by Wendy Owens
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Acknowledgments
About the Author
This one was for me.
The road to finding love is a bumpy one.
From a girl who struggled with closing off her own heart
and managed to still find true love, this book was a journey of self-exploration.
I looked at him, sitting there, head drooped over in his hands, sobbing like a child, but I had no sympathy left in me to give. I had been going through this cycle with him for too long now. I knew all the tricks he would play all too well. First was anger; his temper would flare when I didn’t do what he wanted. He would use that fury to try and control me. In the beginning, I believed the awful things he said to me and accepted them as truth. Over time, though, I began to see Ashton for what he was—a bully.
He was used to me falling right in line. My rebellious streak as of late showed me new glimpses of just how terrible he could be. When his tactics seemed to no longer work on me I began to see his anger boil over. This darker side of him terrified me.
Over the years I had lost track of the outbursts, broken furniture, holes in walls and, even on the rare occasion, the bruises. I knew, overall, Ashton wasn’t a monster, which was perhaps why I stuck it out so long. He was a spoiled little boy who didn’t know how to handle his emotions when he didn’t get his way.
We met in high school, when a girl’s self esteem was typically on a roller coaster, based on what peers thought and said. Ashton was the gorgeous bad boy who I had no business being with. I was the quiet girl, always in the art wing, avoiding large groups of people. It wasn’t that I didn’t like people; I simply didn’t understand them—all of the cliques: jocks, preppies, skaters, cheerleaders, metal heads, even farm kids. I didn’t understand the point of segregating like that. Looking back, I supposed I was doing the same thing.
I was part of a much smaller group, though. It was just my best friend, Laney, and me. We had been friends since grade school. She was a bigger girl who constantly obsessed about her weight. I learned to ignore this annoying habit since she was the only real friend I had, that is, until Ashton.
I still remember the day he first spoke to me. He had on a pair of washed-out blue jeans and a plain white v-neck t-shirt. His long, sandy-colored hair hung in his face, with much more stubble than a boy his age should have had. He was the type of boy that would send fathers running for their shotguns; luckily for him, mine wasn’t around anymore. I was in the phase of life where thrift store cardigans and oversized denim overalls, matched with a pair of scuffed Doc Martens, somehow seemed fashion appropriate.
“Seven Nation Army” by The White Stripes played in my headphones that day as I felt a tug on one of my pigtails. Spinning on my heel, expecting to see Laney, I was shocked when instead I laid eyes on him. With a half-smile on his lips, he was clearly pleased by my reaction.
Tugging on one of the headphones, I raised an eyebrow in confusion, but said nothing. I couldn’t speak. There was no reason in the world I could imagine for this guy to be speaking to me. He was beautiful—a specimen for all teen girls to behold. His shoulder-length hair made me want to reach out and twist it around my finger while I gazed into his hazel eyes. He seemed to always be looking for the opportunity to take off his shirt around school, and a glimpse of what his muscular torso looked like flashed into my mind. I even shocked myself when, for a brief moment, I wondered what his full lips might taste like.
I knew him, or rather, of him. I knew in junior high he went through a skater phase. I knew he dated most of the girls in our class by the time he was in high school and was now moving on to college girls. I also knew there was no way he could possibly be tugging on my pigtail. I was nothing—invisible to most. The outside of my hands were always stained with smudges of graphite, my unkempt wiry hair often spattered with bits of paint. I wasn’t ugly. I was aware of that, even then, but I was certain I was nothing special. Nobody to be noticed.
“Clementine, right?”
I remember I cringed when he asked me my name. My mother was also an artist and a bit of a free spirit. She was the only one who called me by my given name. Though I hated it, I never fought her on it. I always worried my dad leaving us was too much on her, so I was careful to never upset her.
“I go by Emmie,” I answered. I never understood what drew his interest to me that day. I’d asked him before, and he claimed he always noticed me, but had only then worked up enough courage to ask me out. I knew him well enough to know that was a lie.
That was the moment—the turning point—I began to change. The more time I spent with him, the more he planted ideas in my head. My hair would look better this way instead, or why didn’t I ever wear clothes to show off my curves. I was a teenage girl; what was I to do?
Laney was the first to say something to me about the difference, but it had just made me angry. I finally had this amazingly hot guy showing interest in me, and she had to come along and try to ruin it. Ashton explained she was just jealous. Eventually, Laney reached a point where she felt forced to do something. She came to me like a good friend, pointed out that since Ashton came along I didn’t care about anything, not even my art. She gave me a choice: it was she or Ashton. I missed her, but I was sure I would always have Ashton.
