To say I’ve done whatever I can to keep busy the last week is an understatement. I have so many mixed emotions going through my head and my heart that I strongly considered moving into Barney’s and drinking my life away. I’ve tossed and turned in bed every night since the alley incident with Fisher and my frustration has been hard to keep inside. A part of me is wracked with guilt that I let things go so far with him and another part is begging for it to happen again, but I know it won’t. He shut down and pushed me away and I haven’t seen him since, but he did leave several more journal pages in my mailbox. I know it’s his way of apologizing again for what happened last week, and it tore me up inside to read those words and remember how hopeful we both were for our future together.

I felt more guilt over the way I left things with Fisher than what I’m doing to Stanford. Even if I never speak to Fisher again, I need to end things with Stanford. He’s been attending meetings on the mainland all week, so at least I didn’t need to come up with excuses to avoid him so that he wouldn’t see the mark Fisher’s teeth left on my neck. Unconsciously I reach up and rub my fingertips over the spot where the mark has already faded away, and my pulse kicks up a notch when I remember the feel of his teeth biting down on my sensitive skin.

Dropping my hand, I close my eyes and sigh, knowing it isn’t fair to myself or Stanford to continue this relationship when there will never be a future between us. I only have room in my heart for one man, and it’s always going to be Fisher who occupies that space.

I didn’t realize just how much I missed having him touch me until I felt the first slide of his hand up the inside of my thigh. I should have reminded both of us that I have a boyfriend and pushed him away, but I couldn’t do it. I wanted his hands on me and his fingers inside of me more than I wanted to take my next breath, more than I wanted to be faithful to Stanford and more than I wanted to be smart or rational. I hate that he still has so much power over me, that I forget everything in my life but the feel of his body against mine and his breath in my ear and his hands bringing me to orgasm. It was so animalistic and hard and just… perfect. Why couldn’t Fisher see how much I wanted that? Why couldn’t he see that I enjoyed every minute of it until he shut down? I know his loss of control was a direct result of his jealousy over Stanford kissing me on the street, and it hurts to think that maybe he didn’t really want me as much as he wanted to punish me for being with another man. I’ve spent the last year getting stronger, more independent and finding out who I am and, in just a few minutes in a dark alley, Fisher erased all of it. He makes me need him, he makes me want him and he makes me weak.

“Oh, sweetheart, it looks beautiful!”

Turning around, I smile at my parents, who are standing behind me, staring up at the inn.

I join them on the sidewalk, giving them each a hug and a kiss on the cheek. My father squeezes me a little harder than usual before pulling back and smoothing my hair back from my face.

“You look tired. Are you sleeping? And you’re too skinny. When was the last time you ate?”

I laugh at his concern, thinking he sounds a hell of a lot like Trip, and step out of his arms. “Dad, I’m fine. Just busy with the inn, you know how it is in the summer.”

He looks away guiltily and I kiss his cheek again, trying to reassure him without words that he has nothing to feel guilty about. At twenty-one, when I saw how much of a toll the inn was taking on my elderly parents, I stepped in and convinced them to take it easy, retire, and enjoy the island without having the burden of an inn to run. I spent months slowly taking over the tasks they each handled. Eventually, they realized that I could do everything and, more importantly, that I wanted to. They saw how happy working here and running things made me and they reluctantly stepped back and transferred the inn to my name. I’m sure they know how much I struggle to keep the place going even if I don’t share all of the gritty details with them and every time they stop by, I can see it written all over their faces that they wish they could help out more. I spend half of our visits convincing them that I don’t need their help and they should never feel bad about retiring and not having extra money to give me when I’m neck deep in bills. Taking over the inn when I was in high school and having to make so many repairs on the poorly maintained building wiped out their entire savings account. Even if they had the money to give me, I would never take it. It was my decision to run the inn and it’s my responsibility.

“Is Trip around? I need to ask him about a leaky faucet we have in the kitchen,” dad asks, looking around the property.

“He’s upstairs in the Marblehead room putting a new handle on the bathroom door,” I let him know.

Dad pats me on the shoulder before disappearing up the stairs.

“Do you have a few minutes for your meddling old mother? I feel like we haven’t talked in ages,” Mom says with a smile.

Linking our arms together, we head across the front yard and around the back of the inn to the veranda. She takes a seat in one of the rocking chairs while I walk over to a side table and grab us each a glass of fresh, sweet iced tea from the two-gallon glass beverage dispenser that I refill twice daily.

Handing her a glass, I take a seat next to her and start sipping my own.

“Did you put fresh mint in this?” she asks.

“Yep,” I reply.

“Hmmm, it’s delicious.”

A few silent minutes pass before she asks another random question.