Page 8 of Letting Go

Now, walking back, I feel I can't even trust myself, let alone trust Bryce. Suddenly exhausted by how complicated it all is, I just shrug. "I'm fine. I just got a little chilled in there."

"Some history? With Firehead?"

"Sort of," I say. "Nothing serious, high school stuff. Believe me, he was just a lot more into me than I was into him."

It's not the time to tell Bryce how Owen tracked me home from school, followed me in his car to the beach, where I drank with part of the football team, blacked out, and how I felt when I woke up.

Dirty. Broken. Sadly typical, I thought at the time. Still think so today. Raped by how many boys? At least one. If I told Bryce this he'd go back and crush Owen like a piece of tissue paper and it's not worth it. I am still not sure Owen had anything to do with it. Another girl said he actually stood up for me. That he was the one who took me home. But I don’t remember. It was a long time ago when we were just kids. Maybe I "led them on," and maybe I didn't. I don't even know anymore. I was new to my own body and my own sexuality.

All I know for sure is that a semester from graduating from college that a British boy with curly blond hair and blue eyes understood I was broken in places I didn’t know I had. Then there was the car accident and I had to face the pain of my parents dying, of having them suddenly gone from my life when I was away at college. The idea of returning home, to have to quit school and take care of my three sisters and my brother, felt overwhelming. To see the pain in their eyes and know that no matter what, our family was always going to be broken, was more than I could bear. There was nothing I could do about any of it. This man—this man with the blue eyes and London accent, who took me away, who promised me salvation, told me that I would learn to speak to God and there would be a plan for me, and all would be well.

The trouble was, I believed him.

Chapter Four

Bryce

When the guy in the fish market started chatting her up, I thought my head was gonna explode. Chloe is too nice. She clearly wanted nothing to do with him, resisting him not just with averted eyes but with her body language: she was completely shut down. I knew instantly there was some kind of weird history, plus it was just something about the way he would not stop.

Jesus, women have to put up with a shit load of crap.

Claire pulled me aside after that dance at her party and told me just a little bit about Chloe, enough to know that Chloe wouldn't expect me to fight her battles for her. She was strong said Claire, and I had to respect Chloe's need for privacy. Something in the way Chloe sort of sagged wearily against the counter when that asshole came on to her, told me something different though.

But honestly? I could have snapped that guy's neck like a twig.

Walking back to The Inn like a couple makes me feel suddenly slaphappy, though carrying two bags of fish doesn't seem terribly romantic. A breeze lifts the dark hair from her shoulder for a moment and I see the straight line of her clavicle.

"Tell me something about you," she says.

"What do you mean?" I struggle to tear my eyes away and gaze ahead. I fail.

"You're always asking me about me. Tit for tat. What about you?"

"You're the mystery."

She arches an eyebrow, a dark, delicate arc above deep blue eyes. "All I know about you is you're what? Ex-Seal?

Instantly there's the annoying churn in the pit of my stomach. "Yeah. Stress on the ex," I say. "I just work for Finn and Nic now. Let's leave it at that."

"Don't get weird. I get it. The Seals. Isn't that like just some giant big bromance? I don’t mean to take away from your service and I thank you. But I mean don't you guys just all stick together?"

"Sometimes," I say breathing in what follows: "sometimes not."

Suddenly Finn shouts from the front porch, the door banging behind him "Nic wants to conference."

It seems as though these days I'm constantly shuffling between Boston and mid-coast Maine. When Finn's first wife and unborn child were murdered, it nearly killed him and he walked away from the business for nearly three years. Then he found Claire, and they seem very focused on building a life together. Colton Security was named for him, as the founder, and I don’t know what went on between him and Nic, but from what I've been able to piece together, Finn wanted nothing for his half of the business when he walked away from it.

Now he's back at Colton Security, in a real way, and took on two new clients in the last month. His forte is profiling and security design, and he can kind of do that from anywhere, once he's done an in-depth site visit. Nic's also a profiler, Jackson and I work as bodyguards, and then there's a whole list of analysts and cybercrime investigators down in Boston. We also landed security contracts at some of the smaller airports in Massachusetts. Business is expanding and I'm feeling pulled in many directions.

So, now I shuttle back and forth with a room at The Inn and my apartment in Boston within walking distance of Faneuil Hall, with a pitstop studio in Portland. In Echo Bay, I'm within walking distance of the ocean and a tiny town of families who have lived here forever and cater to a thriving summer crowd. It'll be nice to be planted up here for a while, though I don’t like the reason why.

I slip out my cellphone. No reception. I gotta change my carrier coverage—along the coast coverage is so sketchy. "Can I use the office?"

"He's already on video chat."

Chloe and I walk along the side of the house and then move into the kitchen through the side door, flanked by spent lilacs and one old hydrangea. I set the tub of fish down on the counter.

"You got these?" I ask.