Chapter 7

Into the bedroom she went, then crept under the covers, yet sleep was distant. Every creak of the floorboard, every slight breeze beyond the window made her jump. But there was still one thing she held on to, one ember of warmth: Byron's words: "I'm not asking for anything except the chance to make you feel safe." She held onto that because the threat was real. But maybe, just maybe...hope was, too. What she didn't know yet was that the next message would turn everything upside down. Jennifer arrived at the bookstore just after ten the next morning, casual in a soft gray sweater and faded jeans. Her hair was pulled low into a ponytail, and while calm was the demeanor of her face, her stomach was a raging mess with knots. Sleep had eluded her. The hard message from the night before weighed constantly in her mind. Yet she had made a promise to Byron, and it was one she intended to keep. Inside, the bookstore welcomed her with the tangy warmth of aged paper mingled with coffee. Byron stood behind the counter arranging a display of the new poetry books. His whole face brightened when he saw her. “You came,” he said, a slight curve to his lips. “I said I would.” “I wasn’t sure.” Jennifer stepped closer, “I wasn’t sure either. But... I wanted to.” Byron did not ask what was troubling her, not yet. Instead, he offered her a cup of tea and walked her to a quiet reading nook in the back. The cushions were warm, and the morning light came pouring in through the large window beside them. For a few precious moments, Jennifer let herself breathe. But peace, she was learning, never last. Customers trickled in. Byron rose to attend to them, and Jennifer began to mindlessly scroll through her phone. An article popped up on her screen, one shared by a former college friend. One hundred twenty-seven thousand process on Rehab: Devlin Rourke bereft of the hinge on the back with the moonlight basement room wonders aloud Her throat filled with the sudden rush of air. Her finger hovered long over the screen before it tapped on the headline. A hazy picture of Devlin walking out of a hospital building opened the article, looking pale with red-rimmed eyes, wearing clothes that hung loosely from his once-muscled frame. He was not at all like the man she had married or the one who had torn her heart to shreds.The article went on to say that anonymous sources have confirmed for months that Devlin had been suffering from severe depression and substance abuse. They say his company has quietly put him on leave and is using a temporary CEO instead. He had been admitted to the hospital two times in the last six weeks. Jennifer was staring at the words, unable to comprehend them. There was a storm of anger, guilt, sorrow, and disbelief in her emotions. She had hated him for too long, hated his actions, the way he made her feel worthless, how he turned her marriage into a battlefield. But to see him there now, broken and publicly humiliated, hurt in a way she really hadn't anticipated. She wasn't even aware that Byron had reappeared until he knelt beside her. "You alright?" he asked softly, eyeing the phone held in her hand. "Not really," she said, shaking her head. Byron sat down next to her; he gave her room but had kept a nearness that made her feel less alone. "It's Devlin," she finally said. "There's an article. Apparently he's in rehab." With that, Byron remained silent for a moment, considering her feelings and letting her speak when she needed to. "I don't know what I'm feeling," she murmured. "Part of me wants to scream at him. For everything he did. For every time I cried myself to sleep because he made me feel like I wasn't enough." She swallowed, her voice cracking. "But another part...a small part...just feels sorry for him. Because I remember the man he used to be. The one I fell in love with." "I know. You're allowed to feel both." Byron extended his hand with care to hold hers. Tears were making it hard for Jennifer to see. "I thought I was done hurting over him. I thought I was finally moving on." "You are," Byron said, "but healing does not mean forgetting. Well, it does not mean being numb either. Healing means feeling all this and still choosing yourself in the end." Jennifer peered at their clasped hands. His fingers felt warm and steady, soothing. She held on. "I-I got a threatening message last night," she said suddenly. Byron changed, sitting up straighter. "What kind of message?" She swiped her phone open and showed him the message screenshot, Blocked Number: You think you’re safe. He can’t protect you from me. Byron's jaw clenched. "You need to report it." "I will," she said. "I didn't before, but this time... I'm done pretending it's nothing." "I'll go with you," he offered, his voice ironclad. Jennifer nodded. She did not want to be alone. Not now. While the rest of the day dragged quietly by, Byron did not intrude but allowed her space with her thoughts, helped her to pick a mystery novel to take home, and strolled with her to her car when it was time for her to leave. "You have my number," he said before she left. "Call me. Even if it is 3 a.m." She showed him a faint smile. "I might take you up on that." That night Jennifer sat on her balcony shrouded in a shawl, sipping from a cup of chamomile tea, watching the winds play havoc with the trees. Earlier in the evening she had reported the threatening message to the local police, who said they would look into it but gave her no reassurance. There was a smell of rain in the air, heavy and expectant. Again, she thought with disquiet about Devlin and how empty his eyes looked in that photo. And Byron's voice, steadiness in assuring her of his support. They were two men who stood in stark contrast to one another, two forms of love.