Secrets Whispered from the Sea - Emma St. Clair Page 0,51

what happened.”

He wasn’t wrong. Not about any of it. That didn’t make it hurt less. But I could see that he was hurting too. Probably more than I was.

“I’d hoped that this night would end differently,” he said.

My voice was like a quiet breeze on the dark night air. “How did you want it to end?”

“With you in my arms. Back in my life. This time for real. For good. Forever.”

“What do you mean, for real? We were together for two years. Was that not real?”

Chuck’s smile was sad. “It was. At least for me. But I never had you fully, Clementine. Not ever. You’ve always held yourself back from me. That’s why I said I couldn’t hurt you. In order to really hurt someone, they have to let you in. You never have. Not fully. I hoped over time that might change, that you might let me be the one to open you up. But I’m not that man. Coming here was a mistake. But at least now I know, and we can both move on.”

His words hit me like the cold slap of a wave, leaving me stinging and shivering with the impact. I knew everything he said was true. I’d had similar thoughts. But it hurt so much more coming from him. The truth needled its way even deeper into me.

I felt suddenly childlike. I was a grown woman, yet I couldn’t form deeper attachments, deeper roots.

Chuck pulled the rental car keys from his pocket. “For what it’s worth, I think this life here suits you. I’m sad that things didn’t turn out the way I’d hoped, but I think maybe you should stay.”

I’m not staying, I wanted to say but didn’t.

“Goodbye, Clem. I wish you the best.”

And with a last look filled with sadness and longing, Chuck climbed in his rental car and drove away, leaving me feeling as though I’d just been broken up with for the second time.

This time hurt so much worse.

18

Something about the breakup part two stirred an urgency to finish decluttering Nana’s house. I poured myself into the work the next morning. The bathroom and hall closet were fine, other than needing a good deep clean. Which left the two guest bedrooms and the one door I hadn’t yet brought myself to open.

Knee-deep in trash bags and boxes, I began to carve a slow and steady path through the first guest room. I wasn’t surprised to get Chuck’s text mid-morning, letting me know that he was headed back to Houston. I hadn’t expected to see him again, not after the finality of our goodbye. Even so, a weight settled over me as I read the message.

There were no more best wishes, no thanks, no apologies. It was the kind of text you’d send to your secretary or something. But then, I guessed we’d done the last of our emotional baggage-sorting the night before.

I still felt raw, though it wasn’t really about losing my ex, specifically. And that was really the crux of it. Chuck was a good man. The kind you hold on to. But I couldn’t, and what’s more, I didn’t even want to.

What did that say about me?

His words had flayed me open, revealing a deep, hidden part of me that didn’t often see the light. As I separated things into a junk pile and one for donation, I let Chuck’s words from the night before—accusations, as they felt to me—settle around in my mind along with the other thoughts already taking up residence there.

Was I really so closed off emotionally?

Why did Nana have so many magazine and newspaper subscriptions?

If Chuck had spoken up sooner, would it have made a difference? Could I have changed?

Would I have—for him?

Did Nana have some kind of table lamp obsession?

Was her hoarding a sign of mental illness?

Had she been lonely all these years?

Was that going to be me?

As I continued to read Nana’s journal, I’d come across a few dark entries, ones that opened up a raw ache within me. Confessions about hurting my grandpa’s feelings, or not being the mother she should have to her daughter, my mom. She blamed herself for Mom’s drinking, or at least, for not doing more to stop it. And for the way Mom treated me and Ann, even Dad.

The humor wasn’t present in those entries. They were solemn and introspective. Full of shame and despair.

Had Nana been struggling with depression?

Was I?

While Sandover held some of my best memories from childhood, they weren’t all cheery. Especially the