Verity

by Colleen Hoover

  Jeremy walks down the stairs as I’m looking at the photos. He pauses next to me. I point at the twin with the scar. “Which one is this?”

  “Chastin,” he says. He points to the other one. “This is Harper.”

  “They look so much like Verity.”

  I’m not looking at him, but I can see him nod out of the corner of my eye.

  “How did Chastin get that scar?”

  “She was born with it,” Jeremy says. “The doctor said it was scarring from fibrous tissue. It’s not uncommon, especially with twins because they’re cramped for room.”

  I look at him this time, wondering if that’s actually where Chastin’s scar came from. Or if maybe—somehow—it was a result of Verity’s failed abortion attempt.

  “Did both the girls have the same allergy?” I ask.

  As soon as I ask it, I bring a hand up and squeeze my jaw in regret. The only way I know one of them even had a peanut allergy is because of what I read about her death. And now he knows I was reading about the death of his daughter.

  “I’m sorry, Jeremy.”

  “It’s fine,” he says quietly. “And no, just Chastin. Peanuts.”

  He doesn’t elaborate, but I can feel him staring at me. I turn my head, and our eyes meet. He holds my gaze for a moment, but then his eyes drop to my hand. He lifts it with delicate fingers, flipping it over. “How’d you get this one?” he asks, running his thumb over the scar across my palm.

  I make a fist, not because I’m trying to hide it. It’s faded, and I rarely think about it anymore. I’ve trained myself not to think about it. But I cover it because of how my skin felt when he touched it, like his finger burned a hole right through my hand.

  “I can’t remember,” I say quickly. “Thank you for dinner. I’m gonna go shower.” I point past him, toward the master bedroom. He steps out of my way. When I get to the room, I open the door quickly and close it just as fast, pressing my back against the door, willing myself to relax.

  It’s not that he makes me uncomfortable. Jeremy Crawford is a good man. Maybe it’s the manuscript that makes me uncomfortable, because I have no doubt that he would have shared his love equally with his three children and his wife. He doesn’t hold back, even now. Even when his wife is virtually catatonic, he still loves her selflessly.

  He’s the sort of man a woman like Verity could easily become addicted to, but I don’t think I’ll ever understand how Verity could be so consumed and obsessed with him, to the point that creating a child with him would ignite that kind of jealousy in her.

  But I do understand her attraction to him. I understand it more than I want to.

  When I push off the door, something pulls my hair, and I end up back against it. What the hell? My hair is tangled in something. I pull at my hair until I break free, and then turn around to see what I got hung up in.

  It’s a lock.

  He must have installed it today. He really is considerate. I reach up and lock the door.

  Does Jeremy think I wanted a lock on the inside of this bedroom door because I don’t feel safe in this house? I hope not because that’s not why I wanted the lock at all. I wanted a lock so they would all be safe from me.

  I walk to the bathroom and turn on the light. I look down at my hand, trailing my fingers across the scar.

  After the first few times my mother caught me sleepwalking, she became concerned. She put me in therapy, hoping it would help more than the sleeping pills did. My therapist said it was important to unfamiliarize myself with my surroundings. He said it would help if I created obstacles that would be hard for me to move past while I was sleepwalking. A lock on the inside of my bedroom door was one of those obstacles.

  And, while I’m almost certain I locked it before I fell asleep all those years ago, it doesn’t explain why I woke up the next morning with a broken wrist and covered in blood.

  I choose not to read more of Verity’s manuscript. It’s been two days since I read about the attempted abortion, and the manuscript is still at the bottom of her desk drawer, hidden and untouched by me. I can feel it, though. It exists with me in Verity’s office, breathing shallowly beneath the junk I covered it with. The more I read, the more unsettled I become. The more unfocused I become. I’m not saying I’ll never finish it, but until I make progress on what I’m here to do, I can’t get sidetracked by it again.

