Forgetting August(82)

Not for a night, or even a fling.

“But what about your past?” she asked, knowing everything I’d gone through to get over him the first time.

“It’s something I struggle with. But it’s getting easier. The more time I spend with him, the less I see him as the man I left in the hospital two years ago.”

“And who do you see instead? The old August? The one you fell in love with all those years ago?” she asked.

“Bits and pieces,” I answered. “But he’s also different. Completely new—and I like that just as much. Learning new things about him…I didn’t think it was possible, but it’s almost like starting over. He likes his coffee black now, and he loves vanilla ice cream.”

“You seem happy,” she said.

“I am—I think.”

“Then why would Sarah hate you for being happy?” she asked.

I shook my head. “I spent the last few years painting this man as the worst possible villain on the planet. Even though I didn’t give her detailed explanations, as my friend—she still hates him. I just don’t know if she’ll ever trust him.”

“Do you trust him?”

I nodded, “I’m beginning to.”

“Then she will learn to as well.”

“Why are you always so supportive of my decisions? Do you ever want to shake me like a rattle and holler and scream at me for making these decisions?”

She laughed, her bright smile lighting up her tan skin. For a woman in her late forties, Tabitha was stunning. Golden blond hair and still fit from years of yoga, I’m sure she was still turning plenty of heads anywhere she went.

“Sometimes,” she answered honestly. “But it’s your life—not mine. These are your decisions to make. I’m here to help guide you, and support you, like you said. But the decisions? Those are yours alone.”

“Well, damn. It would be a hell of a lot easier if someone else could make them.”

“That’s the truth for us all, sweetheart,” she sighed. “But then, we wouldn’t get to enjoy the chaos we make along the way. Time for you to go enjoy yours.”

* * *



After our very public fight on the streets near the café, I had no idea what type of atmosphere I’d be entering when I got home. I had lived with two very different types of August over the years.

The August before money and the August after money.

These years could also be described as the good years and bad years, although we did have a few good years after the money flowed. It was when the money had gone to his head that life truly became unbearable.

August became unbearable as well.

During those years, we didn’t fight. I tried in the beginning, but quickly learned that arguing with him only got me a fast pass to the bedroom, and the click of the lock sooner. Honestly, after a while, there wasn’t much to argue about anyway. I didn’t understand why I wasn’t allowed to leave the house anymore, and he wouldn’t explain. Once that was established and no answers were given, it seemed like a moot point. I’d hoped by being cordial and acting more like my old self, he’d ease up on the restriction, but he never did. In fact, the more time that passed, the worst the obsession became.



“I can’t bear the idea of you leaving this house, Everly,” he said in a blind panic. “Please, just do as I say and stay in this room until I get back. I need you stay here.” His hands shook as he tried to smooth his hair in the mirror and straighten his tie.

“Okay,” I whispered, feeling defeated once again. “I’ll stay.”



And I did.

I always did.

I don’t know why I never left. I could have. So easily.

It’s not difficult to pick a lock or break open a door. God knows the things you can learn on the Internet. If I’d had the drive…the true need, I could have found a way. I could have left—if I’d wanted to. I’d always told Ryan and Tabitha…even August himself, that he’d held me prisoner in that room. But really? I think the only person who had truly held me prisoner was me.

Even if I hadn’t realized it then, I’d chosen to stay. I’d chosen to remain with a man I said I’d once hated until everything boiled over.

I’d since learned it’s better to fight than to hold it all in.

Good things never come from bottling everything inside. But as I turned the doorknob and stepped inside the house, I felt the trepidations of the past following alongside me.

What type of August would greet me?

Would this new August be like the one I’d left behind? Firm and frightening—unwilling to budge a single inch? Or would he be more like the August I remembered, who’d fought as my equal—working through each problem as a partner rather than a ruler?