Page 123 of Reverie

Amelia is quiet for a moment, then she says, “You don’t have to tell me all that happened, but can I say something?”

I nod, telling myself it’s okay to look at her, because maybe she won’t judge me for how out of control I am right now.

“I’m not sure that I even know what love is, but I know what it’s not.”

I look down when she says those words.

“Are you going to tell me that our love isn’t right?” I ask. I examine my nails, searching for a place to bite them that I haven’t already made bleed.

“No, not at all, Winter,” she says instead.

I snap my head back up.

Her smile spreads, and I freeze when she places her hand on mine.

“Love isn’t neat or simple. Love isn’t without ebbs or flows. Love isn’t just for perfect people.” She squeezes my fingers a fraction.

“Hunter has gone through so much. Much more than I think he’ll ever confess. And that’s okay. Sometimes, people need to hold their pain in a way that makes it manageable so they can survive. I think you understand that, though,” she says.

I nod in response. Of course she’s right. I pushed Hunter. I pushed him beyond where he was ready to go, and in the brightness of the sunrise, I can see just how goddamn irresponsible that was.

Therapeutically, it was the wrong thing to do. I caused harm to Hunter by not taking into account what he needed so that he could come to me and trust me.

Maybe that’s why he’s stayed away for so long. I was trying to strong-arm him into trusting me, so it’s no wonder why my actions resulted in the opposite outcome.

If the shoe were on the other foot, what would people be saying about him?

I tug on a piece of dry skin on my lip with my teeth.

“He’s been hurt. You’ve been hurt. But neither of you are broken beyond repair. Things can always be mended, even if they fit together a little differently than they did before.”

I can’t say anything to her words because I know if I do, I’ll just collapse and sob all over her. So I continue to bite my lip and nod.

“Your heart isn’t wrong. Listen to it,” she says.

With one final pat, she adds, “Have you eaten breakfast yet? You need your strength. You’re growing my grandbaby in there.”

I let out a small chuckle, and she squeezes my hand again.

So many men have hurt this woman—her father who traded her, her first husband, and then Benjamin Brigham—and yet she’s still out here comforting me, reminding me that love can work.

Love can be safe.

“How did you figure it out?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

“Figure what out?” she replies.

“What love isn’t. Have you been in love then?”

Her smile turns sad. “Something like that,” is all she says in return.

She stands, cutting off the thread of conversation, and says, “I’ll have the chef make you a real breakfast. I heard that you’ve been existing on apples and Oreo cookies.” She lifts her eyebrow.

I give her a chagrined smile. “Yeah…” I say.

She smiles in return.

“Fifteen minutes, okay?”