  I’ve noticed, now that I’ve stopped reading it, being in Verity’s presence doesn’t creep me out as much as it did a few days ago. I actually came up for air after working all day yesterday in the office to find Verity and her nurse seated at the dinner table with Crew and Jeremy. In the first couple of days I was here, I was in the office while they had dinner, so I wasn’t aware that they brought her to the table when they ate together. I didn’t want to intrude, so I went back to my office.

  There’s a different nurse today. Her name is Myrna. She’s a little older than April, round and cheerful with two rosy spots on her cheeks that make her look like an old-fashioned Kewpie doll. Right off the bat, she’s a lot more pleasant than April. And honestly, it’s not that April is unpleasant. But I get the vibe she doesn’t trust me around Jeremy. Or Jeremy around me. I’m not sure why she dislikes my presence, but I can see how being protective of her patient would mean judging another woman who is staying in her invalid patient’s home. I’m sure she thinks Jeremy and I lock ourselves in the master bedroom together after she leaves every evening. I wish she were right.

  Myrna works on Fridays and Saturdays, while April takes the rest of the week. Today is Friday and, while I expected to be moving into my apartment today, I’m relieved it’s all worked out the way it has. I would have left here unprepared. The extra time I’ve been given has been a lifesaver. I’ve knocked out reading two more books in the series in the past two days, and I actually enjoyed them a lot. It was fascinating, seeing how Verity always writes from the antagonist’s point of view. And I have a good sense of the direction I need to take with the series. But just in case, I still search for notes now that I know what I’m actually looking for.

  I’m on the floor, digging through a box when Corey texts me.

  Corey: Pantem did a press release this morning, announcing you as the new co-author of Verity’s series. Sent a link to your email if you want to take a look.

  As soon as I open my email, there’s a knock on the door of the office.

  “Come in.”

  Jeremy opens the door, peeking his head in. “Hey. I’m headed to Target to get a few groceries. If you make me a list, I can grab whatever you need.”

  There are a few things I need. Tampons being one of them, even though I only have a day or two left of my period. I just wasn’t expecting to be here this long, so I didn’t pack enough. I’m not sure I want to tell Jeremy that, though. I stand up, dusting off my jeans. “Actually, do you mind if I go with you? Might be easier.”

  Jeremy opens the door a little wider and says, “Not at all. Leaving in about ten minutes.”

  •••

  Jeremy drives a dark grey Jeep Wrangler with jacked-up tires, covered in mud. I’ve never actually seen it because it’s been in the garage, but it’s not what I expected him to drive. I assumed he’d drive a Cadillac CTX or an Audi A8. Something a man in a suit would drive. I don’t know why I keep picturing him as the professional, clean-cut businessman I met that first day. The man wears jeans or sweatpants every day, is always outside working, and has a rotating stock of muddy boots he leaves by the back door. A Jeep Wrangler actually fits him better than any other vehicle I’ve been picturing him in.

  We’re out of his driveway, about half a mile down the road, when he turns down his radio.

  “Did you see Pantem’s press release today?” he asks.

  I grab my phone from my purse. “Corey sent me the link, but I forgot to read it.”

  “It’s only one sentence long in Publishers Weekly,” Jeremy says. “Short and sweet. Just how you wanted it.”

  I open the em
ail and read the link. It’s not a link to Publishers Weekly, though. Corey sent me a link to the announcement made on Verity Crawford’s social media page, via her publicity team.

  Pantem Press is excited to announce that the remaining novels in The Virtue Series, made successful by Verity Crawford, will now be co-written with author Laura Chase. Verity is ecstatic to have Laura on board, and the two are looking forward to the co-creation of an unforgettable conclusion to the series.

  Verity is ecstatic? Ha! At least I know never to trust another publicity announcement. I start reading the comments below the announcement.

  -Who the heck is Laura Chase?

  -WHY IS VERITY HANDING OVER HER BABY TO SOMEONE ELSE?

  -Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

  -That’s how it usually works, right? Mediocre author gets successful, hires shittier author to do her job?

