“Wait…so that’s it? You’re just…letting him off the hook?” Rachel stands in the surf, her hands tucked in the pockets of her polar fleece.
Poppy stands at her side. Her long blonde ponytail is pulled through the back of her Rays hat. They’re both looking at me like I’ve got snakes for hair.
“Yeah, that’s it,” I reply, taking a sip of my hot chocolate. The February air carries a chill this morning, biting at my fingertips as I raise the travel mug to my lips. We pretty much have this stretch of beach all to ourselves.
“And you’re…okay with that?” Shelby presses from Poppy’s other side. She’s the one who brought us the hot chocolates. Our guys are all still in Cincinnati, helping Ryan pack up the rest of my apartment. They fly back this afternoon.
“I am,” I reply with a nod, and I know in my heart that I mean it.
The girls eye me warily, saying nothing as we continue our walk in the surf.
“Look, I could press charges,” I explain. “I could take Troy to court for the stalking, the harassment. I could air every single piece of dirty laundry we shared over the last decade. But Troy would give as good as he gets. He would drag out every minute of it. He and his mother would try to bury me in delays and legal fees and counter claims. Don’t you see? Fighting him in court is just another way I let him win. I’m done letting him take up my time, my joy. He’s taken enough from me. They both have. Please, tell me you can understand,” I say, reaching for Rachel’s arm.
She pauses, slipping her hand out again to take mine. “Oh, honey, I do,” she says, her tone earnest. “I promise, I do. I mean, if it were up to me, I’d go total Game of Thrones on his ass. He hurt you, Tess. He hurt my friend. If I had my way, he’d be torn apart by a dragon’s talons.”
“Or a pack of wild dogs,” Poppy adds.
“Hey, what’s the myth with the man who has his insides eaten every day by a vulture?” asks Shelby.
“Prometheus,” Poppy replies. “And it wasn’t a vulture, it was an eagle.”
I give them a gentle smile. “I don’t know if I can find an eagle to commit to eating his insides every day. That seems like more work than finding a fair judge and jury.”
“But you want to find a judge and jury?” Rachel nudges. “You want to press charges?”
“No,” I admit, giving her my truth. “I’m sorry, but I don’t.”
“Oh, Tess, don’t apologize to me,” Rachel says, taking my hand again. “I just want you to be sure. I want you to weigh all your options and make the best choice for you. And I want you to know you have choices. Because if it’s a matter of paying legal fees or you needing to hire a legal team, you know we would—”
“I know,” I say, squeezing her hand. “I know you’d help me without question. I know you’d give me a kidney if I needed it.”
She smiles. “Let’s hope that doesn’t become necessary anytime soon, but yes, I would. At this point, I’ll have to fight Jake for the honor,” she adds with a laugh. “He’s very determined to protect you and make you feel like a Price.”
“I may not have a kidney to offer, but you have my support,” says Shelby from my other side. “Whatever you decide, whatever feels right to you, we’re here, Tess. And just because a court isn’t involved, it doesn’t mean there’s no justice.”
“What do you mean?” asks Poppy.
“Well, in my experience, justice looks different to each person,” Shelby explains. “For some, justice only comes when they see their abuser behind bars. Others feel justified when their abuser admits to their crimes and seeks forgiveness.”
“Troy will never admit he’s at fault. Turtles will fly before he ever apologizes to me,” I say. “But maybe the therapy will be enlightening. If not for him, I think Bea isn’t beyond reaching. And she holds massive sway in his life. I really think she can help him.”
Shelby gives me a sympathetic nod. “In that case, perhaps the sweetest form of justice comes from you boldly moving on. Leave them to each other. We survive, we thrive, and we never give them power over us again.”
It’s my turn to pause, holding her gentle gaze. I’ve never mentioned what she admitted to me in the garage. Not to Rachel, not to anyone. Shelby may be a child psychologist who deals with cases like mine in a professional capacity, but she and I both know her experience runs deeper. She bears her own scars.
