Page 124 of True Blue

But Teddy is here.

And the Teddy I left in Chicago wouldn’t have flown across the world for me unless Dawn gave him permission. And she wouldn’t have. Especially not for me. The Teddy I left would have dropped everything the second his mother called, damn everyone else.

So why is he here? Why is he staying in Europe? Cape May isn’t that big; he could have tracked me down at Bluewater to deliver the ring if that was all he really wanted. He wouldn’t have come this far for me before.

So what changed?

Yeah, I’m more gullible than I thought.

Huffing, I rip off a part of the bear claw and pop it into my mouth.

And feel enraged.

“Goddamnit,” I mutter, my mouth twisting. “That’s good.”

I shove another piece into my mouth and chew roughly, thoroughly enjoying the flavors on my taste buds.

It’s so hard to find a good gluten-free donut. The substitutions people claim are just as good are usually just a way to cope with the fact that our bodies cannot process wheat. If we say it enough, maybe it will become true.

But this bear claw is delicious, and I can’t help picturing Teddy asking the bakery about their gluten-free options, about cross-contamination, about how they clean their kitchen.

It’s the same thing he used to ask waiters when we went out to restaurants. If there was even a second of hesitation, or if someone said they weren’t sure, he didn’t trust it.

And yet his mother could do no wrong, and, of course, it was just one big mistake.

Angry again, I tear open the envelope and have to blink a few times when I see what’s on the page.

It’s not a letter.

It’s a sentence.

In a city full of royalty, you’re the only queen I see.

And a drawing.

Of me.

He always told me I was his muse, his favorite subject to draw, the way he was going to make us millions someday. He said it as a joke, but I believed it could be true because I believed in him. But this isn’t just a portrait like he usually draws of me.

No, he’s drawn me as a queen, dressed in a long gown, my hair curled and pinned back with a crown on my head, a saber in my hand, and a cape around my shoulders. There is a regal smile on my face as I look down at a subject kneeling before me in armor, a knight whose face I cannot see because his head is bowed. But he has dark hair. He is large. And on his shoulder plate is the unmistakable sigil of a bear.

It’s beautiful.

It’s some of his best work, and I can practically feel the care he put into getting the lines right, the shadows right, and the fact that he drew this from memory.

“Teddy…” I whisper, barely audible over the hum of the other parkgoers having a wonderful morning, unaware that I am currently swirling around an emotional hurricane.

My eyes sting, and I move the paper out of the way before my tears can fall and smudge the charcoal. Then a burst of anger erupts in my chest from the sheer force of what I’m feeling, and my fingers pinch the top of the paper. My arms tense, ready to rip it, ready to tear it into pieces because this doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t solve our problems.

One stupid, beautifully drawn picture accompanied by a sweet caption does not erase months and months of mistreatment.

And yet.

I don’t rip it.

I can’t.

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and count to ten, feeling the irritation ebb out of me. It doesn’t fix anything, and destroying a piece of art that Teddy worked on will only make me feel bad. I can recognize that.