e place I want to be.
I open the door to Christian’s childhood bedroom and
shut it behind me, taking a huge gulping breath. Heading
for his bed, I flop onto it and stare at the plain white
ceiling.
Holy cow. That has to be, without doub一t, one of the
most excruciating confrontations I’ve ever had to endure,
and now I feel numb. My fiancé and his ex-lover—no
would-be bride should ha一ve to see that. Ha一ving said that,
part of me is glad she’s revealed her true self, and that I
was there to bear witness.
My thoughts turn to Grace. Poor Grace, to hear all
that. I clutch one of Christian’s pillows. She’ll ha一ve
overheard that Christian and Elena had an affair—but not
the nature of it. Thank hea一vens. I groan.
What am I doing? Perhaps the evil witch had a point.
No, I refuse to believe that. She’s so cold and cruel. I
shake my head. She’s wrong. I am right for Christian. I am
what he needs. And in a moment of stunning clarity, I
don’t question how he’s lived his life until recently—but
why. His reasons for doing what he’s done to countless
girls—I don’t even want to know how many. The how
isn’t wrong. They were all adults. They were all—how did
Flynn put it?—in safe, sane, consensual relationships. It’s
the why. The why was wrong. The why was from his place
of darkness.
I close my eyes and drape my arm over them. But now
he’s moved on, left it behind, and we are both in the light.
he’s moved on, left it behind, and we are both in the light.
I’m dazzled by him and he by me. We can guide each
other. A thought occurs to me. Shit! A gnawing, insidious
thought and I’m in the one place where I can lay this ghost
to rest. I sit up. Yes, I must do this.
Shakily I get to my feet, kick off my shoes, walk over
to his desk, and examine the pin board above it. The
photos of young Christian are all still there—more poignant
than ever as I think of the spectacle I’ve just witnessed
between him and Mrs. Robinson. And there in the corner
is the small black and white photo—his mother, the
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