Page 80 of Secondhand Secrets

She gave him a small nod, thankful for his honesty. “And your dad.”

His brow hardened. “Who cares what he—”

“I care.” Despite her unsteadiness and the sickness churning her belly, her voice still held a firm insistence. “I don’t want to be the thorn in your family’s side.”

“You’re not.” He tugged at her hands, color raising on his cheeks and dulling the whites of his eyes. Frustrated. Grief stricken.

She tilted her head to one side and implored him to once again be honest with himself, the tension easing on his face as he eventually nodded down at the ground between them.

Sadness sweeping over, she bit into her lower lip, wanting to believe that today’s traumatic events could change things, instead of being just another reason she, Chip, and Harlow couldn’t be one.

“Chip, you shouldn’t have to defend me against him.” She dropped her attention to his crumpled white shirt, the button-up one he’d likely worn to his presentation at Encode, only to find himself embroiled in the Syndicate’s vendetta against his sister and hometown. “I don’t want to have to justify who I am anymore. We don’t fit together, Chip, and being with you forced me to accept that. To accept who I am, even if others won’t. So if I’m lucky enough to survive today, I won’t use my precious second chance trying to fit in where I’m not wanted.”

Water pooled along the edges of his eyes, like he acknowledged the change in her and knew he couldn’t ask her to compromise who she was to be with him. Still, he spoke again, “Ally, you are wanted.”

“I know.” She gave him a tight smile, the whomp of an approaching helicopter cutting through her disorientation. She’d be leaving him soon. Her reasons this time, clear and final. “I know you never meant to make me feel like anything less than the woman you loved—and believe me—I do feel loved, Chip. I love you too. I love you enough to spare us the next years pretending we can make things work in ways your parents couldn’t.”

Heavy tears trickled down her face, and she finally reached for him, hooking her hand desperately around his wrist and pulling him in. “For the first time in my life, I know that love isn’t always about throwing myself all in. I’m giving you up because it’s the right thing to do. I need you to make that decision, too, Chip. Remember your earlier promise?”

As though he recognized her reference to his negations with Mark over her life, Chip pressed his lips into a thin line, a defined stillness dominating him. “You want me to let you go.”

He spoke in a statement more than a question, but his dejected tone revealed a desire to bear down on his reluctance—even as he pulled her in so their foreheads touched—he shook his head in denial of what he had to do.

The light around her dimmed, and she turned to a group of five medics rushing through the barn’s front doors, their fast approach raising a sense of frantic panic. She and Chip—her childhood friend, now the love of her life—would be wrenched apart.

“Chip.” Her voice cracked along with her heart, an unmissable fissure opening with a need to hear she wasn’t alone in her decision. “Say you’ll let me go too.”

Thirty-Nine

Two weeks later, Ally sat at her kitchen table with a clear plastic sheet spread over the wood surface while she painted her most recent set of plant pots. Only now, she angled the thin brush away so she could press a hand over her eyes and not get paint on her face.

“Headache, again?” Her mom peered over from the sink, already filling a glass with water.

Ally gave a disingenuous laugh and squeezed her eyes shut against the dull ache in her brain. “Did they ever leave?”

“Oh, honey.” Her mother’s footsteps drew near. “Here.”

Ally opened her eyes to her mother’s outstretched palm, two white pills sitting in the center. More painkillers. Just about all she could do while she waited for her brain to heal from the concussion she’d sustained when Mark Farro’s men had rammed Sarah’s car.

The same day she’d lost Chip.

“Thanks.” She took the pills and the glass of water and then downed both in quick order.

“You’re over-exerting yourself.” A series of wrinkles lined her mother’s forehead, that look of concern Ally had gotten all too used to lately. “You’re supposed to be taking care of yourself, but you’re busier than ever. What with the Argyle job and the pieces for the wedding.”

“You sound like Laila.” Ally refocused on the pot before her, half-blocking out her mom, half-expecting her sister to develop some kind of telepathy and call to check on Ally for the millionth time.

Maybe her mom and sister were a little right. Ally did have a lot to do, but distraction served a higher purpose than lying in bed brooding. At least in this case, anyway.

Her physical injuries weren’t her only wounds. She was still heartbroken. Still reeling from the psychological trauma of having her life so nearly ended. The Argyle deal and making clay hearts for Emilia’s wedding offered a smidgeon of salvation.

In fact, she’d only signed the Argyle deal after negotiating to make all the pieces herself. She wouldn’t mass produce her designs. Not just yet, anyway. She’d create bespoke pieces priced a little higher and use this experience to get quicker at throwing pots on her wheel. The more she made, the more she could hopefully sell.

And as for Emilia’s wedding, well, that was one of the very few things Ally looked forward to. Not just the chance to celebrate, but the process of revealing her ceramic heart design—small clay ornaments on a string with Emilia and Blaine’s names atop an imprint of lavender sprigs. Her nod to their first date at Aggie’s lavender farm.

Even just imagining their reactions brought a smile to her face—smiling being something she didn’t do a whole lot lately.

“What am I supposed to do?” She leaned back into her chair and took a steadying breath, once again abandoning her work when she really needed to keep moving. “Stay in my room and think? Bad enough Blaine replaced me with Emilia at Oak Tree.”

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