Rewrite Our Ending (Copperfield Lane Book 2) by JL Long (1)

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Nothing changes but the hours and minutes drifting by.

There’s a woman out there who’s made it her life’s mission to harm me, to take me out of the equation of what she wants—to steal what’s mine.

My marriage is smoke and ash, hanging on for that one spark to ignite it again, and I can’t help but think I got it all wrong. Until a few months ago, my relationship with Lawson never once felt forced or like it wasn’t meant to be. Is it such a crazy notion to think maybe, just maybe, this isn’t supposed to be our ending? Did we get it wrong? When things come so naturally, so easily, isn’t that when we think we don’t deserve what’s been handed to us? Do I truly deserve Lawson and London?

These thoughts are ever present in my mind.

I’m hanging from a cliff by one hand, and every second that passes feels like I’m losing my grip.

I can’t walk out of my house without panic taking over. I can’t stay in this house without panic squeezing the air from my lungs. My mind is a constant cloud of darkness. I put on the brave face everyone wants me to have, but I’m scared.

How can I stop any of this? I try to tell myself I just have to give it all time. Let the wounds heal. Let the police do their job.

It seems so simple.

But it hurts.

Physically and mentally.

The wounds on my back. The images branded into my brain. The heartache I feel at a glance across the room from Lawson. The way he’s teetering on a thin line of control.

We’re both on the verge of breaking; it’s just a race to see who gets there first.

Aria is the lion, and I am her lowly prey.

Day in and day out, I swallow the knot in my throat, put a smile on my face, and hide what this woman has done to me.

Footsteps approaching from down the hall set my brain into overdrive. My mouth dries, and my hands grip the edge of the table as I prepare to bolt.

“Baby,” Lawson calls as he rounds the corner of the doorway, alerting me to his presence. I lift my head, pretending I didn’t hear him coming. Pretending my body didn’t stiffen. Pretending I’m not scared to death.

The only acknowledgment I give him is my eyes hitting his before returning to my project.

“What’re you doing?” he asks, coming farther into our home office.

“Making a scrapbook,” I say, my voice void of emotion.

He puts his hands on the desk and bends slightly at the waist to peer over at my work. “Yeah? Just got a wild hair to do this today?”

The answer to that is no. I’ve wanted to do this for some time, but usually set it aside to get other things accomplished. With the recent events, I thought I should get it done now—something for London to have that’s meaningful if I’m not around.

But I don’t tell Lawson this.

“Just got bored sitting around, and I’ve been thinking…” I look up to see him squinting at me. “I still want to have our anniversary party this year.”

“You think that’s a good idea?”

“I think we can’t stop doing what we normally do,” I half lie. I want to have the party, and truthfully, I’m hoping planning it will help keep my mind off things.

“Lena, I get that. I just don’t think this year is a good year to have it.”

“I want it, Lawson.”

He narrows his eyes at me, as if he’s trying to read further into. After a long moment, he sighs and says, “If that’s what you want, then we’ll have the party.”

I nod and look back at the pictures.

“And you know,” he says, bringing my attention back to him, “when you get bored like that, you can call me. I would’ve come back in. We could have gone out and done something.”

I just shrug my shoulders. He sighs and moves around to stand beside my chair. He knows me leaving this house isn’t going to happen. Funny how I’m trapped no matter where I am.

He picks up the picture of him and London on the day she was born. “You’d never believe she was this tiny and quiet looking at her now,” he reminisces, then sets the photo down, only to pick up another.

He does this again and again, his mind in another place, his handsome smile giving away how much he’s enjoying the trip down memory lane. The knot in my throat starts to get bigger and bigger as I try to stomach the thought of not having any more moments like this.

Goddammit, you have to stop.

After he sets the last picture down, he catches me watching him. “Baby,” he murmurs, “wanna tell me why there aren’t any pictures of you in these piles?” Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, then open them. He would notice that.

My gaze drifts to the corner of the table where a finished book is sitting. He arches a brow, reaches for the book, and begins flipping through the pages, then stops when a piece of paper slides out.

A note I wrote to my daughter.

My stare locks on him as I fidget with the desk in front of me. I wasn’t planning on hiding this from him, but I also don’t want him to know how this woman has truly affected me. With this, he will. He’ll know everything. My fingers itch to rip the letter out of his hands, but I don’t. I brace, watching as his eyes scan over words, remembering all too well what it says without even having to see it.

Lawson doesn’t say anything, though the room instantly fills with his anger. Rigidly, he sticks the piece of paper back into the album and closes the book.

“I just wanted her to have something,” I whisper after a few moments pass.