Fast forward and there I was. The idea of always having Ashton made my skin crawl. I tried to free myself from him a few times, but he was like a bog that pulled you back in, suffocating you. When I was eighteen I told Ashton I was leaving. I was certain I wasn’t meant to stay in a small town, and I wanted him to come with me to art school in New York.
He had no intention, however, of ever leaving our sleepy-eyed town. He was the only child of one of the richest couples in the county, so as long he stayed, he would never have to grow up or ever be responsible. Small town rich was quite different than what most people thought of when it came to being wealthy. For us, though, and our small piece of the world, it was rich just the same.
I mustered up as much courage as I could gather and left for New York alone. I managed to stay away five whole days. When the reality sank in that I was alone in a huge city, with no friends, no job, no family, and no plan—except that I wanted to be an artist—I panicked. Ashton was waiting for me when I got off the bus. It was raining. He told me he forgave me.
I enrolled in the local college, and we were married the following spring. His mother told me that she had never seen her son so happy. I decided a small town life with him was better than any other kind of life without him. I was so naive.
The first year was actually pretty good. I went to school while Ashton helped out at his family insurance business a couple days a week. His dad decided that was enough work to justify a full-time salary. The phrase “boys will be boys,” became a common theme around the Stirling estate. Ashton was happy with the arrangement so I didn’t say anything; af
ter all, when Ashton was happy, everyone was happy. Then everything fell apart.
The economy shifted, everyone tightened their belts, and within six months, Ashton’s parents went from the wealthiest in town to nearly broke. Ashton told me not to worry; he would find a new job. He worked at a pizza place for a half day, but it was beneath him. Then there was the video rental store; he made it one full day there. He couldn’t hold a job because he was never designed to follow someone’s orders. I told him I would take a leave from college until he could find a job that made him happy. I never went back.
“I swear, Em, if you leave me I’ll kill myself,” Ashton said looking up at me, his hair sticking to his damp cheeks.
“Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be,” I replied, confident his threats were empty, a desperate and sad attempt to manipulate me.
“I’m not kidding, I’ll do it! I can’t live without you,” Ashton pleaded.
I balled my fingers tightly into small fists, the anger welling up intensely inside me. I wasn’t mad at him, though, somewhere in the back of my mind I told myself, it seemed like he meant it this time. I gritted my teeth, focusing on every time he lost a job, every violent fit of rage, every time he would stagger home drunk at four in the morning and pass out on the lawn. Every time he was sorry, he would never do it again, he couldn’t lose me. You can do this.
“Ashton, do what you have to do, and I’ll do what I have to. Goodbye.” I turned to walk away. I knew if I stood there looking at his pathetic but handsome face any longer I wouldn’t be able to resist him. I would fall back into his arms and tell him how much I loved him. I would try to fix him again.
Ashton couldn’t love anyone more than he loved himself, and I needed to get away while there was still enough of me left to salvage.
I opened the door and took that first liberating step onto the tiny landing of our suburban ranch home. Pulling the door closed behind me, it felt like I was closing the door on my past, on my history of dysfunction and cycle of abuse. There was no doubt in my mind that I loved Ashton—he had been my world for all of my short adult life. That was the problem: he was everything. When he said I looked fat or ugly, I felt it; I would begin to see that staring back at me in the mirror. When he told me I was lucky he actually stuck around, I convinced myself I was.
When his temper became violent I even had excuses for that. Ashton would never hit me. He takes it out on the stuff around him because he loves me so much. Then when it escalated and the temper turned on me I somehow managed to justify that, as well. He didn’t mean it… I know better than to get in his way when he’s like that.
I can’t pinpoint the moment it started to change. I suppose a person can only be beaten down for so long before they begin to yearn for their spirit to be set free. I tried telling Ashton that I needed more. I didn’t want to work in a bank. I wanted to be an artist. I wanted to follow my dreams, and I wanted more than anything for him to treat me like he loved me.
Don’t get me wrong; sometimes he could be a real sweetheart, saying all the perfect things. He was always quick to spend the money I earned on flowers for me. Especially when he wanted something, he could really lay on the charm. The mean streak didn’t come out until he didn’t get his way.
Taking several steps out into the yard, I kicked off my flip-flops, allowing my toes to sink into the lush green grass, curling them tightly and then flexing them outward. A deep breath filled my lungs before I exhaled. This was it: this was what freedom felt like. I’ll admit, I was scared as hell, and I didn’t know what being alone looked like, but I was ready for the experience.
