I was this close to spilling my guts to Jacey. This close to inviting her into my life, telling her my secrets, letting her in.

I blame it on the look in her eyes. The sweet, genuine, I’m-so-concerned-about-you look… and I know that she is. She genuinely cares that something has hurt me. But the problem is… she thinks she can fix it and she can’t.

No one can.

That’s the bitch of it.

I grab a towel and step out of the walk-in shower, before I head to my bed naked.

And alone.

Chapter Eighteen

Jacey

I don’t know what to think.

Even though something felt like it changed last night, like our paradigm shifted, Dominic is back to being cool and aloof. He popped his head into my room early this morning to tell me that he was going to the studio, that he’d be back later… and to relax around the pool.

“Make yourself at home!” he’d called over his shoulder in a very polite way as he walked out.

He didn’t kiss me good-bye, he didn’t touch me at all. He stayed in the doorway where he stood, beautiful and graceful but so very distant.

It’s gorgeous here, and the infinity pool that seems to slip right over the edge of the valley is picture perfect. But there’s only so much time I can spend lounging by the pool. I’m alone and I’m restless.

So I go exploring.

I spent quite a bit of time in his library, rifling through his shelves and shelves of books. He’s got everything from the classics to Tom Clancy. None of the books show any signs of wear, so I have no clue if he actually reads them or if they just line the walls.

His large desk is sleek and modern, made from glass and ebony wood. No pictures adorn it, nothing personal at all. The middle drawer is locked, but I’m guessing it just contains checkbooks and such anyway.

The art on the walls, the many paintings and original photos, fascinate me.

I can tell the masculine abstract paintings are original, but the signatures aren’t anyone I recognize. I’m guessing that they’re local artists… that perhaps Dominic just picked out pieces that he liked because he didn’t feel the need to buy originals painted by the masters.

The kitchen is nice, but boring. Granite, steel, marble floor. It’s sterile because it’s never used. I can see that. To me, kitchens should be the hub of the house, the heart, where everyone congregates. But that’s not so here.

There are too many guest bedrooms to count, all of them lavishly decorated, just like the one I slept in last night. After he’d left me on the veranda.

I don’t know what to think about him. He’s a complete mystery, totally hot and cold. It must say something about me that I want to figure him out, that I’m not running in the opposite direction. I probably don’t want to know what it says about me, actually.

I’m needy.

I’m fucked up.

I know these things, so I push them out of my mind. I already know me. What I want to know now is him.

I stand hesitantly outside of his bedroom door. Maybe I can find some answers within, answers that he’d never tell me. Something, anything, that would make his behavior make sense.

If he doesn’t want you to know, my conscience argues, then you should respect that.

But… fuck you, the devil side of my brain answers. And that’s the side I listen to. I turn the doorknob, and before I can even think about it, I’m in his room and it’s done. I’ve officially invaded his privacy.

His room is dark and quiet and decorated in masculine colors… grays and creams and blacks. His bed is enormous, and there isn’t anything odd in here, like I think I was expecting. No sex swings or whips or chains. It’s uncluttered. In fact, it’s incredibly clean. It almost seems as devoid of personal effects as a hotel room.

I feel a little guilty as I open his drawers, but I only find neatly folded clothes. The drawers all smell like cedar, like him. I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent, as I eye his closet, and before I can talk myself out of it, I get to my feet and open the doors.

It’s enormous and contains a dressing room inside. A wall of shoes, loafers, and sneakers, and neatly hung slacks, jeans, shirts, and suits. It’s a closet worthy of a king. I’ve never actually seen such a thing before. I sit on a cushioned bench for a minute, just to take it all in.

Like the bedroom, his closet is neat to the point of sterility. There’s nothing here to indicate what he’s actually like. Not one thing… except for the clear fact that he has a lot of shoes and clothes.

But as I stand up, I notice the bench I’m sitting on has hinges. They’re cleverly concealed, but they’re there. Hesitantly, I open the lid and I find myself staring at a shallow black velvet box. The rest of the bench is empty.

Breathing quickly, I lift the box out and stare at it. It’s very light so it can’t contain much. I don’t waste time pondering it. I take the top off.

Inside, there’s a stack of cards and letters, banded together with a rubber band. There’s a little jewelry box, which I quickly discover is empty, and an unopened envelope with Dominic’s name on the front. It was clearly written by a woman and says simply, Dom.

The ink has begun to fade and there’s something hard inside, like cardboard or plastic.

I’m utterly frozen as I stare at it, because I can sense the significance of what must be inside. It was written by someone who knows him well, someone who calls him Dom.

But whatever it is, Dominic doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to see it. So he closed it away in this bench, away from the light, away from the world, away from him. But even still, even though he can’t force himself to read it, he also can’t force himself to throw it away.

