For the first time since Shep’s death, the terrible guilt, the awful heaviness, had lifted. Although she would always grieve Shep, who’d been a shelter from the emotional storm of Zach’s rejection, Violet would finally be able to say good-bye to him now and move on with her life. She had given him happiness, and he had given her comfort, and somehow that was enough.

She rolled down the window and turned up the heat, enjoying the cool breeze while her toes stayed warm. She was going to give Zach his song tonight and, if her courage didn’t fail her, tell him that she loved him, that he was, is, and would always be the only one for her. Her heart pounded at the thought, but she hushed it.

There was a part of her that wished they hadn’t gotten quite so serious quite so fast, so she could have caught her breath. When, Vi? When he kissed you the first or the second time and you stayed at Deep Haven? When he carried you to his bed and you welcomed him into your body? After the concert when you could have held onto your uncertainty and anger but instead you spent four heavenly days in front of the fire in his arms? When would you have liked it to slow down? And if you wanted it to slow down, why didn’t you push him away?

She knew the answer.

She wouldn’t have changed anything. Not a moment in his arms or a second in his company. It was about courage now. It was about finding the courage to say what she needed to say—what he needed to hear. At last they had time, plenty of time together to figure it all out. She took a deep breath and smiled.

Her iPhone cut through the white noise of the wind, and she glanced down at an unfamiliar 212 number. Who did she know in New York? She pressed the talk button.

“Hello?”

“Is this Violet Smith?”

She rolled up the window quickly, turning up the Bluetooth on her stereo speaker. “Speaking.”

“Smith, this is Herman Healey from Masterson House.”

Her heart started racing and she gasped lightly as her adrenaline kicked in, making her feel tingly and over-excited.

“M-Mr. Healey. Yes. Hello.”

“I’m one of the senior editors here, and one of my assistants found your poetry collection tod—um, a week or so ago. Great stuff. I’m impressed.”

“Oh, Mr. Healey, you have no idea what that means to me!”

“We don’t do a whole lot of poetry collections, but you have a unique voice.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“They need edits. And we’d need a few more, perhaps, for the first volume.”

A first volume? Implying there could be more than one? Her hands started shaking, so she pulled over.

“You have more, Smith? Poems?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, that’s excellent. Who’s your agent? I don’t see one listed here on your contact information.”

“No agent, sir.”

“But you’ve been published before?”

“A work of fiction. With a small press.” Her voice felt thin and emotional. She wished she could calm down and sound more professional.

“Ah-ha. Well, I guess I just contract directly with you, then. Forty thousand okay? For the advance?”

Violet’s breath came out in a single, violent puff that made her dizzy. Forty thousand? That was twice her advance for Us After We, which was the sequel to a book that had fared well in the marketplace. She couldn’t contain the rush of excitement she felt at his words. He must have loved her work to offer her so much!

“And seven percent royalties too, of course, on the hardcover sales. Standard, you know.”

Her eyes burned with tears, and all she wanted was to race to Zach, to watch his face as she told him her incredible news. He’d always believed in her, even when she hadn’t believed in herself. The thought made her eyes flood with tears.

“You still there, Smith?”

“Y-yes, Mr. Healey. Yes, that would be fine,” she managed. “I’m a little overwhelmed.”

“Well, you’ve got talent, Smith. Real talent. This Greenwich address still valid? I’ll send out the contract ASAP. Can you be in New York next week? Come meet with me? We’re old school. We like a face-to-face with our new authors.”

“Next week is fine,” she said, remembering she now had somewhere, and someone, to stay with in New York.

“That’s just terrific. Good stuff, Smith. We’ll set it all up. Keep writing.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Healey.”

“Good-bye.”

The phone clicked off, and Violet looked at her hands resting in her lap. They trembled lightly, so she clapped them together, and out of nowhere she started giggling. Giggling and clapping, with tears falling down her face. She’d sold her first book of poems. To a major New York publisher! She barely even needed the songwriting money now. She’d be able to pay back her advance, buy out her Us After We contract and still have some cash leftover. For new beginnings. For a fresh start with an old love, her only love.

She turned the key and put the pedal to the metal. She couldn’t wait to tell Zach. Peace with Mrs. Smalley, a poetry contract with Masterson, and Zach Aubrey, who loved her, back in her life. It doesn’t get any sweeter, she thought, watching the Maine seascape whiz by. It doesn’t get any sweeter than this.

***

Zach pulled his packed duffel bags into the front hallway, then went back in his bedroom to pack up his keyboard. He wouldn’t leave without saying good-bye, but he wouldn’t be able to bear a long, drawn-out farewell either. Best just to tell her they turned down the songs and gave him the chance at a good-paying gig, which would also give her the space she needed to figure out what she wanted.

