Page 70 of Revelry
I missed Keith, not just what we’d had and what I thought my future would have been, but the actual person, too. Though our marriage was anything but loving toward the end, he was still my best friend. He had filled the biggest role in my life for ten years, and now he was just gone.
The worst part was that there was nothing I could do to change that.
I couldn’t reach out and tell him I’d been thinking of him or that I loved him or missed him or hoped he was doing well. It would only lead to one of two things: one, he’d say he feels the same and beg me to come home or two, he’d be consumed with anger and scream at me asking how I could ever think he could be just my friend or that I have a right to say those things to him.
And he was right.
He didn’t owe me friendship, or understanding, or—though I wanted it more than anything—forgiveness.
The only person who could free myself was me. And yet I couldn’t remove the chains.
As sad as I felt, I also knew in my heart of hearts that I’d made the right decision. I already felt lighter, happier, more at peace with who I was and who I would become. I may have been stumbling, trying to find balance, but at least I didn’t feel judgment from someone who claimed they loved me. I only felt encouragement from myself, almost like a baby bird learning to fly, with no rush to leave the nest. It would come in time, and every day was a lesson until then.
But what did I want? What made me happy?
Those were the thoughts that scared me most, because the answer was obvious, and yet I felt ashamed of it.
Anderson.
Everything about him equated to happiness in my mind.
I loved spending time with him, loved learning about him, loved how he looked at me—the real me—every single part of me and found beauty in it. He asked about my designs, my passions, my future. He loved when I didn’t wear makeup, but appreciated when I did, too—not because it made him happy, but because it mademehappy.
I’d never felt so at home with someone in my entire life, and yet I’d lived with another man for seven years. I wasn’t sure what that said about Keith, or about Anderson, or about me, for that matter.
But what Sarah had said last night still rang in my ears. Here I was just months out of my divorce and I was falling into another man. It felt like I wasn’t allowed to have these feelings, like I should feel guilty—either for moving on so quickly or for finding happiness in a man, at all.
And what was I supposed to do when what I felt and what I felt wasrightwere completely at war with each other?
My relaxing float down the river was turning more stressful than I’d planned, so I shook the thoughts away for the moment, leaning up to take in the scenery again.
My fingers dragged along in the water, figure skaters on the crystal clear glass, and I watched them until I saw Anderson’s cabin in the distance.
He was there, working out back, chopping more firewood—likely for Momma Von. The summer would end soon, and he took it on himself to make sure everyone was stocked up and ready for the colder months ahead.
For a moment I just watched him work. He was shirtless, the muscles in his back shifting under each lift and pull of the ax, and the way he slung it told me he was working through thoughts of his own.
I leaned forward a little more, and it was as if he sensed me because he stopped mid-strike, looking up to find me on the river. I smiled, waving in his direction, but his face was hard as stone. He was too far away to make out his expression, but I could see how tense he was, and when he dropped the ax and started sprinting toward the river, I furrowed my brows.
He was yelling out something, but I didn’t have time to figure out what.
Because when I looked back in front of me, I saw the rocks.
I was too close to them, the water rushing too fast. I didn’t feel panicked at first, just kicked off one of them the way I’d seen Tucker do when we’d floated down together, but then my tube spun, water splashing up and over me, shocking the breath from my chest.
I hit another rock and then another, bouncing between them like a pinball, heart racing when I realized I couldn’t stabilize it. I reached my hand out, braced with my feet, but I was rushing too fast and when the rocks hit my hand with brutal force I yelped, pulling it back just as I bounced off another rock. The river dipped, and then I hit one final rock, this one at an angle.
My tube flipped, tossing me into the water with just enough time to take one last deep breath.
I couldn’t move.
My feet were bricks, my legs lead. I was running, but not fast enough. Every sound was muffled, save for the beat of my heart loud in my ears. It drummed harder and harder, echoing my racing thoughts.
Not again. Please, God, no. I have to save her. I can’t lose her—not like this, not ever.
As soon as my legs hit the water, every sense came rushing back. The icy water shocked my system but I dove in anyway, praying I’d catch her before she floated past. Wren kept bobbing up for air before being sucked down again, her hair in a whirlwind around her, arms flailing, tube long gone now.
Flashes of Dani’s face flitted in and out, and I wondered if this was what she’d looked like the day the river took her life—the day I’d pushed her too far.