I’d been wrong to come in here. Because I know that whatever I’m holding in my hands is so very intimate. It’s personal and private. And it’s not my business. But also, he’s even more of an enigma now than he was before. I don’t have any answers… I just have even more questions.

With a sigh, I stare at the stack of cards and letters wrapped with the rubber band. They’re all opened. I can see the frayed tops of them, sliced through with an opener. Surely it won’t matter if I just take a peek. Right?

I slip the rubber band off, and it’s old enough that the rubber is tacky and has lost some of its elasticity. I can tell that Dom hasn’t looked at these letters in quite a while, maybe even since he first opened them. But yet, just as the other letter, he can’t throw them away. I look at the top card. There’s a cross with sunshine pouring onto it.

With Sympathy for Your Loss.

I open it, skimming past the canned Hallmark words, skipping to the handwritten note at the bottom.

Dominic, I’m so sorry for your loss. The world has lost a light in Emma. I know this is unbearable for you now, but I’ll be praying a prayer of peace for you. I know that even without her, you’ll be able to go on and do great things. With love and deepest condolences, Jada Milnay

My breath freezes in my throat, and a brick seems to settle on my chest as I stare at the words. A realization dawns on me, cold and heavy.

Emma died.

I have to assume that she was Dominic’s girlfriend… and she died.

My fingers fly as I shuffle the rest of the cards and skim through them.

My condolences.

Heaven has gotten another angel.

My prayers are with you.

She’s in a better place.

Trite words, although what can people really say? There are no words when something tragic like that strikes.

I can hardly breathe as I get to the last card, as I stare at what lies beneath the cards, hidden at the bottom of the stack. Letters.

From Emma.

Girlish, curly handwriting fills notebook papers, with flowers and hearts doodled in the margins. My fingers shake as I read the first one.

Dom,

Thank you so much for taking me to the beach yesterday. It was the perfect day! You laughed at me so much for trying to find the perfect shells, so I enclosed a few for you. I want you to remember the day just like I remember it being: perfect.

-Em

This letter makes sense, because beneath the stack of envelopes, a smattering of tiny shells line the bottom of the box. They’re clearly old, clearly fragile, and now they make perfect sense. They were a memento of a perfect day.

My breath comes quickly as I read the next one.

I feel like I’m looking in on the lives of two lovers.

Because I am.

Dom,

Last night was amazing. I woke up this morning and you were the first thing I thought of… and you were the last thing I thought of last night before I went to sleep. I always knew you would be my first—and it was amazing. I’m so glad that we shared that together, that we can say that we were each other’s first.

I love you,

Em

My heart hurts. He took her virginity and she died.

I fly through the rest of the letters… but nothing in them gives me any clue as to what happened to her. Just random notes about high school, their mutual friends, their dates, and how much she loves Dominic. There are at least twenty of them, and they seem to span most of high school.

I know what she looked like now. Because in the last one, her senior picture is enclosed. She’s slender and blond, with shining, friendly blue eyes that smile at the camera. She was a gorgeous girl, and it’s clear that she loved life. I can see it in her eyes.

Knowing that she’s dead now makes me feel like I’m surrounded by a ghost. It gives me chills, and I quickly gather all of the letters back together, looping them with the cards within the aged rubber band. There’s only one letter left… the letter that Dominic hasn’t even opened.

As I stare at it, I notice something. The handwriting on the envelope is the same.

Emma had written the unopened letter… the one simply addressed to Dom.

And Dominic can’t bring himself to read it.

For some reason, because I’m sentimental, because I’m soft hearted, or maybe just because I’m human, that sends a railroad spike through my heart, and the pain that I sometimes see in his eyes makes sense.

Of course it crushed him. Obviously he and Emma had been together for several years. They lost their virginity together. They loved each other. And then she died.

I’m pretty sure that a piece of Dominic died with her.

I’m sorry, he’d told me. But I’m fucked up.

Of course he is. At least that part makes sense now. The why of it, anyway. The how is still a mystery, but I’m not sure that it matters. Emma is dead and there’s no bringing her back. But some other things are still unanswered… like why Dominic blames Cris.

I hear a noise downstairs, a noise like a door closing, and I leap to my feet, making sure that I put everything back exactly as I found it before I rush out the door, closing it quietly behind me. I rush downstairs toward the veranda.

After dying to know more about Dominic, I’m completely conflicted now and I regret snooping through his things. Something about that black velvet box made me intensely sad and melancholy.

Emma died.

She was a huge part of his life and she died. And not only that, but he refuses to talk about her or anything remotely concerning her. I know in my heart that whatever is wrong with Dominic, whatever is broken inside of him, is because of Emma.