  I set down my phone, but it’s not enough. I turn off the ringer and put it in my purse, then zip it shut. “People are brutal,” I mutter under my breath.

  Jeremy laughs. “Never read the comments. Verity taught me that years ago.”

  I’ve never really had to deal with comments because I’ve never really put myself out there. “Good to know.”

  When we arrive at the store, Jeremy hops out of the Jeep and runs around to open my door for me. It makes me uneasy because I’m not used to this kind of treatment, but it would probably make Jeremy even more uneasy if he allowed me to open the door myself. He is just the type of guy Verity describes him to be in her autobiography.

  This is the first time I’ve ever had a guy open a door for me. Dammit. How messed up is that?

  When he grabs my hand to help me out of the Jeep, I tense up because I can’t prevent my reaction to his touch. I want more of it when I shouldn’t want any of it.

  Does he feel the same around me?

  Sex for him has been out of the picture for quite a while now, which leads me to wonder if he misses it.

  That has to be a hard adjustment. To have a marriage that seemed to revolve around sex in the beginning, only to have sex ripped out of the marriage overnight.

  Why am I thinking about his sex life as we’re walking into Target?

  “Do you like to cook?” Jeremy asks.

  “I don’t dislike it. I’ve just always lived alone, so I don’t make meals very often.”

  He grabs a shopping cart, and I go with him to the produce section. “What’s your favorite meal?”

  “Tacos.”

  He laughs. “Simple enough.” He grabs all the vegetables he’ll need to make tacos. I offer to make spaghetti for them one night. It’s really the only thing I cook that I can honestly say I’m good at.

  He’s on the juice aisle when I tell him I’ll be back, that I need a few things outside of the grocery department. I get the tampons, but grab other things to throw in the cart with them, like shampoo, socks, and a few shirts since I didn’t really bring any with me.

  I have no idea why I’m embarrassed to buy tampons. It’s not like he’s never seen them. And, knowing Jeremy, he’s probably purchased them for Verity a few times. He seems like the type of husband who wouldn’t think twice about it.

  I find Jeremy in the grocery section, and as I walk toward him, I notice he’s flanked by two women who have abandoned their carts to talk to him. His back is pressed against the ice cream cooler, giving the impression that he wishes he could melt right into it and escape. I can only see the backs of their heads as I approach, but when Jeremy’s eyes meet mine, an attractive blonde turns around to see what he’s looking at. The brunette seems more my speed, but only until she looks at me. Her glare changes my mind instantly.

  I approach the cart as if it’s a wild animal, cautiously, timidly. Do I place my items into the cart or will that make this awkward? I decide to set my things in the upper basket, a clear line in the red-cart sand: We are together but not together. The women both look at me, simultaneously, their eyebrows climbing higher with each item I set in the basket. The one standing closest to Jeremy, the blonde, is staring at my tampons. She looks back up at me and tilts her head.

  “And you are?”

  “This is Laura Chase,” Jeremy answers. “Laura, this is Patricia and Caroline.”

  The blonde looks like she’s been handed a warm cup of gossip tea. “We’re friends of Verity’s,” Patricia says. She gives me a very noticeable condescending look. “Speaking of, Verity must be feeling better if she’s got a friend in town.” She looks at Jeremy for more explanation. “Or is Laura your friend?”

  “Laura is here from New York. She’s working with Verity.”

  Patricia smiles at the same time she makes an mhm sound and looks back at me. “How does one work with a writer, exactly? I assumed it would be more of a solitary job.”

  “That’s usually what non-literary people assume,” Jeremy says. He nods at them, dismissing us from the conversation. “Have a good afternoon, ladies.” He begins to move the shopping cart, but Patricia places her hand on it.

  “Tell Verity I said hello and we hope she’s recovering well.”

  “I’ll share the message,” Jeremy says, walking past her. “Give my best to Sherman.”

  Patricia makes a face. “My husband’s name is William.”

  Jeremy nods once. “Oh. That’s right. I get them confused.”

  I hear Patricia scoff as we walk away. When we make it to the next aisle, I say, “Um. Who is Sherman?”

