The Sweetest Secret

by Jacquie Underdown

  ‘Sam. Roger here. Just giving you an update on the vandalism.’

  Sam sat taller. ‘Yeah, mate.’

  ‘We interviewed Tiffany, but there’s no evidence she was involved. Her alibi is solid.’

  If not Tiffany, then who? His stomach leaped, heart rate accelerated. Tamara? Surely, she could not be interfering again after all these years?

  Tamara had been the biggest mindfuck. And unless someone knew what it was like to be gaslighted, they would never understand how much damage that could do to a nineteen-year-old boy.

  Gaslighting. He had learned that term later. And discovering that term helped him pull apart Tamara’s behaviour, recognise her tactics, and allow him to gain some of his own sanity back.

  In retrospect, he should have recognised the manipulation earlier. But she was so smart, had a PhD in Psychology, understood the mind more than most.

  She would always analyse every little thing he did or pretend to, and what she came up with was never positive.

  ‘You lack empathy,’ she would say after he rushed to finish an important university assignment, so arrived at her apartment an hour after their pre-arranged time. ‘That’s the problem with you, Sam. If you had a little more empathy, you’d realise how being late makes me feel. You’d know the damage it causes me. Don’t you even understand how much I love you? Or how I’m risking my job and my future to be with you?’

  After that, Sam completed his study and assignments at her apartment, so he could still finish his coursework but also show her that he did love her and didn’t lack empathy. But on a few occasions, when he woke up and went to re-read his essay with fresh eyes, it would be missing from his laptop.

  Tamara would try and find it for him, and sometimes she would find it saved under some obscure name in some unused file on his hard drive. ‘Lucky you have me here to help you, Sam. I’ve never met a more scattered person in my life.’

  Other times, they would never find the assignment, and Tamara would help him quickly write another one.

  And while they worked at the assignment, it would be fun and light and she would do things to him, like go down on him, or walk around naked, or masturbate on the bed in eyesight, which to any young man was a dream come true.

  But later she would say, ‘I don’t know how you are even passing, Sam. Your organisational skills are beyond a joke. Tell me about your mother, was she an organised person? I’m guessing she was and this is all some childish rebellion.’

  Sam shook his head, brought his attention back to the car, tossing those thoughts away.

  ‘And the, ah, the other ex-girlfriend. Tamara?’ Roger’s voice was softer, hesitant somehow.

  Sam’s stomach clenched again in expectation of bad news. ‘Yes,’ Sam prompted, wanting Roger to hurry up and state his findings.

  ‘We followed that lead, and it didn’t check out either. Obviously, you were unaware that Tamara was deceased.’

  Sam shook his head, gripped the steering wheel harder. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Tamara died about six months ago. This was confirmed by her parents.’

  All the air in Sam’s lungs came rushing out in a big gush. Dead? Tamara was dead.

  ‘Um … No, I … I didn’t know that. How? I mean … how did it happen?’

  Roger cleared his throat. ‘Her parents said she took her own life.’

  Another punch to the guts, leaving his lungs tight and achy. Tamara was the bane of his existence, but he didn’t want to hear this about anyone, let alone someone he had once loved.

  Sam rubbed his hand down his face. ‘Shit.’

  ‘Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s … fine.’ His throat was strangling his words.

  ‘We’ve got a few more leads to chase up. I’ll keep you informed.’

  Sam swallowed hard, easing some of the tension. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Talk soon.’

  ‘Yep.’

  Roger hung up. Sam steered the ute to the side of the track. He cut the engine and let his forehead drop to the steering wheel.

  Tamara had killed herself. Well, she had always threatened to do it.

  After all that she put him through, he always thought that he wouldn’t care. In the past, when he was really angry, he would wish that she would just get it over with, so tired of the weight of that threat.

  But the gloss of his eyes, and the guilt nestling in his gut spoke differently. He did care. Of course he cared.

  He had loved her.

  Maybe. He thought he had.

