Page 123 of This Beautiful Lie
Tuesday was already in the back seat with the baby, who was fast asleep in her car seat. John slid behind the wheel a second later, his hand pausing on the gearshift before he turned toward me. “You sure you want to do this?”
I stared straight ahead, my voice firm but hollow. “Yes.”
His eyes flicked toward the cabin, and something in his expression shifted before he pushed the truck into drive.
Against my better judgment, I looked back, too.
Dean stood on the porch, one hand gripping the railing above his head, the other hanging loosely at his side. His shoulders were drawn, his head tilted just slightly—as if he couldn’t quite believe I was really leaving. The breeze caught his hair, then lifted the edge of his shirt, but he didn’t move. He just stood there, still and quiet, his gaze fixed on the truck in a way that made it hard to breathe.
Beside him, George pressed close to his leg, ears pricked, tail motionless, as though waiting for a command.
For a single, reckless heartbeat, I almost told John to stop.
But I couldn’t.
Even when every part of me knew I was leaving behind the love of my life.
Thirty-Six
Headlights cutacross the quiet street, as John pulled his truck to a stop in front of Dean’s house, the engine rumbling low before it clicked off. My car sat where I’d left it a week ago, dusted with pollen and stray leaves. It looked smaller somehow—like it knew I didn’t belong here anymore.
John turned toward me, his hand resting on the steering wheel. “You sure you don’t want me to drive your car back? Tuesday can follow in the truck.”
“I’m fine,” I said, already reaching for the door handle. My voice was steady, but it didn’t sound like me.
He frowned. “You’ve said all of ten words since we left the lodge. That’s not fine, Em.”
I met his eyes for a second, then looked away. “I’llbefine,” I said softly. “Promise.”
He exhaled through his nose. “Text me when you get home, okay? So I don’t worry.”
I nodded and pulled the door open. “Yes, Dad,” I teased weakly, forcing a small smile that I didn’t feel.
He gave me a look that almost broke me—the mix of worry and understanding I didn’t deserve. “Drive safe.”
The night air hit me the second I stepped out. Cool. Too quiet. I opened my car door and slid into the driver’s seat, the familiar smell of coffee and worn leather greeting me like a ghost from another life.
When I reached into my bag for my keys, my hand brushed something thick and smooth—the file Dean had given me in the café, still tucked where I’d left it. My stomach twisted. I pulled out the keys without looking at it, like if I didn’t see it, it couldn’t hurt me.
I started the car and pulled away from the curb, watching John’s headlights in my rearview mirror. They followed me all the way to the freeway where we headed in opposite directions, and that’s when I let myself go. The tears came hot and sudden, blurring the world until I could barely see the road ahead of me. I kept one hand on the wheel, the other pressed to my mouth, as quiet sobs shook through my chest.
By the time I pulled into the parking lot of my apartment complex, my throat burned. I grabbed my phone and texted John.
Me:Made it home. Not dead. You can stop worrying now.
His reply came seconds later.
John:Take care of yourself. Get some sleep.
I smiled weakly, tucking the phone away as I climbed the stairs. Each step heavier than the last. The air inside my apartment was stale, as though it had held its breath the entire time I was gone.
Everything looked the same—my coffee mug on the counter, the blanket tossed over the couch—but it all felt hollow. As if I’d stepped back into a life that didn’t fit quite right anymore. As if I’d left the real version of myself behind somewhere in the mountains.
I walked straight to the bathroom, not bothering with the lights, and twisted the shower knob until steam filled the air. Myclothes hit the floor in a trail behind me—careless, unhurried—as I stepped under the spray.
The first blast was hot enough to steal my breath.
Maybe that was the point.
