by Noelle Adams
I gasped in outrage and swatted him on the chest. “Fine. Then you can purge that horrible brown chair.”
He laughed, but then his face sobered. “Seriously, what do you think? We need to move quickly if we want it. At this price, it’s going to go fast.”
“It’s in our neighborhood,” I said, feeling a little nervous at making this step and excited at the same time. “And the closet is a really good size.”
“And it’s not over our budget.”
We’d been looking for a couple of weeks and the only things Gideon seemed to really care about were that I liked the place and we didn’t spend more than we could afford.
“I think it’s as good as we’re going to find,” I said at last. “I think this is it.”
He was scrutinizing my face. “So you want to go for it?”
“Yeah. Yeah. I think so.”
“We can always rent instead, if you don’t want to—”
“I do want to. It’s a good investment. I want to buy a place with you. Although...” I trailed off, suddenly self-conscious.
He tilted my head up. “Although what? If you have any hesitations, you need to tell me.”
I tried not to squirm. “I don’t have hesitations. I was just thinking that we’d only be able to stay here for a few years. I mean, if we’re going to have kids. I mean, not that we have to, but if...” I trailed off lamely.
He pulled me into a tight hug with a rough sound of feeling. “Christ, Diana. Hopefully, we’ll just be living here for a few years.”
And that was exactly what I wanted to hear.
When he pulled away, he said, “Even for a few years, this will be a good investment. So we should go for it?”
“Yeah. Let’s put an offer on it.”
“And you’re completely comfortable making this kind of commitment with me. To me.” He was peering closely at my face.
I smiled and shook my head. “Silly. I committed to you a long time ago.”
***
A couple of months after that, we were moved into our new place, and I was happier than, just a year ago, I’d ever imagined I could possibly be again.
Not that I didn’t still have to work through things. We still couldn’t have sex with Gideon behind me, and I still occasionally had terrifying nightmares. And there were days when I felt hopeless, despairing, but they no longer overwhelmed me to the point where I thought that’s all there could be.
I was still seeing Dr. Jones, but only every other week now.
In April, his team at work had another cookout. I teased him unmercifully about his coworkers’ unnatural penchant for getting together with their families to grill burgers and play volleyball all the time (or at least twice a year), but I wasn’t at all unhappy to be coming this time.
Gideon was on fire that afternoon—charming the women, out-maneuvering the men, and generally being the center of attention, so naturally that no one found it obnoxious.
They loved him—these people he worked with. I could see it on their faces, even as they called each other names. I knew from the stories Gideon told that they argued and drove each other crazy sometimes, but it was obvious to me that they were like family. I’d been too caught up in anxiety at the last cookout to recognize it as clearly. They loved Gideon, and it made me strangely happy to see that they saw the same qualities in him that I’d seen myself. That other people saw too how incredible he was, how much he should be loved.
They didn’t treat me like a stranger this time, and I made more of an effort to try to get to know them. They teased me about being My Diana, and a few of them enthusiastically sang a “My Diana” song, made up of new lyrics to “My Sharona”—which they’d evidently come up with last year as a way to hassle Gideon.
I had to admit the lyrics were really clever, and I ended up laughing hysterically, partly at Gideon’s expression when they sang it.
I had a good time, and for some reason it felt to me like a symbol of the way things could change, the way I could change. I was on a little bit of a high when people started to gather up their stuff and go.
Gideon was standing a short distance away, chatting with a couple of kids. The kids loved him as much as the adults.
I walked over toward him quietly, trying to sneak up on him. But, when I reached out to try to gooch him, he whirled around and grabbed my hands before I could.
So we had a little wrestling match, with me trying to reach his sides and him holding me back from doing so. The kids squealed in delight, cheering for me rather than him, a fact that caused him to complain loudly, even as he was grabbing my arms.
I was trying not to laugh, so I could focus on coming out victorious, and then I had a brainstorm.
“Wait!” I gasped. “Gideon, wait. Wait a minute.” I grew still to emphasize the words.
He stopped immediately, his expression changing.
So I took that opportunity to gooch him good.
He roared in outraged while the kids and a couple of lingering adults roared in laughter. Then he stopped my gooching—which I’d more than earned—by wrapping his arms around me and holding me against him.
I fought the hold good-naturedly and ended up turned around, my back to him. Before any fear could trigger, he’d dropped his arms.
Feeling affectionate and appreciative, I turned back around and leaned against him. “I won,” I said, just to make sure he knew.
