“I’m sorry about Asher,” Will says. “He’s not leaving her, then?”

I lift my eyes to his and shrug. “He says he is, but that isn’t enough.” My voice cracks and before I realize they’re coming, tears are streaming down my face and my chest is shaking.

Will pulls me into his arms and strokes my hair as I struggle to breathe around choked sobs.

“I won’t be that woman anymore.”

***

Asher

I want to rage at someone, anyone. I want to tear these paintings off the walls and burn them.

“We didn’t know,” someone says behind me.

I spin around to see Will, hands tucked in his pockets, shoulders hunched.

My hands flex into fists and I step back away from the urge to take a swing.

When I got here, Maggie was outside crying. In Will’s arms.

“I wouldn’t have allowed it if I’d known,” Will’s saying as he eyes the paintings. “Not in my gallery. But Maggie asked me to leave them.”

“Where is she?”

“She went to Brady’s with her sisters,” Will says, straightening. “You hurt her.”

My jaw feels like it might snap it’s so tight. I don’t want to hear this from the man who just had the woman I love in his arms. But I can’t deny it either.

He nods knowingly and slips out the door, leaving me alone to contemplate these paintings.

By the time I got done arguing with Juliana—explaining in no uncertain terms that our marriage is over—I had a long argument with myself about coming here tonight.

Maggie deserved to be pissed at me. With her history, I should have been more forthcoming about the state of my marriage. I’d be lying if I said it never occurred to me that the truth might hurt her, but I told myself it didn’t matter because my marriage is nothing but a technicality at this point.

I need to go home and give her space. I need to get on my knees and pray like hell she’ll come back to me.

But I have to do one more thing before I can leave.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Maggie

I finally fell asleep some time before dawn, but not before I cried. I cried for the lost young woman I’d become, the woman who’d trusted her shattered heart with a man and had lost it. I cried for the young woman who had placed her baby in a stranger’s arms and said goodbye. I cried for my teenage self, the girl who had lost something precious to a man who hadn’t been worthy and hadn’t had permission.

I’d lain in bed, alone, remembering the only other time loneliness had struck me so deeply.

“Will you tell them that I want her name to be Grace?”

Sister Rose had frowned. “Maggie, we talked about this. They can—”

“Will you just tell them?”

Every week, pictures arrive in the mail with a short note.

Thank you for Grace. She is truly a blessing.

Would it be easier if all I’d known of the child I created had been those brief but precious moments in the hospital? Would it be easier if I didn’t know my daughter has my red hair and freckles and her dad’s dimples?

Would it be easier to sleep in my cold bed when I hadn’t known the feel of a man who truly cared for me?

The only place I want to be is curled up on my mom’s couch. Right now, I don’t mind the doilies and cross-stitched pillows. I don’t even mind the oversized golden crucifix that hangs above me.

The cushions shift beside me and I blink up at my mom.

“Here you go, sweetie,” Mom says, handing me a steaming mug of tea.

“Thanks.”

“Your sisters told me about Asher’s wife.”

I close my eyes. I can’t look at her. Not now. I draw in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I was trying to change.”

“It’s not your fault, sweetie.”

I draw in a shaky breath. “Do you ever think that maybe dad was right about me?”

She gasps. “He wasn’t.” She shakes her head. “And I’m sorry I let him treat you like he did…after. We were both so heartbroken over what happened to our baby, and we handled it terribly. And I’m sorry for that.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“The blame is more mine than yours, Margaret.” Her face softens. “I have wished so many times to be able to change the past, to do right by you.”

I can hardly breathe; my shattered heart is so painful against my lungs.

She studies me a long moment before nodding and pushing herself off the couch.

“Mom, wait.”

My words stop my mother in her tracks. I haven’t called her Mom since dad died. I never called her by her given name, either. She wouldn’t have allowed that. I just haven’t called her anything.

My throat is thick with emotion. “Thank you for letting me stay here.”

“Of course,” she says, her voice crackling on the edges with tears.

I study my tea. “Are you okay?”

She nods. “I like it when you call me ‘Mom.’ You haven’t done that since you were fifteen.”

“I…” I was a little shit who blamed her for things she couldn’t control. Things that she would have given the world to save me from. Since there’s no explaining, I hand her a fat envelope from my purse.

I can hardly breathe as she slides the pictures into her hand. And, as it always does, my heart breaks at the sight of my baby girl with her bright green eyes and wild red curls. Her mother sends me pictures every week. Pictures and gratitude expressed in stories about bath time, bottles, and cooing. I savor the packages like fine chocolate, and they tear me to shreds like razor blades.

I wait for my mother to get angry. For my lying. For my deception. I wait for that moment when she will finally be done with me. I wait but nothing happens. She flips through the pictures slowly, smiling and grimacing alternately, as if—maybe—she’s imagining what seeing the pictures must be like for me.

When she makes it through the stack and returns her eyes to mine, she doesn’t speak.

“They named her Grace,” I say softly, my hands shaking as I take the pictures back.

Tears shimmer in her eyes. I haven’t seen my mother cry since my father’s funeral.

“I was pregnant when Will and I got engaged,” I tell her. “I was pregnant with Ethan Bauer’s baby.” As the words slip from my mouth, they don’t hurt like I expect them to. Instead, the truth is a salve to my abraded heart. “I was going to pretend it was Will’s, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t do that to him. I couldn’t do that to her. So I gave her up.”

She settles back onto the couch and strokes my cheek. I don’t realize I’m crying until I feel her wiping away my tears. I’ve cried enough in the last twenty-four hours to make up for years of dry eyes.

