Page 53 of The Choices I've Made
It caught Fisher’s attention, and I found him leaning forward.
“Like I said, it’s something he needs to figure out—”
“On his own,” I said, finishing his sentence. “Thanks, Fisher.”
He gave me a quick nod. “Sure thing.”
I got up to leave but stopped by the door when Fisher called out for me.
“Yeah?” I said, feeling disheartened by the entire conversation.
“Take care of her,” he said. “The girl.”
I took a deep breath. “I will,” I replied, hating myself in that moment. Because I knew it was the last thing I needed to hear. If there was any man on the planet who should be keeping a distance from Molly McIntyre, it was me.
Little was said on the way back home. After returning to Molly with nothing but more infuriating news, I felt my presence was just making things worse. So, I tried to be invisible, speaking only when spoken to—which wasn’t much. Only a request for a bathroom break and radio station adjustment.
It was a long trip, made longer by the influx of people waiting for the ferry.
The initial fear of the ferry system felt by many had worn off with the flood of tourists taking advantage of the lovely spring weather. It wasn’t as hellish as summertime, but a definite uptick in bodies and cars.
By the time we made it to the inn, we were both tired and famished. I offered to make us sandwiches, but Molly declined, forgoing food for the sanctuary of her room. Seeing her walk off toward the family side of the house brought back many memories.
Sneaking into her room at night.
Sneaking out of her room at night…and all the things we had done in between.
Molly had once been my entire world. My past and my future.
Until, one day, she wasn’t.
I’d made the choice to put myself first—or at least, that was what I told myself. In reality, I’d only buried the past, like one of those hopeless pirates my mom had always spoken of during bedtime stories.
After my poor excuse for a ham sandwich, I decided to retire to my room for the night also. Taking the stairs to the yellow room, I was stopped abruptly when the doorbell rang.
What should I do? Do I answer it?
Looking around for some sort of answer, I quickly made up my mind and turned around. Molly, the ever-present and overworked hostess, however, beat me to it.
And she found herself face-to-face with Dottie Sutherland.
Realizing my presence might make it difficult for her, I melted back into the stairwell and headed for my room.
Until I heard Molly burst into tears.
Twisting back around, I stuck my head around the corner.
Dottie had stepped inside and was holding Molly as she fell apart.
Oh God, what happened?
He couldn’t have…
“He wants the ring back?” Molly said, disbelief woven into every syllable. “Why, Dottie? I don’t understand.”
For a brief second, I was relieved. Relieved my friend hadn’t done anything drastic, like taking his own life. It was common for victims of post-traumatic stress disorder, and based on his mood earlier today, I wouldn’t put it past him.
But this?