“Is that what you would do?” I ask.
She smiles, tears in her eyes. “I would want the future too. No more living in the past.”
I nod, my heart fluttering with relief at being understood. Next to me, Poppy sucks in a breath that sounds almost like a sob.
“Pop? You okay?” Rachel asks.
“Oh, goodness,” she says with a little laugh. “Don’t mind me. I’m such a hormonal mess these days.”
“What about you?” I say at her. “What would you do?”
She sniffs back her tears, wiping under her nose. “Some days it feels like my past holds more ghosts than the Haunted Mansion.” She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. Slowly, she opens them. “I want the future too,” she says, her lips quivering as she places a hand on her little bump. “Heaven help me, I can’t keep looking back. I want to look forward. I need to look forward.”
I nod, giving her shoulder a squeeze.
“Well, here,” says Rachel, glancing around the sand at our feet. “Find a shell.”
Poppy sniffles. “What?”
“Everyone find a shell,” Rachel says again.
Seashells litter this stretch of beach—cockles and whelks, even the occasional conch shell. Most are no bigger than a silver dollar. I find one half-buried in the sand. It’s a little scallop shell, orange at the edges and rosy pink at the base.
Next to me, Shelby dusts off a little white shell. “What are we doing with these?” she asks, holding it in her open palm.
“Everyone has one?” Rachel replies, holding a curled black shell in her outstretched hand.
We all show our shells, our fingers dusted with sand.
“Right, so this was something my grandma did with us when we were little,” Rachel explains. “You whisper a secret to the shell, a hope, a dream. You give it to the shell to carry, and the ocean keeps it safe.”
Poppy raises a skeptical brow. “You want me to tell this shell a secret?”
Rachel smiles. “If you want. Or you can give it your past. Give it your ghosts.” She looks to me, her gaze solemn. “Give it your pain, your frustration.”
“I’m gonna need a bigger shell,” Shelby deadpans.
“Shells are tough,” Rachel replies. “They can hold more than you think.”
I look down at my shell, noting the thin ridges and the color, rusty like my hair. My heart beats faster as I close my fingers around it, letting those ridges imprint into the meat of my palm.
Rachel stands next to me, her eyes falling shut as she takes a deep breath. “Give the shell whatever you need it to carry for you. And when you’re ready…let it go.”
“Let it go?” Poppy repeats.
Rachel smiles, opening her eyes. “Like this.” Giving her shell a little kiss, she cocks her arm back and flings her shell out into the waves, letting the water swallow it. Then she lets out a deep exhale, her shoulder relaxing.
Closing my eyes, I concentrate on the shell in my hand, feeding it my anger and frustration, my fear, my loneliness, my own self-defeat. I am Tess. I am strong and confident. There is no room for shame. I give it to the shell. I am beautiful and kind. There is no room for insecurity. I let the shell have that too. I am powerful. I am wanted. I am loved. There is no room for doubt.
Giving the shell one last squeeze, I open my eyes and gaze out at the water. I watch the waves crash in once, twice, the white caps frothing against the sand as the water laps at my toes. Taking a deep breath, I cock my arm and fling the shell into the air, watching as it sails over the surf to land with a soundless plop in the grayish blue water.
“There.” I take Rachel’s sandy hand in mine. “It’s done.”
“It’s done,” she repeats.
To either side of us, Poppy and Shelby throw their shells into the ocean too. The four of us stand there with tears in our eyes, watching as the waves crash at our ankles.
After a few minutes of reverent silence, Poppy clears her throat. “Anyone up for brunch?”
“God, yes,” Shelby replies. “I’m starving.”
“Me too,” Rachel echoes. “Tess? You in?”
I glance away from the water at the faces of the three women smiling at me, waiting for me, including me. They want me here. I’m wanted. I’m loved. I’m home.
There is no room for doubt.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to keep the emotion from my voice. “Yeah, brunch sounds good.”