  Under all the manipulation and mind games, it had felt to him like love. A messy, dangerous love but still love.

  He scrubbed his hands over his face, then reached for his phone and dialled Mitch. Mitch answered after a long while. ‘What’s up?’ An undercurrent of impatience sat beneath his words.

  Sam cleared his throat. ‘I, ah, just heard from Roger. The lead on Tiffany didn’t work out. And …’ he hesitated, both frightened and curious by how hard this was to say out loud, ‘And turns out Tamara committed suicide six months ago.’ Was it because he thought, even after all this time, that he was somehow to blame?

  Silence met him, then a long breath out. ‘You’re kidding me?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Oh, mate, I’m … I’m sorry.’

  ‘Strangely, so am I. No matter what, I never wanted this to happen.’

  ‘Of course not. None of us did. Look, come over for dinner tonight. We’ll have a chat about it.’

  ‘Nah, I’ll give it a miss. I think I just need some time to myself.’

  ‘Sam. Don’t be like that. Come over.’

  ‘Thanks for the offer, but I’m just going to finish cleaning this glasshouse out, then head to bed early.’

  ‘If you change your mind …’

  ‘Yep. Then I’ll let you know.’

  When Sam arrived home, he went to the wine rack and pulled out a bottle of 2013 Shiraz. He poured a big glass and let it rest on the countertop, giving it time to breathe. Then he pressed his palms to the bench, lowered his head, giving himself time to breathe.

  He was buzzing. His mind was a blur of memories and emotions. One minute he was fighting against warm tears, then in the next dealing with buzzing heat and vibrating limbs as anger raged through him.

  How dare she have done this?

  He was trying not to take it personally because it couldn’t possibly be personal, but he couldn’t shake it. Even when he told himself out loud, ‘She was mentally ill. It’s not your fault she killed herself,’ he still took it personally.

  A multitude of memories, strung like tight bands through his mind, snapped and revealed themselves in a flash of accusations and threats and images and screaming.

  Tamara was sitting with him in her car outside the dormitory. He was telling her that it was over. That their relationship wasn’t healthy. She lurched to the side, cracking her skull against the driver’s side window. Blood smeared the glass.

  Sam gasped.

  She smashed it again, the sound a sickening dull thud in the otherwise silent car.

  ‘You can’t do this to me. I can’t live without you, Sam. I will kill myself, I promise you, if you leave me, I’ll have no choice but to kill myself.’

  Tears were flooding her cheeks, filling her eyes.

  Again, her head cracked against the window, the sound setting his teeth on edge.

  ‘Okay. Stop it. Fuck!’

  Crack . Tears, snot, blood, all mixing together.

  ‘Stop it. Please. It doesn’t have to be like this.’

  Crack.

  ‘Okay. I’ll stay. I’ll stay.’

  A year later, Sam finally went to his parents for help. They insisted he tell the university about the relationship.

  Tamara was reprimanded for breaching her fiduciary duties and lost her job.

  Sam quit university and went home.

  The next time he heard from Tamara was from the city hospital. She had slit her wrists.


  The guilt, the turmoil, the black rigid mass of emotion that caused was filling him again right now. No matter what, no matter how much he told himself that it wasn’t his fault, the mindset was there.

  He shook his head. No, Tamara had obviously been very sick and struggling with her own mind. Of course she was. It had nothing to do with him.

  Guilt pulled at his gut. How selfish was he for taking it personally? Always thinking it was about him.

  But she had always made him feel selfish and like every decision he made was for the benefit of himself only.

  He threw his hands up in the air, then scrubbed a hand through his hair.

  Here he was again, back to doubting himself, doubting every thought, every memory, every emotion, unsure of the reality of anything, exactly the mindset he had in the midst of his relationship with Tamara seven years ago.

  How could she still be controlling him all these years after? And she was no longer even alive.

  He never wanted to feel this out of control ever again, where he couldn’t even trust his own mind. But here he was. Back at square one.

  Sam stood up, hands threaded together on the back of his head and swallowed deep breaths. His heart was racing out of control.