He zipped up the black nylon keyboard case and looked around the room. Barely a sign he’d been there now, but he remembered the first time they’d made love in this house, the way she’d taken the condom out of his hand so gently. He clenched his jaw, swallowing down the lump in his throat. Leaving her sat like lead in his stomach. Was there any other way?

No. You can’t tell her the truth. She can’t know that you’re going on tour in exchange for her contract. And face it, Zach, she can’t even tell you “I love you.” She needs time, and you need to go on tour, or she’ll be broke and stuck with writing a book she doesn’t have the heart to write. You’re doing this for her. You’re doing this because you love her. You stay the fucking course.

“Zach? Zach?”

He heard her excited voice in the front foyer. Herman Healey had offered her the contract. It was done. He could tell from her tone. A high C-major, full of hope, full of joy.

She peeked her head into his room. “Oh my God! Zach! You’ll never guess what happened!”

For the rest of his life, especially if he lost her, he’d remember her face in the doorway of a bedroom at Deep Haven. She was Deep Haven Violet now, fully restored to her beauty and freedom, more mature than she’d been in college, more open than she’d been in Greenwich. Bright brown eyes shining, her glorious mane of dark hair tumbling loose around her shoulders, her smile totally focused on him in confidence and expectation. She was so beautiful, it hurt his heart. It crumpled his heart into a mangled blob of bleeding flesh. The lump in his throat tripled, and he forced a smile.

“Why don’t you tell me?”

Her brows furrowed lightly as she took in his face. Her glance skittered uneasily to the keyboard all packed up on the bed. She must have been so excited she missed the packed bags in the hall.

“I got a, um, a contract. From Masterson.”

“That’s amazing,” he said, still standing across the room from her. He realized he was rubbing his wrist and dropped his hands, shoving them into his back pockets.

Her eyes registered confusion, the joy fading. He was a fucking bastard for doing this to her. He hated himself.

“Are you, um, are you going somewhere?”

“Yeah,” he sighed, trying to sound casual and probably failing. He picked up his backpack off the floor and slung it over his shoulder, then reached for the handle of the keyboard case. “I got a gig.”

Her face fell. Fell. His heart twisted like a helix.

“A gig? A tour? Are you—”

He couldn’t bear it. He moved around the bed and brushed by her. “Yeah.”

She followed him out to the foyer.

“Turns out they didn’t want the songs, but they do need a guitarist for the Mechanics tour. European leg.”

“Wait. Stop for a second. They didn’t want our songs?”

He turned to face her, keeping himself from reaching out to touch her, keeping himself from pulling her into his arms and telling her everything.

“No, baby,” he said, his face carefully neutral as he lied to her. “But our songs are too good for them. I’ll sell them eventually. I’ll let you know when I do.”

In a month or so, he’d tell her that Cornerstone had bought the songs without an advance and they’d split the royalties. If she’d turned her back on him by then, it would be an excuse to get in contact with her again.

“B-but why? Why are you going? I don’t understand why you’re leaving. You didn’t want that life. You didn’t want to tour with Cornerstone anymore. Is this because of me? Did I get you back into that life by writing songs for them? If it hadn’t been for me, you wouldn’t have had any contact with them! You would have just written your rock opera and—”

He dropped the bags roughly and pulled her into his arms. He ran his hands over her back, trying to memorize what she felt like against him. He whispered fiercely into her ear, “I didn’t protect our deal by getting it in writing. It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He leaned back, catching her sad, glassy eyes, and lowered his lips to hers, forcing them open so he could taste her mouth one final time, memorizing her taste and texture, the small moan as their tongues danced, the way she leaned into him. When he pulled back from her, he was wild, breathless.

Her eyes were guarded and her countenance crushed. “You’re leaving. What about us?”

He took her hand, pulling her into the living room and tugging her down next to him on the couch. “Violet. I think you need some time.”

“What? Why?”

“Baby, I’ve been ripping out my heart for two weeks, reassuring you in any way I can, but you can’t even say you love me back. Every time I try to bring up a future together, you get skittish. I think we’re in different places. I think you need some time to figure out what you want. And in the meantime, I can make some money . . . while I give you the space you need.”

Although he still held her hands, she leaned back from him, and his breath caught from the pain on her face.

“They didn’t want our songs so you’re running away. You’re selling out and blaming me! You’re walking away from your dreams just like you walked away from me. Just like you’re walking away from me right now! You promised you’d never do that again!” Tears coursed down her face, and she yanked her hands away from him.

And he was the biggest bastard who ever lived for hurting her like this, but there was no other way to give her the life she wanted. He took a deep breath, trying to stay in control of himself.

“Violet?” His voice was low and sharp and decisive. He brought his hands to her face, pushing her tears away with his thumbs before holding her face firmly and demanding she look at him. “You own me.”

He reached down and pulled one of her hands roughly to his heart, forcing it to flatten on his chest when she tried to pull her fist away. “Nothing changes that. I’m not walking away from you. I love you. I want you. I’m giving you some space to figure out if you want me, if you can love me back.”

