The Foster Girls #4: Willow

Chapter 1: Willow

Funny how love can turn to hate in seconds, with a single action, a few words.

And it's even funnier when you realize that it's not actually hate...but love being crushed by an avalanche of hurt. A to-the-bones kind of hurt that steals your breath, making it hard to breathe, to function, to live.

After two solid days of almost non-stop crying – except for a couple of Ben & Jerry intermissions – I finally lifted my head from the arm of the couch, my head pounding from the emotional outpouring of grief, stupidity and rage.

Grief, because the man I love and married less than four days ago—yes, just four freakin' days – sent me away.

Stupidity, because I fell for his bullshit hook, line and sinker.

Rage, because the man I married less than four days ago turned out to be a complete and utter bastard and executed a maneuver so cold blooded I still couldn't wrap my head around it.

My vast source of tears seemingly at the end (for now, talk to me in five minutes), I decided I needed to get myself together and make a plan.

Willow, I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I'm so sorry, sweetheart.

That last one shattered me and I had snarled at him as the endearment came out of his mouth and I twisted myself out of reach of his hands as they made to touch me.

A shudder ran through me at the memory of how my husband apologized for shattering my world, and I squared my shoulders, refusing to attend my pity party any longer.

For the first time since I'd been dropped off at my new house two days ago, I decided to look around. When Hatch brought me here, I'd walked numbly into the house, gotten rid of Hatch, thrown myself down on the couch and commenced crying jag. I'd walked only to the bathroom, the freezer in the kitchen (stocked by some thoughtful person on Decker's payroll), and the couch.

Hatch had come into the house with me, carrying my one suitcase (everything else would be shipped!), his face unhappy, clearly uncomfortable with the proper etiquette for giving the kiss-off to his boss's brand-new wife.

"Willow, I'm –" he started to say in his deep, grumbly voice, softer than I'd ever heard it.

"Don't. It's not your fault," I said to him tonelessly, determined not to lose it until I was alone.

He tried to put his hand on my arm, but I stepped back. "Please just go," I said softly, and then, because none of this was his fault, I added, "Thank you for your help."

I quickly tugged off my engagement ring and wedding band and put them in Hatch's hand.

"Please give these back to him."

For a normally stoic man, his eyes were churning with emotions as he nodded once sharply. "Your credit cards are on the kitchen table along with the ATM card. Pin is written down beside it, too. Keys for the car and house are right next to the cards."

With a nod that I'd understood, I turned my back on him, heard him shut the front door, and then collapsed onto the couch, not knowing that the sobs that burst out of me were loud enough to be heard by the man who stood helplessly on the front porch for a long time.

That had been two days ago, which brought me to my exploration of the little cottage on the beach, a charming three-bedroom bungalow with original wood floors that had been refinished to a warm, medium walnut. The house was furnished with comfortable furniture and the kitchen held brand-new, top-of-the-line appliances.