  ‘Calm down, Sam. You’ve worked through this. Trust yourself. You know what’s right.’ But his body was tightening, his throat closing over. He couldn’t breathe properly.

  I can’t breathe.

  I can’t breathe.

  A knocking came from the front door, but he couldn’t respond. He was barely holding himself upright. Legs like powder, they buckled beneath him. He caught himself on the way down, latching his hand to the countertop and slowing his descent to the floor.

  ‘Sam?’ came Amy’s voice, followed by the front door opening.

  He thudded on the floor and tried to call out, to tell her to go away, but he couldn’t breathe, and his words came out like a groan.

  She spotted him from the kitchen doorway and rushed over. ‘Oh, God, Sam. What’s the matter?’

  He shook his head, pressed his hand to his heart. His breaths were wheezing.

  ‘Sit up straight. Put your arms on my shoulders.’

  Sam did so.

  ‘Breathe in nice and slow.’

  He did so or tried to.

  ‘That’s it. In. Out.’

  He breathed in and out, following her commands. She stroked her hand up and down his spine in a slow rhythm. He followed that, only concentrated on that rhythm, and tried to sync his breathing to it.

  Eventually, his chest stopped pounding quite so much and breaths came a little easier. His dizziness eased until he came through to the other side, though he was hot and sweaty and trembling.

  And when he sat back and looked into Amy’s concerned face, his cheeks burned with a warmth that had nothing to do with the panic attack and everything to do with being ashamed of who he was.

  He knew how he looked, a big, strong man having a panic attack on the floor of his kitchen.

  ‘You okay?’ she asked.

  He nodded, but he wasn’t ready to attempt standing just yet. He quite liked the cool tiles beneath his backside and pushing against his sweaty palms.

  ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ she said, lifting from the floor.

  He shook his head. ‘There’s a glass of wine there. That would be fine right about now.’

  ‘I’m not giving you wine.’ She strode off busying herself with the jug and the teabags, not looking at him. He appreciated how she was giving him some semblance of privacy to pull himself together.

  After a long moment, Sam stood up and sat on a stool at the bench.

  Amy shoved a glass of cold water across the counter. He reached for it, fire burning in his cheeks when he lifted it and the glass shook in his hand.

  ‘Is this about the glasshouse?’ she asked, still keeping her focus on the task at hand—making tea.

  ‘Yes. No. Sort of.’

  She finally looked at him and arched a brow. ‘Tom said you didn’t go to work today.’

  He shook his head. ‘I had to clean up here.’

  ‘Want to tell me what happened here?’

  Sam frowned, stared at the water in the bottom of his glass. ‘It’s a long story, Amy, and I’m really sick of the story. I tell it to myself on more than enough occasions.’

  She nodded slowly. ‘Fair enough. It’s up to you. Might help, though, to get someone else’s perspective on matters.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  Amy pushed the mugs away. Flicked the jug off. ‘Come on. You’re staying at our house tonight. I’m going to cook a delicious dinner followed by cookie dough cheesecake for dessert. And I’m not taking no for an answer. In fact, I’ll get Tom on the phone and tell him to come over and get you if that’s what it takes.’

  He shook his head. ‘Amy, seriously, you don’t have to. I’d much rather just have some time alone.’

  ‘You’re always alone. Maybe what you really need is company. With people who love you.’

  He lifted his head to look at her. He wasn’t sure why hearing that from Amy had shocked him. She was so new to this family; he hadn’t taken the time to consider that she would could love him.

  Had he thought himself unlovable to anyone but his immediate family? In that moment, he realised the answer was yes.

  A well of emotion burned up his throat, tightening the muscles there. ‘What do you do when you hate the person you’ve become?’ He tried to stop the crack in his voice, but it was loud and clear.

  ‘You make the decision to not be that person anymore.’

  He scoffed. ‘That easy, eh?’

  ‘Yeah, Sam. It actually is.’