  “The guy she fucks behind her husband’s back.”

  I look at him, shocked. He’s smiling.

  “Holy shit,” I say, laughing. When we get to the register, I can’t stop smiling. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen that kind of epic burn in person.

  Jeremy begins placing things on the conveyor belt. “I probably shouldn’t have stooped to her level, but I can’t stand hypocrites.”

  “Yes, but without hypocrites, there would be no epic karmic moments like the one I just witnessed.”

  Jeremy grabs the rest of the things from the cart. I try to keep mine separate, but he refuses to let me pay for it myself.

  I can’t stop staring at him as he runs his credit card. I feel something. I’m not sure what. A crush? That would make complete sense. I would develop a crush on a man who is so devoted to his ailing wife that he’s too blind to see anyone or anything else. He’s too blind to even see who his own wife was.

  Lowen Ashleigh, falling for an unavailable man with more baggage than even she has.

  Now that’s karma.

  I only arrived here five days ago, but it seems like longer. The days here drag, whereas in New York, well, New York minute.

  I heard Myrna tell Jeremy this morning that Verity had a fever, which is why she didn’t bring Verity down at all today before she left for the evening. I wasn’t sad about that. It meant I didn’t have to be in her presence, or look at her from my office window during their outdoor breaks.

  I’m looking at Jeremy, though. He’s sitting alone on the back porch, staring out at the lake, leaning back in a rocking chair that he hasn’t rocked in over ten minutes. He’s sitting completely still. Every now and then, he remembers to blink. He’s been out there for a while now.

  I wish I knew what thoughts were going through his head right now. Is he thinking of the girls? Of Verity? Is he thinking about how much his life has changed in the past year? He hasn’t shaved in a few days, so his stubble is getting thicker. It looks good on him, but I’m not sure much could look bad on him.

  I lean forward on Verity’s desk and drop my chin in my hand. I immediately regret moving, because Jeremy notices. He turns his head and looks at me through the window. I want to look away, force myself to appear busy, but it’s obvious I’ve been staring at him, now that I’m leaned forward on the desk with my head propped on my hand. It would look worse if I tried to hide it at this point, so I just smile gently at him.

  He doesn’t return the smile, but he doesn’t look away. We hold eye contact for several se
conds, and I feel his stare stirring things up inside me. It makes me wonder if it does anything to him when I look at him.

  He inhales a slow breath and then lifts up from his chair and walks away, toward the dock. When he reaches it, he picks up his hammer and begins ripping at the remaining few slabs of wood.

  He was probably craving a moment of peace, without Crew or Verity or a nurse or myself invading his privacy.

  I need a Xanax. I haven’t taken one in over a week. It makes me groggy, which makes it difficult for me to focus on writing or research. But I’m tired of the moments in this house that send my pulse racing like it is right now. Once the adrenaline kicks in, I can’t seem to reel it in. Whether it’s Jeremy, Verity, or Verity’s books, there’s always something wreaking havoc on my anxiety levels. My reaction to this house and the people in it are more distracting than a little grogginess would be.

  I walk to the bedroom to sift through my bag for the Xanax. As soon as I get the bottle open, I hear a scream come from upstairs.

  Crew.

  I drop my unopened bottle of pills on the bed and rush out of the room and up the stairs. I can hear him crying. It sounds like it’s coming from Verity’s room.

  As much as I want to turn around and run in the other direction, I also realize he’s a little boy who might be in trouble, so I keep walking.

  When I reach the door, I push it open without knocking. Crew is on the floor, holding his chin. There’s blood on his hands and fingers. A knife next to him on the floor. “Crew?” I reach down and pick him up, then rush him to the bathroom down the hall. I set him on the counter.

  “Let me see.” I pull his shaky fingers from his chin to assess the injury. It’s seeping blood, but it doesn’t look to be very deep. It’s a cut right underneath his chin. He must have been holding the knife when he fell. “Did you cut yourself with the knife?”