I turned back and looked at the door to the home where I thought my life would always be. I had half expected Ashton to chase me outside, making a scene in front of all the neighbors, begging me not to go. I was surprised he didn’t. I think he knew as much as I did, this time, I wasn’t changing my mind. This time, no amount of screaming or crying would make me stay.
“Bye Ash—” I whispered, just before the shot filled my ears. Echoing and ricocheting around my head for a few moments, the sound caused me to tremble. My head started to rock slightly from side to side, my eyes filling with tears, I couldn’t move—frozen to the spot where my bare feet were planted in that lush grass. I just stood, staring at the door, telling myself I hadn’t heard the noise I knew I just had.
My neighbor, Bill Peterson, appeared before me. He had shown up on moving day a couple years ago, the second the truck pulled up, like a stray dog searching for a friend. He had introduced himself, pointed out his nearby home with the perfectly manicured lawn, and helped us carry in every single box. I think he was impressed to have a Stirling living next door. The invites to cookouts and other random events seemed endless. Ashton was always game, even if I was exhausted from a long day at work. I would always smile and make small talk with Peterson’s wife.
I could tell Bill was saying something to me, but I couldn’t hear him. The last thing I had heard was the gunshot, and then nothing but ringing. Bill began waving his arms in front of my face, but I couldn’t look away. I just continued staring at the front door of our home.
Throwing up his arms, I watched Bill turn and run toward the house, pushing open the front door. I didn’t follow… couldn’t follow. Tilting my head to one side, I simply continued to stare. Minutes passed before Bill stumbled from our home, his hands covered in blood, frantically dialing a phone.
Only then did I move. Only when I saw his hands, was the spell broken. I fell to my knees, sighing. I was so close, I could taste the freedom, but I should have known. Ashton would never let me get away so easily. A tear rolled down my cheek, a flash shot through my mind of Ashton sitting, sobbing, and pleading with me. I thought twenty-three would be the year I reclaimed my identity. Ashton decided to give me a new one. Widow. A woman so cold she could drive her husband to suicide.
Three Years Later…
The blaring noise of the car horns surrounded me, causing the hair on my arms to stand up straight, as if it were my ‘spidey sense.’ I had only been in the city for a couple of weeks, and I wasn’t used to the constant chaos that seemed to surround me here. If I had my choice, I would have stayed with my mom in Indiana.
We moved there together after Ashton—well, just after. Mom had friends, from what she referred to as her ‘younger years,’ who lived on a hippie commune called The Grove. She loathed when I would call it a commune, arguing that just because a group of like-minded people decided to live together, working toward the betterment of each other’s lives, didn’t make the place a commune. Instead, she called it ‘a community of enlightened individuals.’
I should have thanked her; in a way, The Grove saved my life. The people there kept their distance, unlike back in Ohio, where I couldn’t walk down the street without someone asking me if I was all right, or if there was something they could do for me. It made me want to scream at the top of my lungs, “No you idiot, I’m not okay. My husband just blew his brains out, and it’s all my fault.” Instead, I smiled, playing the role of grieving widow as best I could.
The Grove was full of other broken people, just like me. Instead of questions, they simply offered acceptance. I was able to keep to myself, and some days I managed to get away without even seeing another living soul, besides my mother, of course. I managed to develop a routine. My mom would go to local markets and fairs with residents of our tiny community, selling goods they created. After a while, she offered to take some of my paintings to sell. It didn’t take long before I developed a following. I even started selling my work online, which allowed me to start a nice little savings account for myself.
When the day came for me to leave Indiana, my mom pointed out I had the same anxieties when I left the place that had been home for my entire life. She was right, though I could never tell her that because I was far too stubborn. The funeral had been hard. His dad kept pushing for answers, wanting to know what would have driven his son to such an e
nd. I couldn’t tell him. How could I tell his father he lost his only child because of me—because I was leaving Ashton? I pushed him past his breaking point. I did this.
The entire burial process had been quite overwhelming for me. I went from the mindset that I was leaving Ashton, to planning all the details of his funeral. Once he was gone, it didn’t seem right to tell everyone what we had been going through. Nobody needed to know how messed up our relationship was; that would be my burden to carry now. I couldn’t figure out if I was pissed at him for doing this to me or at myself for what I had done to him.
The funeral week was a blur: what color casket, would you like a single tombstone or couples, will there be a wake with food? The questions were endless; at least Ashton took the decision of open or closed casket out of the equation. His closest friends put together a tribute video for the service and gave touching speeches about what an amazing man he was, including how much he loved me. It was complete bullshit. They carried the casket while his favorite R.E.M. song, “Find The River,” played in the background; I surprised even myself when I cried.