He grumbled, “You’ve heard of the boy who cried wolf, right?”
“What’s your point? I am not a boy, and you are not a wolf.”
Hiding a smile, he replied dryly, “I think, in this scenario, I wouldn’t be the wolf. I would be one of the townspeople who came out to—”
“Oh, just shut up. The point is I won.”
He laughed uninhibitedly and stroked a hand down my hair. “The point is you’re a little cheat.”
“I know better than that.” I smiled up at him, brimming with too much to hold in. “I know that I’m actually the light that shines on the dark—”
“Not when people are around!”
There were people milling about, but no one listening to us anymore. I giggled helplessly and pulled his head down so I could give him a little kiss.
We gazed at each other for a minute, standing right there in the middle of the others, who were putting up all their stuff and starting to their cars.
And Gideon must have recognized what I’d been sensing all afternoon because I saw the feeling break on his face. The recognition—so sharp it was almost poignant—that we weren’t where we’d been a year ago, or six months ago, or even the day before.
He made a rough sound in his throat—the one he always made when he felt too much to rein in—and he pulled me into his arms, hugging me with all the intensity of his deep and generous soul.
I hugged him back, pressing my face into his shirt, smelling, feeling, loving Gideon the way he’d always loved me.
I knew then what I hadn’t known more than a year ago, when I’d been walking on a city sidewalk, thinking about my new boots. The world isn’t the one I used to think it was, where the hero rides in to save the day at the very last minute. It’s so much harder and deeper and uglier and more beautiful than that.
Because the truth is just this—sometimes no one can save us, but salvation might come anyway.
Author’s Note
Every path of recovery after sexual assault is different, and it’s not a path I’ve walked myself. To write this book, I’ve listened to other women’s stories, tried to understand their experiences, and tried to feel with them as much as I could. Whenever possible, I used the language they used, so I could approach this story with as much love and authenticity as I’m capable of. So, without naming them here, I’d like to thank these women for sharing their stories. As I said when I wrote Nameless, anything that feels real about this book is thanks to these women, and anything that doesn’t is entirely my fault.
Excerpt from Bittersweet
If you
enjoyed Salvation, you might enjoy Bittersweet by the same author.
The grating sound of a ring tone woke Zoe from a tense, restless sleep.
She fumbled blindly on the coffee table, where she was sure she’d left her phone. Her head hurt, however, and she wasn’t yet fully awake, so it took about eight rings until she found it.
“Hello,” she mumbled, when she finally laid her hands on it.
“Zoe? Are you all right?”
“Yeah. Hey, Mom. Sorry. I’d fallen asleep.” Zoe forced herself to sit up from where she was stretched out on the couch. Her whole body ached, and she could still barely pry her eyes open. “What time is it?”
“It’s already three. Are you sure you’re all right?” Her mother’s voice was gentle, which was an obvious sign of how concerned she was.
Zoe hated feeling like people were pitying her—even someone she loved and trusted as much as her mother. So her tone was a little terse when she replied, “Yes, I already said I’m all right. I just need to wake up so I can feed Logan and get dressed before they come pick me up.”
“Sorry if I’m nagging. I just wish I could help. I don’t know how you’ve made it through this horrible, wretched year.”
Zoe didn’t know how she’d made it through this year either. “I know. But now I just have to make it through the funeral. And then maybe...” She trailed off, having no idea what was left to hope for after she buried her husband.
“Maybe what?”
Swallowing hard, Zoe finished, “Maybe I can breathe again.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone. A silence Zoe recognized as her mom trying not to cry. The knowledge made Zoe’s eyes burn too, and a lump lodged hard in her throat.
But she’d cried so much and so often over the last eight months that she had no real tears remaining. She sat on the couch in sloppy sweats and a t-shirt and tried to take a full breath.
“Do you want me to come over now?” her mother asked at last.
“No. I’ve got to rush as it is. I’ll just see you at the church.” Zoe forced herself to stand up, although her stiff back protested the move. “Thanks, though.”
When she’d hung up, Zoe made her way into the bedroom.
The bedroom and the bathroom were the only individual rooms in the spacious loft apartment. She and Josh had bought the place almost three years ago, as a one-year anniversary present to themselves, after the Light Switch game had really taken off and they could afford it. They both had fallen in love with the historic hardwood floors, the exposed brick and ductwork, and the huge expanse of windows looking out onto the skyline.
