One.
Neither of us takes that final step.
I’m out of breath, panting and nervous. “I forgot to tell you Emerson’s middle name.” I put my hands on my hips and exhale. “It’s Dory.”
He doesn’t immediately react, but then his eyes crinkle a little in the corners. His mouth twitches like he’s forcing back a smile. “What a perfect name for her.”
I nod, and smile, and then stop.
I’m not sure what to do now. I just needed him to know that, but now that I’ve told him, I didn’t really think of what I’d do or say next.
I nod again, and then glance around me, throwing a thumb over my shoulder. “Well . . . I guess I’ll . . .”
Atlas steps forward, grabs me, and pulls me hard against his chest. I immediately close my eyes when he wraps his arms around me. His hand goes up to the back of my head and he holds me still against him as we stand, surrounded by busy streets, blasts of horns, people brushing us as they pass in a hurry. He presses a gentle kiss into my hair, and all of that fades away.
“Lily,” he says quietly. “I feel like my life is good enough for you now. So whenever you’re ready . . .”
I clench his jacket in my hands and keep my face pressed tight against his chest. I suddenly feel like I’m fifteen again. My neck and cheeks flush from his words.
But I’m not fifteen.
I’m an adult with responsibilities and a child. I can’t just allow my teenage feelings to take over. Not without a little reassurance, at least.
I pull back and look up at him. “Do you donate to charity?”
Atlas laughs with confusion. “Several. Why?”
“Do you want kids someday?”
He nods. “Of course I do.”
“Do you think you’ll ever want to leave Boston?”
He shakes his head. “No. Never. Everything is better here, remember?”
His answers give me the reassurance I need. I smile up at him. “Okay. I’m ready.”
He pulls me tight against him and I laugh. With everything that has happened since the day he came into my life, I never expected this outcome. I’ve hoped for it a lot, but until now I wasn’t sure if it would ever happen.
I close my eyes when I feel his lips meet the spot on my collarbone. He presses a gentle kiss there and it feels just like the first time he kissed me there all those years ago. He brings his mouth to my ear, and in a whisper, he says, “You can stop swimming now, Lily. We finally reached the shore.”
Note from the Author
It is recommended this section be read after reading the book, as it contains spoilers.
• • •
My earliest memory in life was from the age of two and a half years old. My bedroom didn’t have a door and was covered by a sheet nailed to the top of the door frame. I remember hearing my father yelling, so I peeked out from the other side of the sheet just as my father picked up our television and threw it at my mother, knocking her down.
She divorced him before I turned three. Every memory beyond that of my father was a good one. He never once lost his temper with me or my sisters, despite having done so on numerous occasions with my mother.
I knew their marriage was an abusive one, but my mother never talked about it. To discuss it would have meant she was talking ill of my father and that’s something she never once did. She wanted the relationship I had with him to be free of any strain that stood between the two of them. Because of this, I have the utmost respect for parents who don’t involve their children in the dissolution of their relationships.
I asked my father about the abuse once. He was very candid about their relationship. He was an alcoholic during the years he was married to my mother and he was the first to admit he didn’t treat her well. In fact, he told me he had two knuckles replaced in his hand because he had hit her so hard, they broke against her skull.
My father regretted the way he treated my mother his entire life. Mistreating her was the worst mistake he had ever made and he said he would grow old and die still madly in love with her.
I feel that was a very light punishment for what she endured.
When I decided I wanted to write this story, I first asked my mother for permission. I told her I wanted to write it for women like her. I also wanted to write it for all the people who didn’t quite understand women like her.
I was one of those people.
The mother I know is not weak. She was not someone I could envision forgiving a man for mistreating her on multiple occasions. But while writing this book and getting into the mind-set of Lily, I quickly realized that it’s not as black and white as it seems from the outside.
On more than one occasion while writing this, I wanted to change the plotline. I didn’t want Ryle to be who he was going to be because I had fallen in love with him in those first several chapters, just as Lily had fallen in love with him. Just as my mother fell in love with my father.
The first incident between Ryle and Lily in the kitchen is what happened the first time my father ever hit my mother. She was cooking a casserole and he had been drinking. He pulled the casserole out of the oven without using a pot holder. She thought it was funny and she laughed. The next thing she knew, he had hit her so hard she flew across the kitchen floor.
She chose to forgive him for that one incident, because his apology and regret were believable. Or at least believable enough that giving him a second chance hurt less than leaving with a broken heart would have.
Over time, the incidents that followed were similar to the first. My father would repeatedly show remorse and promise to never do it again. It finally got to a point where she knew his promises were empty, but she was a mother of two daughters by then and had no money to leave. And unlike Lily, my mother didn’t have a lot of support. There were no local women’s shelters. There was very little government support back then. To leave meant risking not having a roof over our heads, but to her it was better than the alternative.
My father passed away several years ago, when I was twenty-five years old. He wasn’t the best father. He certainly wasn’t the best husband. But thanks to my mother, I was able to have a very close relationship with him because she took the necessary steps to break the pattern before it broke us. And it wasn’t easy. She left him right before I turned three and my older sister turned five. We lived off beans and macaroni and cheese for two solid years. She was a single mother without a college education, raising two daughters on her own with virtually no help. But her love for us gave her the strength she needed to take that terrifying step.
By no means do I intend for Ryle and Lily’s situation to define domestic abuse. Nor do I intend for Ryle’s character to define the characteristics of most abusers. Every situation is different. Every outcome is different. I chose to fashion Lily and Ryle’s story after my mother and father’s. I fashioned Ryle after my father in many ways. They are handsome, compassionate, funny, and smart—but with moments of unforgivable behavior.
I fashioned Lily after my mother in many ways. They are both caring, intelligent, strong women who simply fell in love with men who didn’t deserve to fall in love at all.
