Page 169 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

Mike would want that. Not for me to forget or pretend it didn't happen, but to take this load and forge it into something useful. Determination. Purpose.

The Florida sun is still merciless as I drive away, but it feels less like punishment and more like Mike's way of telling me to stop wallowing and get on with living.

Whatever comes next, that's what I'll do.

For him. For Londyn. For our baby.

For whatever future I can carve out from the ruins of my mistakes.

Epilogue

LONDYN

FOUR MONTHS LATER

SUNLIGHT POURS THROUGH THE KITCHEN windows of our new home. The light is like liquid gold and I love it. I'm standing at the island arranging crackers and cheese on a platter, humming softly under my breath.

I really love this kitchen because it's so spacious and so different from my old apartment in Manhattan. It's an open concept, spilling out into the living room, with plenty of gleaming surfaces. The polished concrete is cool beneath my feet, and the oversized living room windows span the entire wall, designed to erase the boundary between inside and outside. There are so many windows in our home, and skylights, making it a place where sea and sky become part of our daily scenery.

But we both needed a place with easy exits, so life isn't completely without anxiety. I think hypervigilance is just part of who we are as a couple. Certain design features help us both feel more at ease. Such as, the knife block sits precisely seventeen steps from the back door. The kitchen island itself is positioned so that I can see all entrances while standing at its center. And, of course, we have the best security setup around.

Security cameras monitor the perimeter and the inside, sending feeds to both of our phones. Outside, a wraparound deck with weather-worn planks offers three separate staircases down to the sand. Multiple escape routes, just in case. Each room flows into the next without sharp transitions, creating a continuous space that feels both expansive and protective.

This place is our home, our fortress, and where we both belong.

Also, Sean has his books. Lots and lots of books. An entireroomof books. And I've actually read some of them, thanks to our weekly book club meetings. Sean is actually trying to convince Declan and Sienna to join so they can meet with us virtually every week.

They're busy people, though. Sienna has her non-profit work and her painting, and Declan recently started his own non-profit for abused women. Asking them to meet weekly is a lot, but maybe monthly or bi-monthly could work. I really like Sienna and can see us becoming better friends.

I pause to rest my palm against the swell of my belly, feeling the flutter of tiny movements. Our son. The word still catches in mythroat sometimes. He's a tiny miracle growing inside me, half me and half Sean.

"My package finally arrived," Sean calls from the hallway. He appears and holds up a children's book with a ridiculous title about a dragon who can't stop hiccuping. "Got a new book. This is essential literature for any well-rounded baby."

I roll my eyes but can't suppress my smile. "I'm sure he'll be reciting Shakespeare before kindergarten with your influence."

"Don't be ridiculous." Sean crosses the space to the kitchen island. He sets the book down and then wraps his arms around me from behind, his hands joining mine over our child. "I'm thinking more Hemingway. Maybe some Steinbeck. Build character."

His breath is warm against my neck, and I lean back into the solid wall of his chest. These casual touches still surprise me sometimes; they've become so easy and natural. I no longer flinch or tense, just enjoy the simple pleasure of skin against skin.

I also enjoy that Sean craves that 'pleasure' almost every night and likes to be tied in chairs regularly. Guess I've discovered a kink he's happy to indulge.

"All he needs is a crib and some books," Sean says, his chin resting on top of my head as he looks down at the messy charcuterie boards I'm attempting. "Minimalist approach. Very modern."

I laugh and turn in his arms. "And where exactly are we storing all the baby clothes your mother keeps sending?"

"On the bookshelf, obviously."

"You're impossible." I stretch up to kiss him, loving the safety of his embrace. "He needs a proper nursery. Toys. A mobile above the crib. Something to look at besides blank walls."

"Books have pictures."

"We're painting the room blue," I say firmly. "Like the ocean. Like your hair." I reach up to thread my fingers through his long, electric blue strands.

"And how long after he's born should we wait before dyeing his hair? I want people to know the baby is mine."

I let out a long laugh. He's always saying something that makes me smile. "Probably a few years," I say and he looks disappointed.

A baby with blue hair—that would be something.

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