They’d been thinking about selling it and buying a bigger place outside the city when Josh had been diagnosed with a malignant tumor in his brain. During the eight months of surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy that followed, moving was the last thing on Zoe’s mind.
The bedroom was big and airy, and in the corner was a crib.
She heard Logan whimpering and was glad she wouldn’t have to wake him up in order to nurse him. He was six months old now. Taking care of an infant at the same time she watched her husband slowly die had almost broken Zoe.
She loved Logan so much, though. Josh had loved him too.
Logan stared up at her now with wide brown eyes in a chubby face. He twisted in an ornery way when she just stood and looked at him. Then he started to scream.
A perfectly reasonable thing to do when you were hungry.
Zoe picked him up and carried him to the rocker to nurse him, trying not to remember the look on her husband’s face last week, the last time he had been conscious, when Logan had babbled syllables that sounded very much like “Dada.”
Logan was suckling greedily, dribbling a little breast milk as he did, and Zoe stroked his fine dark hair and tried not to fall back to sleep.
She hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep since Logan was born.
When he’d finished, she burped him and laid him back in the crib, turning on the musical mobile of animals so he could watch it. He was giggling happily at the mobile as she jumped into the shower.
Long showers were something she hadn’t enjoyed since Logan was born either, so three minutes later she was done. She blew her hair just halfway dry and then pulled it back into a knot at the nape her neck. Until recently, it had always been smooth and shiny, falling nearly to her waist, but now it looked dull and lifeless. She added a little makeup, although her face was so pale and the dark smudges beneath her chocolate-brown eyes were so deep there wasn’t much she could do to improve her appearance.
She’d lost too much weight over the past several months, and the navy blue suit she put on—which had been stylish and fit her perfectly when she’d bought it two years ago—was now too loose around the hips and waist and looked rather drab.
It didn’t matter, though. There wasn’t anyone she wanted to impress. She just wanted to get through this day without collapsing in exhaustion.
She was changing Logan’s diaper when her phone rang again.
“Mrs. Peterson?” a man said when she picked up. The doorman to the building.
“Yes.”
“The car is here.”
She thanked him and hurriedly dressed Logan in a little gray suit. Then she put him in his carrier, grabbed the bag she’d already packed with all his stuff, and rushed downstairs.
A black luxury sedan from a car service waited at the curb. As she hauled her baby carrier and bag across the sidewalk, a man got out of the backseat.
Adam Peterson was as polished and handsome as the car he emerged from on the gray afternoon. No trace of the adorably geeky guy she’d eaten lunches with five years ago.
Without comment or greeting, he reached over to take Logan’s carrier and the bag as she climbed into the plush seat. Then he helped her attach the carrier into place.
“Do you need anything?” Adam asked as the car pulled into the street. His voice and his eyes were almost cool.
Zoe shook her head. “Thanks for picking me up. You didn’t have to.”
He slanted her a quick impatient look, as if she’d said something foolish, but he didn’t say anything.
Zoe didn’t say anything either.
She’d thought he liked her well enough back then, but the friendship obviously wasn’t lasting. Their temporary camaraderie at the café had gradually faded into distant civility as he started acting like a “real” Peterson. He’d become a corporate honcho, propelling the one little trivia game into a franchise empire, with hundreds of game versions for computers, gaming consoles, mobile apps, and social media platforms—plus merchandise in endless forms.
She assumed he’d just outgrown his friendliness toward her, the way he’d outgrown his camp shirts. It might also have had something to do with the lingering tension between Josh and Adam, which had heightened and lessened at different times during the years.
Either way, she hadn’t let it bother her. Her life had always been filled with so much more.
Four years ago, Zoe had married Josh Peterson.
And now she had to bury him.
***
You can find out more about Bittersweet here.
About the Author
Noelle handwrote her first romance novel in a spiral-bound notebook when she was twelve, and she hasn’t stopped writing since. She has lived in eight different states and currently resides in Virginia, where she teaches English, reads any book she can get her hands on, and offers tribute to a very spoiled cocker spaniel.
She loves travel, art, history, and ice cream. After spending far too many years of her life in graduate school, she has decided to reorient her priorities and focus on writing contemporary romances. For more information, please check out her website: noelle-adams.com.
Other Books by Noelle Adams
One Hot Night: Three Contemporary Romance Novellas
A Negotiated Marriage
Listed
Bittersweet
Missing
Revi
val
Seducing the Enemy
Playing the Playboy
Love for the Holidays
Married for Christmas
