I nod, knowing it’s true. And I love her more than anything too. There was a time when I’d have said I love her more than anyone else in my life . . . but that was before I met Nick.
Just thinking about him puts a cold ache of longing in my breast. And regret.
I haven’t spoken to him since we parted last night. After Stadler’s call this morning, my primary concern had been my mom. I left Vendange and raced to the nearest rental car agency, then drove more than three hours to Pennsylvania.
I haven’t spoken to anyone since I arrived at Muncy. The prison policy prohibits visitors from bringing in all manner of things when visiting an inmate, so for the past several hours, my purse and cell phone have been secured at the registration desk.
I know I need to call Nick and tell him where I am. I need to tell him what happened.
I need to ask him to forgive me for all of the things I’ve kept from him, fearing he wouldn’t want me once he knew my truths.
Now I’m terrified that I’ve lost him because of everything I haven’t said.
Especially that I love him.
I can only pray he’ll still be willing to listen.
One of the prison guards stops by the room to inform me that it’s time for me to leave. Reluctantly, I kiss my mother’s forehead and head out, collecting my belongings at the desk. My phone light is blinking with several missed calls. Nick’s number, I see as I quickly scroll through the log. He didn’t leave any messages. And his last attempt to call me was several hours ago.
He’s given up on me. Of course, he has. I’ve all but ensured he would, haven’t I?
I rub my sternum as the ache that took up residence there earlier now feels like an icy abyss.
It’s raining when I exit the infirmary building. I hardly even notice the cold, wet drops as I walk out to the visitor lot. My rental is near the back and I walk to it feeling adrift, uncertain where I’m going or where I belong anymore.
As I reach the white compact car, my gaze snags on the vehicle parked in the space beside it. The sleek black BMW’s engine is running, thin gray exhaust steaming in the drizzle.
My feet stop moving. At the same time, Nick emerges from the driver’s side.
At first, I can’t find my voice. Torn between elation and dread, I can only stare at this beautiful man who means everything to me, shocked to see him. Horrified that he’s come here, to the very place I never wanted him to see.
“I had to know if you were okay,” he says. “When you wouldn’t answer my calls, I had your GPS tracked. And it led me here.” I can’t read his expression. Standing with me in the rain, he looks as uncertain and wary as I know I must to him.
“Nick.” The impulse to run to him—to bury myself in his arms—is nearly overwhelming. But I don’t know if he’ll reject me. I wouldn’t blame him if he did. I stand frozen in place, unsure what to say to him now that he’s standing in front of me. “I wanted to call you. I would have. I planned to . . .”
He doesn’t seem interested in my excuses now. He gestures at the women’s prison behind me. “So, I’m guessing this is where your mother’s been since you were sixteen.”
Not a question he needs me to confirm, but I nod. “Nick, I don’t want to do this here—”
“We didn’t have to, Avery. You could’ve told me long before it came to this.”
He’s right, and I won’t even try to argue. I start to shiver, though it’s not the rain that’s making me so miserable.
“Get in out of the cold,” Nick says, his tone level, devoid of emotion. “We’ll talk in the car.”
Woodenly, I open the passenger side and climb in. He slides into the driver’s seat, the soft thump of his door making me flinch. For a long while, there is only silence in the car.
Finally, the words just start tumbling out of me. And once they start, I can’t stop them.
“My daddy, Daniel Ross, died when I was very young. He was a good man, and we were happy—me, my mom and him. When I was seven years old, he had a massive heart attack. He was gone, just like that. And everything changed. My mom eventually met someone else—a man named Martin Coyle. He worked at a school the next town over. He seemed nice. He was nice, but then he married my mom and things started to change. He would say mean things to her sometimes—then, once, he hit her. He promised he never would again, but that promise didn’t last. None of his promises or apologies were worth a damn. And then, after I started getting a little older, he began looking at me in ways that made me uncomfortable. He started trying touching me when my mom wasn’t there. I learned to avoid him, to leave the house if I knew he was home alone. Finally, when I was sixteen, he did more than touch me. And, that time, I wasn’t able to stop him.”