I wanted sex tonight, and now that I’ve broken that crippling dry spell, I feel worse. Because intimacy is what I desperately crave—intimacy with a man who loves me.
For a poignant moment, Trace gave me a glimpse of that. Then he took it away.
I don’t even want to think about our lack of protection. I have an IUD, but what about disease? Did he use a condom with Marlo?
Nausea roils in my stomach. He fucked her…an hour before he had sex with me. Maybe he’s on his way back to her now. To hold her in his bed. To love her the way I ache to be loved.
Cole would’ve never done this to me. He was nothing if not faithful and one-hundred-percent devoted.
Waves of pain smash into my chest, and I slam a fist against the floor, pounding it as I cry ugly, self-loathing sobs. “I miss you, Cole. I miss you so much.”
Before he died, he ripped out my heart and held it between us, dripping with the blood of dreams. Old anger surges to the surface, cracking my ribs and burning up my skin. He shouldn’t have left me. He put his job first and destroyed everything we had.
I need a drink. A lot of drinks. It’s the only way to numb the pain and forget.
Blinking through blurred vision, I find my reflection in the busted hole in the mirror. My splintered, pitiful, broken face stares back, judging me.
Are you giving up, you pathetic bitch?
I’m comfortable here, lying on the floor in a pool of regret. I’ve grown addicted to sadness. It’s familiar, reliable, effortless.
I know that’s resignation talking. Giving up is a whole lot easier than fighting through the scar tissue. There are so many things holding me down, suffocating my will to breathe.
I need a purpose. A reason to contribute in this unfair world.
I have that, don’t I? I have passion—dancing, family, neighbors, the homeless shelter. That’s where I’m needed.
Love isn’t a choice. Nor is life. We connect, or we don’t connect. We live, and we die. There is no forever. The real fight is in making the best of it, making a difference, and appreciating the small glimmers of happiness.
I stretch out an arm and trace the cracks in the mirror. The last time I stared at my broken reflection was the night I moved my life with Cole into the basement. I just hauled it all down there, left it where it fell, and locked the door. It had been such a big step then.
Tonight, I need to finish it.
Forcing myself to stand, I shed the tattered scraps of the dress and remove my phone from the wristlet on the floor. Then I set my playlist to Dancing On My Own by Calum Scott.
Trembling, I pull on a camisole and boyshorts. Choking, I collect the key and my engagement ring. Weeping, I stand at the basement door as Calum Scott serenades the ruins of my heart.
With a deep breath, I unlock the door, turn on the lights, and descend into the fumes of damp concrete and Cole Hartman.
When he moved in, he took over the unfinished basement, filling it with tools, motorcycle parts, weight-lifting equipment, and other manly stuff. The scent of engine oil lingers in the air. Punk rock posters cover the walls. His old futon sits beside multiple workbenches.
Then there are the things I moved down two years ago. His clothes, cologne, watches, CDs, wedding decor, boxes of photos and keepsakes I collected during our ten months together. But the sight of the white dress crumpled on the floor is what releases the floodgates.
My eyes drown in tears as I move my feet toward the gown. My fingers travel over the dusty tulle and beaded bodice. It would’ve been a beautiful wedding. Our marriage would’ve been as epic as our love.
My ribcage quakes with the force of my heartache as I gather the dress and hug it to my chest.
I don’t know when I finally uncurl my fingers and set the gown aside. I move in a fog of turmoil, opening the empty boxes Bree gave me, digging through piles of Cole’s shirts, sniffing each one, and crying harder.
Then I start packing.
The next morning, I wake on Cole’s futon in the basement to the sound of footsteps creaking the floorboards overhead. My brain slowly rouses, my eyes swollen and itchy. I shiver and pull the scratchy blanket over my shoulders.
No, not a blanket. I slept with my fucking wedding dress.
The intruder breaches the basement door, and the stairs groan beneath the tread of feet. Multiple feet. Maybe it’s Bree and David.
What time is it? I sit up and grab my phone. 6:05 AM
Groaning, I rub my head. The only person who would wake me at this hour is my next-door neighbor, which means I left my door unlocked. Again.
Her feet come into view on the stairs, squeezed into compression hosiery and shuffling in house slippers with the aid of her cane. I move to help her down the steps, but the second pair of shoes freezes me on the edge of the futon.
Shiny black loafers. Charcoal slacks. Long powerful legs…
My pulse sprints, and my fingernails dig into my palms. Trace has some nerve showing back up here.
When they reach the last stair, Virginia lifts her cane and pokes the end into his back, nudging him forward.
“Does this belong to you?” she asks.
He’s still wearing the white t-shirt from last night, untucked and wrinkled. Same slacks and shoes. He didn’t go home last night?
Head down and hands shoved into his pockets, he lifts only his eyes. Bruised eyes. Add to that his drawn expression and unruly blond hair, and I struggle to process his appearance.
He looks terrible.
“No.” My throat tightens, and I cross my arms. “He doesn’t belong to me.”
“Well…” Virginia huffs. “I found him sleeping in a car in your driveway.” She lowers the cane and smacks it against the backs of his legs. “He said he knows you. Filled my head with all kinds of nonsense, like how you took his heart and he doesn’t want it back.”
My jaw sets. “Give me a break.”
His shoulders heave as he takes a ragged breath, his gaze submersed in regret. “Danni…”
“Don’t.” My nerves prickle, and I pull the wedding dress tight against my lap.
Virginia gives him a glowering once-over. “The good Lord has no mercy for lying, skirt-sniffing hounds like yourself.”
“Danni, please…” He runs a jerky hand through his hair and stuffs it back in his pocket. “I need to—”
“How dare you bring your sexual urges to Danni’s door.” Virginia whacks him again. “If Cole were here—God bless his soul—he’d run you over with his bike until you stopped breathing.”
Funny how she snubbed Cole every day he lived here, and now that he’s gone, she can’t stop singing his praises.
I fidget with the tulle skirt of the dress and look around the basement. I made huge progress last night. Everything is packed in boxes by the stairs. Except the wedding gown. I couldn’t let go of it. But I feel stronger this morning. Grounded. Ready to take on Trace Savoy.
“It’s fine, Virginia.” I stand and set the dress aside. “I’ll handle him.”
“I know you will.” She leans against her cane. “When you’re finished, I have a bulb burnt out in the washroom. Can’t reach the damn thing.”
“I’ll be over a little later.” I walk toward her to assist her up the stairs.