“I…suspected,” my mother whispers. “I didn’t know how to help you. I didn’t know what you wanted. I should have…” My mom squeezes her eyes shut and shakes away the thought.

“I still hadn’t forgiven myself for what happened in high school, and I—”

Mom’s breath draws in sharply. “Baby,” she whispers.

“I hated letting her go, but I was too ashamed to have a married man’s baby. I didn’t think I could ever face you again.” I squeeze her hand. “I handled it in the only way I knew how.”

“I think, Margaret Marie, that you handled it beautifully. And I am proud to have you as my daughter.”

My mom wraps her thin arms around me, and I sink into the old, familiar warmth. I can’t remember the last time I let my mother hug me, but it feels like returning home. She rocks me gently side to side and kisses my hair.

“What an amazing gift,” she says simply, and the words tear me open. I cry into her chest.

When she pulls away, her eyes are wet and there are tears streaming down her face. “I’ve made a mess of my makeup,” she mutters, but her smile says she doesn’t really care.

Her hand feels frail in mine. “I’m going to take a walk down to the river.”

She nods. “Have you called him?”

I look at the floor and shake my head. No need to say who he is. “I’m not ready yet.”

***

“No!” Lizzy shouts. “No regrets about sleeping with Sexy Beast. Absolutely not.”

I can’t help but smile. She’s so flipping cute. “He’s married,” I repeat softly.

Hanna’s scanning through something on her phone, and when she hands it over to me, triumph gleams in her eyes.

She has some sort of gossip site pulled up and her phone is displaying the headline “Infinite Gray Hottie and Actress Wife On the Outs.” I scroll through it to see a vague reporting of nothing but a rehashing of the title and a speculation that the couple has separated since the birth of their daughter.

“That was published two years ago, Mags,” Hanna says.

I roll my shoulders back. “It doesn’t matter. I won’t be the other woman anymore.”

The girls exchange a look, frowning.

“It just feels like Asher’s getting a bum rap because of jerks from your past,” Lizzy says.

Hanna nods. “Is that really fair?”

I shrug, pushing myself out of my chair. “If he wants to be with me, he can get a divorce.”

“I guess,” Hanna says softly.

“I’m going to step out for some fresh air,” I say.

The girls nod. “We’ll be there in a minute.”

I’m halfway to the door when Will stops me.

“How you holding up?” he asks.

“I’m okay.” And it’s true. It’s been a week since I walked in on Juliana na**d in Asher’s bed, and even though my heart aches with missing him, I’m more okay than I have been in years. Ironically, it’s all thanks to him.

“I know this handsome blond guy who’d love to take you out sometime…when you’re ready.” Will gives a self-deprecating grin.

“I appreciate that,” I say softly. “But you deserve more than to be my consolation prize.”

“I would have settled for that.”

I lift onto my tiptoes and press a kiss to his cheek. “And I love you for that.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Asher

She came back.

It’s all I can think. I’m consumed by it.

I sent her a text before I boarded my plane in New York tonight.

It’s done.

That was all I wrote. Because I didn’t know if the end of my marriage meant the beginning of something new with Maggie or if I’d lost my chance for that.

I came home to a dining room table covered in rocks, scraps, and shards of ceramic and glass.

What did she call this stuff? Tesserae?

There are little piles of it all over the table with note cards labeling each one.

A pile of glass shards, Crystal serving platter from bridal shower. A pile of sand, From the bottom of the river. Some slivers that glint in the light, The Infinite Gray album. A little gravel, From the parking lot at Cajun Jack’s. Yellow and green chunks of plastic, Baby bottles I never got to use. There’s even a tiny pile of old guitar picks and one final note.

I think we can make something beautiful with all this. Find me.

***

Maggie

I peel off my shirt and jeans then drop my bra and underwear to the ground and dive nude into the warm water.

I don’t like to think what might have happened if Asher hadn’t shown up at Brady’s that night. I don’t like to think what might have happened if he hadn’t shown up in my life.

After I left the courthouse last week, I drove to Asher’s house, but he wasn’t here. I’d sent him a single text.

The text simply read: Thank you for finding me.

It wasn’t long after that I found out he left town. I assumed he headed to New York to see his daughter. I couldn’t blame him.

Then tonight, I got a text from him: It’s done.

I can only hope that means what I think it does. I am only here because I think it means his marriage is over in every sense of the word now.

I turn through several laps, and I’m not surprised when I see him. I stop swimming and pull myself to the edge of the pool.

“Training for the Olympics?” He’s wearing dark blue jeans, but his chest and feet are bare and my mouth goes dry at the expanse of his chest, at the V of muscle that dips into his jeans.

I swallow hard, remembering our first encounter here. “Sneak up on many girls?”

“Only the special ones.” His eyes are hot, burning with something more than lust.

When he extends a hand, I take it and let him help me from the water. Then I stand there dripping in the moonlight as he runs his eyes over me.

My ni**les harden in the cool air. Without speaking, he dips his head and licks a bead of water off one. My lungs empty, no room for air as the potent tonic of pleasure and love shoots into my veins. It starts cool and runs hotter until it settles between my legs. His big hands settle at my hips, the calluses of his fingertips curling into my ass as he takes my breast into his mouth. My br**sts have always been about my lover’s pleasure. They’re large and awkward but men love them. But when Asher takes my breast into his hot mouth, when he scrapes his teeth across my nipple, when he sucks, I am lost in it. In him. I want him to keep doing this, to keep making me feel this way. I feel my control fracturing under the pressure, but I don’t stop him because—for him—I’ll let myself break.

I reach for him and unbutton his jeans. I push his pants and underwear from his hips. In a single motion, I drop to my knees and slide them down his legs.