Page 125 of Reverie

Examining the list, I see that many of these things I’ve done since Hunter came into my life.

I’ve explored U Street. I haven’t taken an official cooking class, but the time Ella taught me how to bake Hunter’s favorite cake counts in my book. We went to artTech to view an installation of roses on our first date, and we most certainly kissed on New Years.

I close my eyes to savor the memory of how explosively we came together in that opulent bathroom. We consumed each other, committing to loving each other with everything within our broken souls.

I open my eyes again and skip them down the page to the last entry.

Make love while in love.

Even in our angriest moments or most needy moments, sex between us has always been more.

It’s been an expression of our hurts and fears. It’s been healing. It’s been connection. It’s been joy and pain and reconciliation.

Sex with Hunter has always been making love—literally co-creating love and growing it into something that’s beyond the two of us.

I put my hand to my stomach, over our growing child.

Veronica was right when it came to this part—Hunter pushed for a baby, and I acquiesced. I didn’t do anything to prevent it; instead, I just let it happen. But that doesn’t mean I was in the right place to consent to it.

And yet…Hunter made the decision. If I look at it closely through the lens of his control and his fear of losing me, I can see how he came to that choice.

It’s not the healthiest move on his part, to say the least.

Still, I can accept when I’m quiet and analytical, that I wanted to surrender to what Hunter wanted.

And is that really that bad?

Only if you lose yourself in the process, Winter. Only if you reach that point by turning yourself into a victim.

Kitty bounds over, skidding to a stop with a cricket leg poking out of his mouth. He drops it at my feet—an offering.

I reach down and rub his silky ear.

That’s the key. We can do whatever we want, be whoever we want together…as long as we know who we are as individuals too. As long as we honor ourselves.

“You ready, Winter?”

Amelia peeks her head from the doorway, and I close the journal, securing it with the attached elastic.

“I’m ready,” I tell her and walk back into the house, determined to find my future.

SEVENTEEN

HUNTER

Misha made a joke a few days ago that I live in the war room, but the fact is, he isn’t wrong.

Ever since the breakthrough that I might have actually met The Architect on Isla Cara all those years ago, I’ve been searching everything I brought to Misha’s home from the island, scouring them for any further clues.

Sure, Isla Cara isn’t the size of Texas, but if we needed to go through the entire island looking for clues to where The Architect is and who they are, then it would be so helpful to narrow things down so we’re not searching for a needle in a haystack.

Plus, the time crunch is real. It’s like I can feel Morris Winthrope breathing down my neck, getting ready to tear my life apart.

No, not tear it apart. Completely annihilate it.

I started documenting my memories, examining them backward and forward and trying to draw connections.

And still, I’m coming up short.