  He shook his head and sighed. ‘I’ve really fucked up.’ Tears welled, and he hated himself for it, for showing this weakness. But he was so worn down by the news he had just been given, by the vandalism, by his introspection into his dark side, he couldn’t hide anymore.

  ‘Then let me and Tom help you set things right.’

  Sam sat there, running his finger around the rim of his glass, eyes downcast so he may hide the warm tears prickling.

  ‘Go pack an overnight bag,’ Amy said after a moment. ‘You’re staying the night. Tom and I will take care of you.’

  ‘You sure you want a big moping oaf hanging around?’

  Amy offered a watery smile. ‘Yes. I’m sure.’

  ‘I don’t even have flowers to give as compensation.’

  ‘I don’t need your flowers, Sam.’ She wiped at a tear that fell onto her cheek. ‘God, it breaks my heart that you can’t see that you’re enough on your own.’

  Chapter 13

  One week and In Bloom was back to its glorious best. The windows had been replaced and new locks were fitted on the front door.

  The floorboards were brand spanking new.

  A new register and computer sat on the clean service counter—all covered by insurance, thank goodness.

  Arriving earlier that morning was a new supply of decorative items and knick-knacks, each now displayed in their proper place.

  Janine was out on the road in the van dealing with the first deliveries.

  And to make the day more special, it was snowing, soft pale powder coating the sidewalks. All the passers-by were dressed in their thick coats, scarves and beanies.

  Next door, Amy’s store had a constant stream of customers going in and coming back out with steaming hot cups of coffee and tea and the obligatory box of cupcakes.

  Absolutely magical, especially as she had never lived anywhere where it snowed before.

  Ellie was finishing the touches on the roses display which burst from the holes cut out of the top of the rustic timber barrel. She had kept the wheelbarrows and wine barrel because they had proven to be so successful in drumming up spontaneous walk-ins, their splendour a preview to what Ellie held in store.

  The scent of fruity, peppery grapes still lingered in the old, dark timber, mingling with the sweet flowery pe
rfume of the roses.

  Ellie sniffed the air and smiled. Was there a more appealing combination of aromas? But what a strange blend—wine and flowers. She realised then why she enjoyed the aroma—it reminded her of Sam.

  Her stomach tugged low and deep. Many of her thoughts were of Sam lately.

  The proverb distance makes the heart grow fonder came to mind. But in this case, it wasn’t so much distance—she and Sam still lived in the same small town—it was more that Sam was avoiding her completely.

  Before their conversation at the shop, when she had blown apart an outdated mindset she had held for a very long time and something shifted inside of her, this would have been fine.

  But that realisation made room for something … different.

  Confidence that she would be able to approach a relationship with a level head and not be ruled by unruly hormones and torments from her history had blossomed.

  She had always been attracted to Sam from the very first moment, but she had done everything she could to ignore those sparks out of fear that her intuition was off. Off like it had proven to be in the past.

  But Sam had only ever shown her that he was kind, caring and warm, and that counted for a lot. No longer was it okay to keep lugging him into the same department as her past arsehole boyfriends. And no longer was it okay to accept anything other than nice from her future ones.

  Too little, too late, though. Sam had withdrawn.

  An unpleasant tightness pulsed through her limbs. She couldn’t blame Sam for walking away. She hadn’t exactly been gracious. She practically called him a player to his face.

  She tweaked a rose that was sticking a little too high out of the barrel, then spun another so its deep red head was running in the same direction as the surrounding roses.

  Her brain was telling her to forget about Sam and just get on with her life here in Alpine Ridge. She had wanted to make a go of this on her own and with Sam withdrawing, she would have her chance to do exactly that.

  But her heart dreamed a different dream. It whispered stories of love and passion and romance. It beckoned her to pursue that—to at least give Sam one last shot.

  Her hormones were a tangled hot mess, keeping her awake at night and distracting her during the day with images of deep kisses, roaming hands and hotter-than-hot sex. And so far, her head was barely being heard over her heart and hormones.