Page 66 of Stay for Me

She stared.

“I’m so sorry for everything that happened to you, Abbie,” I murmured. “No one deserves that, least of all you.”

She looked down the sidewalk, finding it empty. This time of day, right after lunch, the town was always quiet. The foot traffic would ramp back up just before the schools let out at three. “It’s weird being back here,” she confessed, her eyes scanning the street.

“I can only imagine.”

“Pastor Burton smiled at me this morning,” she informed me, meeting my eyes again. “At me. The daughter of the home wrecker who ruined his marriage.”

Her mother, Sheri Spears, was different kind of monster. I’d learned about her dark reach within weeks of moving to Hayden and starting my firm. That woman had ruined countless marriages and relationships in this town. Now, she tended to stick to herself, living in a trailer on the outskirts of town. I lifted my chin, holding Abbie’s gaze and repeating the words my own therapist told me years ago. “Your mother’s actions have nothing to do with you or the woman you’ve become.”

She nodded. “I know that,” she replied softly,

Thank God for that, because I still needed my therapist to repeat it to me every few months. I shifted my weight and adjusted the files in the crook of my arm. “Besides, you’re famous around here.”

She scoffed and brushed a loose chunk of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “Yeah, I know all about the wall.”

I bit back my smile. Beau and Bart, the owner of the town’s hotel, decorated a wall with all of Abbie’s news articles she’d written forThe Denver Tribune. Each story had been framed and put up on display for the entire town and all its visitors to see. She was one of the best damn journalists in Colorado.

“To be quite honest, Abbie,” I said, pausing until she looked back up at me, “the entire world deserves your writing. It’s powerful.”

She stared at me, her brown eyes shining, for a few moments before blurting, “Fuck, I can’t quit!”

I tilted my head in confusion at her outburst, but before I could get a word out, she spun on her heel and dashed back inside. “Diana, what have I done?” she called out through the open door.

I followed her, the doorbell jiggling above me as I entered. I found Abbie pacing back and forth, yanking her bun out so she could shove her hands into her hair.

“Abbie? What’s going on?” I asked gently, unsure of what to do.

She didn’t answer me, muttering something underneath her breath as she moved to one side of the store.

Renovations were underway, the disgusting blue carpet from the eighties had been ripped up and thrown away—thank God--and old check-out counter had been pushed to the back wall. I knew Valerie was planning on putting in white and lilac tile, checkered. It was going to look stunning.

“I have to tell Beau,” Abbie declared to me. “I have to call my old boss and take back my notice.”

My eyes widened, and I looked to my right to where Abbie stood, watching her thumbs fly across her phone screen.She—she quit the Denver Tribune?

That was when I noticed the plethora of painting supplies around her. A cup of paint brushes and dirty water was perched on top of a ladder, cans of paint lined the wall, and an artist palette was carefully balanced on one of the ladder steps. I lifted my eyes, and my breath caught on the beginnings of a floral mural on the wall behind her. There was a butterfly peeking out from behind Abbie’s shoulder. It was nearly finished, and if I focused, I could see the sketches of the flowers lined on the sage green wall.

“I can’t quit writing—I can’t quit the Tribune,” Abbie muttered frankly to herself as she put the phone to her ear. She looked over to me. “On a scale of one to ten, how likely is it for Beau’s phone to get my call out in the pasture four?”

“Zero,” I deadpanned.

She groaned as she pulled the device away. “I need to call and tell him I can’t quit the Tribune. We said we would figure it out, and I was willing to quit and stay here, but what you just said…” She trailed off and let her head fall back on a groan. “I love Beau. I love him so much, but this—-

Panic shot through me like an arrow. “Uh, please don’t leave that man again and definitely don’t do it because of my compliment. I can take it back,” I offered. She opened her mouth, but I was faster. “Your writing is terrible. Absolute crap,” I lied.

Abbie blinked. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a terrible liar?”

“There’s a reason I didn’t pursue criminal defense,” I tacked on as a joke.

She pressed her lips together, trying to hold back a laugh.

“You could call the satellite phone,” I suggested, moving across the space to set my stuff on the counter.

“I don’t have the number. I lost it years ago.”

I looked over my shoulder. “Are you going to leave him again?”

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