Page 95 of Faking It with the Firefighter

“Evelyn, there are rumors you killed three quarters of the men you married.”

She laughed. “I know. Isn’t it fabulous?”

I took another bite of cake and giggled. Then I asked, “Do you regret any of it?”

“My marriages?”

I nodded.

“No,” she answered simply.

“Not at all?”

“I learned from each of them,” she told me. “I always felt like it was worth the risk of getting hurt in case I found someone worth loving.”

“You’re braver than I am,” I admitted.

“You’re as brave as you decide to be,” she corrected.

We finished our tea and cake, and I promised to take her offer to Sinclair. I spent the afternoon around town, checking out the local listings and doing some work from my phone. I thought about my conversation with Evelyn—and I thought about Rex.

I was still angry. So mad it burned. I didn’t know if I had what Evelyn had—that desire to open myself up to that kind of hurt, just in case it worked out. I was too afraid of the pain.

Eventually, having nothing else to do and seeing the first of the streetlights come back on, I headed back to my big, empty house. The trophy I’d kept after my divorce, with its empty rooms and echoing hallways, the sinks that clogged too easily, and the yard I couldn’t keep tidy.

The house had meant so much to me. It was a win. It was all my resentment and my pain, ripped out of my ex-husband’s greedy grasp.

And now?

Now it was a burden.

How much pain did I cling to in my life? How much pain did I invite into my life with reckless, impulsive decisions born out of my desire to be right, to be justified, to be vindicated?

I could’ve believed Rex. I could’ve forgiven him, heard him out, believed the best in him. And then what?

Get hurt again? Feel less than? Get trampled on at every opportunity?

No.

I wasn’t going to be the kooky old lady with a reputation for murdering her various husbands who was a secret romanticat heart. I wouldn’t be in a position where someone hurt me bad enough to deserve murder.

I was going to protect myself from that pain in the first place. Even if it meant living in a big, empty house that I didn’t like, or having a reputation for being reckless and unlovable.

It was better than being hurt at every turn.

When I finally pulled up to my house, the first thing I noticed was my cat in the front window. The second was Charlie’s car. She got out of the driver’s side, and Sophie got out of the passenger seat holding a big pizza box.

“What are you guys doing here?” I asked.

“You haven’t answered our calls and texts,” Charlie said. “Besides, it’s dinnertime, and we got pizza.” She gestured to the box in Sophie’s hands.

“And I got the wine!” Sophie swung around to show me her hip, where a brown paper bag peeked out of the top of her purse.

My shoulders dropped as a smile curled my lips. My house wouldn’t be so empty tonight, at least. “Aw, you guys. Thank you for being here for me.”

“Of course. We love you,” Sophie said. She smiled softly at me, her cherub cheeks round and red, her soft curls gathered in a messy bun at the top of her head.

Charlie walked over and wrapped her arms around me. “We love you,” she repeated.

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