“I do, Zach,” she sobbed, her fingers curling into his shirt over his heart.

“You do what?” he whispered, looking at her, capturing her brown eyes. She stared back at him, her face a mask of pain.

“I was almost ready . . .” she murmured through tears.

He released her hand gently, kissing her palm before standing up. “I’ll be back in two months. If you can love me back, come find me.”

He picked up his bags and headed out the front door, leaning everything against the SUV as he popped the trunk. You have to go. You have to go. You have to get away from her because this is un-fucking-bearable.

“Why is it so important to you? They’re just words! Just fucking words!” she half sobbed, half yelled as she followed him. Her face was furious and red now and she had her fisted hands on her hips standing on the front steps.

He felt his own anger rise up, his own needs, his own desires and hopes and longings, which had been ignored for so long, for most of his life. He approached her purposefully and she backed up a step as he reached out, snaking a strong hand around her waist.

“You don’t get it, Violet, do you? When you said that to me? When you told me you loved me? It was the first time, the only time, anyone’s ever said that to me. In my whole life. My parents never once told me they loved me, and I seriously question whether they did. I was a prodigy, a commodity. And I know Cora did—does, whatever—but we don’t get touchy-feely and say things like that.

“And there you were in my dorm room, looking at me with those big brown eyes, telling me you loved me and you meant it. You loved me.”

His eyes burned, and he swiped at them with his free hand, feeling like a pussy, but it was too fucking late to turn back now. He may as well just say all of it.

“I had no idea how to respond. I didn’t know what to say! It took half a lifetime of regret to figure it out. Just words? Don’t ever say that to me again. They’re not just fucking words. They mean everything. And when you don’t say them, it slices me in half until my guts are inside out and I feel like I’m dying. And maybe that makes me weak, but it is what it is. Why’s it so important to me? Because you’re the only one who’s ever loved me. You’ve always been the only one.”

“Zach,” she whispered, holding a trembling hand over her lips, tears pouring down her crimson cheeks. “I . . . I care about you so much, so much, Zach . . .”

He released her, turning away to put his guitar case in the trunk and closing it.

“Please, Zach. Just give me a little more time! That’s all I need.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing, baby. I’m giving you a little space. A little time.”

“Not like this. Not with you walking away!”

He turned to stare at her, and, unable to help himself, he approached her again and drew her back into his arms. He cupped her face, kissing her salty lips lightly before holding her against him and speaking gently near her ear. “Don’t you see? This is perfect, Vile. This is how it has to be.”

He leaned back to look at her face and hated her trembling lip. Hated that she’d walked into Deep Haven fifteen minutes ago with a heart bubbling over with joy and now he was tearing her to shreds. But what he was saying was the truth. Everything he was saying needed to be said, needed to be worked out between them—the tour was just facilitating it. He held her blood-shot puffy eyes with his glassy ones, running the back of his fingers over her cheeks to catch her tears, as he emptied his heart to her.

“Listen carefully. I’m standing here in front of you, telling you I love you, telling you that I will love you, no matter what, until I die. But I’m also telling you that if you aren’t all in, Vile, this won’t work. I need all of you. Sorry that I’m such a greedy bastard, but I’m not Shep Smalley, and I can’t be with you if your heart doesn’t totally belong to me. I waited too long to hear those words in my life, and I paid a high price for turning them away.

“I know what I want: I want you. There’s no such thing as me loving you until I don’t anymore, because I’ll never stop. I’ll love you forever. But, I want you as much in love with me as I am with you. You need time to be sure? Take it. Figure it out.” He clutched her chin, forcing her to look at him. “But let’s get one thing totally and completely fucking straight, baby. I’m not walking away from you. This is a break, not a breakup. I’m waiting. Do you hear me? I’ll be waiting for you. As long as it fucking takes.”

He tilted his head and crushed her lips with his, holding her brutally close as his tongue found hers and his hands dug into her hair. He poured all his anger and regret, his love and longing, into that kiss, demanding from her, possessive of her, hating like fuck to leave her, acutely and desperately aware that it was the last time he would kiss her for a while, if not forever. And she met him—his beautiful girl, the second half of his soul—stroke for stroke, her fingers flattening and flexing on his chest as she kissed him back. And if kisses were “I love yous,” he’d swear she was saying it with every passing second that he held her in his arms.

But kisses were kisses. Zach needed the words too.

Melancholy intruded and his hands moved from her hair to her cheeks which he held them gently, reverently between his hands as his tongue slid languorously over hers, gently saying good-bye the only way he was able. He finally drew back from her and her lips were puffy and bruised, and he was glad.

Tears pooled in her eyes. “I hate you for this.”

I hate me for this too.

“I hope that changes, Vile. I really, really do.”

After one final look at the woman he loved more than anything else in the world, he turned from her, got in his car, and drove away.