He turns his head to me, his shoulders stiff. “You’re letting her win,” he growls, chilling me to the bone. He tosses the book on the desk, and storms out of the room. Seconds later, the front door slams shut with such force, I jerk at the sound.

The burning of threatening tears has me closing my eyes. All these emotions coming to surface and my fingers are slipping even more from that proverbial cliff. I can’t—won’t—let her win. I’m preparing myself for what Aria has planned next. I berate myself so badly, telling myself I need to be strong, and in the next second, I’m crumbling, and I don’t let Lawson see any of this. Why? Because I’m too prideful to allow my husband to help me? I can’t even answer that. If Aria doesn’t make it happen first, I’m scared I’ll be the reason my marriage ends. All because I think I need to pretend I’m okay.

The mere thought of receiving another letter has fear clawing its way up my throat and strangling me. I want so badly to break. I want so badly to just give in to this stupid pain, this anger, this fear. But I can’t. I have to stay strong. I have to pretend I’m strong so I can prepare for the worst.

I’m not giving up—I’m formulating.

I won’t leave them with nothing.

I throw the garage door open, and it swings back as I walk through. Curling my hands into a fist, I try to take deep breaths to calm my fucking temper, hoping and praying a handbook drops from the sky on how to get over a psychotic bitch trying to kill you. I’m too blinded by the anger thrumming through me to even let the breathing help. That scrapbook and letter prove Selena is letting this fester deep inside her. Instead of talking to me like she said she would not even a day ago, she’s planning on this being her fucking end, and I’m not okay with that.

I move to the workbench for no purpose other than to clear the contents from the top. Just as my arm raises to swipe across the wood, my eyes catch on something above my toolbox. A picture of Selena bending down on her knees with London standing in front of her, both of their heads leaned in, their lips puckered, giving each other air kisses. Just like minutes before, I am transported to another time—a time when the biggest worry was what we were going to have for dinner. It was just us three in that moment. God, how I wish we could go back.

I close my eyes and drop my head as the anger dissipates slowly. Turning on my heel, I walk back to the house—back to her. She doesn’t need me blowing up at her like that. I’ll admit I don’t react well to shit like this, but if the events from the last few months taught me anything, it’s that we can’t just walk away and hope it disappears.

Walking into our bedroom, I find Lena sitting on the edge of the bed, hiding her face in her hands.

I feel like a fucking asshole for adding this on top of everything else she’s feeling, but she has to understand what shit like this does to me. We both have a lot on our plates, but if we aren’t going to stand by each other, what the fuck is the point?

“I don’t want you hurting like this anymore,” I whisper as I lean against the doorframe.

She lowers her hands, but keeps her eyes trained in front of her.

“I don’t know how to make this pain go away. I told you I would work through it. I said I’d do it with you. But I don’t know how.”

I move to the side of the bed and sit down next to her, staring straight ahead. “Don’t pretend. Don’t try to make me think you are okay. Let me see it.”

“I can’t. You wouldn’t like what you saw.”

“How do you know that? I didn’t take a vow thinking it was going to be sunshine and roses throughout. You have to communicate with me. I have to do the same. We are in this together.”

“I want to tell you what’s going on in my head. I do…” her gaze drops to the floor, “but it’s hard.”

“I get that. All I’m asking is for you to try.”

“And I’m telling you that’s all I can give you.”

“I will never let you go, Lena. Whatever that woman…” I growl, unable to say her goddamn name out loud without my mouth feeling like it’s filling with poison, “decides to do, I will protect you with everything that I have.” She sniffles, and I turn toward her, finding tears springing from her eyes. That feeling of protectiveness over her has me moving. Crouching, I take both her hands in mine. “There’s no way I can live in this world without you. There’s no way I will let someone take you from me. You don't know this, baby, but I think about the what-ifs too. I think about a life where it's just Lonnie and me, and it makes me physically sick to even try to process something like that. Those are the times when I know for certain I will protect you from anything—that’s the vow I took, and I promise to uphold it for eternity.” I stare into her eyes, taking in the pain shining back at me. It’s so bright, like a beacon that’s always been there. I’ve just been too distracted to notice, too see her hurt…to know it’s there. Lifting a hand, I swipe the tears from one side of her face with my thumb, and she presses into my touch.

“Why us?” she asks.

“Because the man upstairs knows we can withstand the evil.”

One side of her lips tilt up in a small smile. “You always know what to say.”

“I don’t know about that, but I know we will get through this. You just have to hang onto me, baby. Just hang on, and I’ll get us through it.”

She nods. “Okay, Lawson.”

“I don’t ever want to see that letter again.”

She nods again.

“Burn it, do whatever with it, but that shit is not fucking needed.”

“Okay,” she whispers.

“Okay.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, beautiful.”

And just for a moment, we are at peace.