiding—my grief and shame. Embarrassment. It was a clear and present unraveling. Maybe he had given me a way out to regroup. Refocus.

While he walked the perimeter of the cottage, I climbed the stairs to change clothes again. My shorts were dirty and wet from the books. No matter what I did, I wasn’t going to be able to escape the reminders. I wouldn’t be able to pretend it didn’t happen.

Caleb had seen the destruction and my devastation up close, and I couldn’t hide it any longer.

I pulled on a clean pair of denim shorts and a new tank top. In the corner of the room was the last remaining box Colleen had sent. I picked up one of the only copies of the book I hadn’tdestroyed. I carried it with me to the kitchen and placed it on the counter. I poured a cup of coffee and waited for Caleb.

“A few shingles. Not a big deal. I can help you with those,” he announced when he strolled inside. “I only need a ladder and a hammer. If they aren’t here, I can run by my dad’s garage and pick them up.” I couldn’t believe he was willing to do so much to help me.

Our eyes met. I took a breath, wanting to hold that moment for as many counts as I could.

I slid the book in his direction. “This is it. The full book. This one isn’t watered down.” I tried to lighten the mood.

He flipped it over and read the back cover. The words were on his lips. I studied his face and every flick of his eyes.

“Does this mean I can read it?” he asked.

“What? No. Why would you want to read it? It’s terrible. I told you that.”

“I don’t care what the rest of the world thinks about your book. What do they know anyway?”

My shoulders sank. “Umm, only that they couldn’t sell it. That it’s not profitable. That it was a complete failure.”

“I don’t care what other people think about it. I want to read it. I can decide for myself if I like a book.” He looked determined. “I don’t think all that stuff you’re talking about is what makes a book good or not. That’s marketing and shit I don’t know about. It doesn’t mean this isn’t good.” He wagged the book in front of me. “I’m going to read it.”

I felt panicked. My palms became sticky. My heart raced. “What if you don’t like it?” I wanted to tear it out of his hands. I regretted showing him the last copy.

He leaned toward me, his elbows pressing into the counter. “Why wouldn’t I like it? You wrote it, Margot. I’m going to love this book.”

My stomach flipped. The butterflies did their tiny dance and floated through my veins. How did he do that? He didn’t know if it was the worst novel ever written. But staring in his eyes I believed he would love the book. I believed he would read it and study each word I wrote, every sentence. Somehow, I was convinced he would never think it was terrible.

“If you don’t though?—”

“Stop it.” Our eyes locked again. “The agent, the whoever who told you it wasn’t going to work for what they needed, they’re in your head. I’m going to read this.” He gripped his copy. “I guess it does explain a few things.”

“Like what?” I was trying to let go of the panic and focus on the trill of the butterflies still running through me.

“Like why you came back to Marshoak. You probably could have handled a lot of this estate stuff through the mail. You wanted to know, didn’t you?”

“Maybe.” I knew he needed more answers than I had given.

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