I nodded. “Maybe. Eventually.”
“You might stop blaming yourself for Chloe’s death.”
My gaze flared to his. Acid burned into my throat. It was fine for me to say, but out of his mouth it veered toward accusatory.
“It must have been so awful when they found her little body . . . The police questioning you on top of it all, as if they thought you could be guilty. As if you could have let her go on purpose.”
Perhaps Martin did believe I was to blame.
“Yeah,” I said quietly, darkly.
He fell silent, and I sensed tension continuing to build around him. After a few moments: “I saw all the pills, Ellie.”
“You shouldn’t have gone through my things,” I said, facing the sea.
Waves crashed. The wind turned cool and blew harder.
“Is that why the wine went to your head so fast yesterday?” he asked. “Is that why you passed out—because you drank on top of more meds?”
I positioned my coffee cup in the sand. I wanted to come clean. I wanted nothing to hide between us. I glanced at him. His eyes were as blue as the sky behind him. It felt as though I were looking right through his head into the heavens. He looked worried, concerned.
“Look, maybe I shouldn’t have unpacked your things. I’m sorry. But I was just trying to help, trying to make you feel welcome. I thought you’d be grateful. And once I saw the pills I couldn’t unsee them.”
I nodded.
“That Ativan—it’s a benzodiazepine. Benzos are highly addictive. I mean, highly.” He paused. “Ellie, I know you’ve had problems in the past, but I thought you were good now.”
“I am. I stopped the pills. Honest. But my fear of flying remains a problem, and I need some meds to avoid a full-blown panic attack in the air.” I hesitated. “The last time I had an anxiety attack the pilot had to make an emergency landing. The crew thought I was having a heart attack. I just couldn’t have that happening again, especially while flying on my own.”
He regarded me in silence for a while. “You took benzos on our Europe and Vegas trips?”
I nodded. “Small doses. And only for flying. But I was worried about coming here with a new medical system and . . . having to go through a new doctor and . . .” My words faded.
“You were afraid of a relapse? And you wanted to feel secure, with a big backup supply?”
“Maybe. I think so. And in case we have to fly somewhere again.”
He pursed his lips and studied the sea for a long while. “What are the side effects?” he asked quietly.
“Nothing much if I take just small doses.”
“And with a bigger dose?”
“When they wear off I can feel shaky . . . sort of panicky sometimes.”
“See? This is why they’re addictive, El, because then you’ll want more in order to stop the withdrawal symptoms, and it becomes a vicious spiral.”
He was right.
“I’m sorry,” I said softly. “I’m not who you thought I was. I’m a bit of a mess still.”
He took my hand in his, laced his fingers through mine. “We’ll do this together, okay, El? We’ll be open with each other. If you keep talking to me, I can keep helping you. A team, right? Our second chance—” Emotion caught his voice and shone in his eyes. “I don’t want to blow this.”
“Neither do I.”
“I’m truly sorry I pushed you yesterday. I should have seen how badly you needed to sleep after you landed. I . . . This is why you need to talk to me. I hadn’t realized.” He squeezed my hand tightly.
Emotion surged into my throat. Martin leaned forward and kissed my cheek. So gently that I knew with sudden and firm conviction that my nightmare had been just that—a stupid, terrible, feverish dream that had probably grown out of jet lag, dehydration, the aftereffects of wine and the Ativan plus some rough and exuberant but good and healthy sex that my fogged-up brain just never encoded into memory.
“I’ll stop the pills—I promise,” I said. And I felt better for voicing it.
“I’m here for you, okay?”
I nodded, reached for my mug. I took another sip of coffee, and a feeling of benevolence and warmth bloomed through my chest. I actually felt happy having gotten that out of the way.
“It’s getting late,” he said as the sun slipped into the sea. “How about stopping for a bite at the Puggo on the way home? We can do Zog’s fish on the barbie tomoz.”
“Puggo?”
“The Pug and Whistler,” he said with a grin. “Puggo for short.”
I laughed, suddenly light inside again. “Of course it is. Is nothing in this country safe from hypocorism?”
“Hypo-what?”
“Turning words into diminutive or cutesy-folksy forms.”
“That’s your degree in literature talking.” He chuckled, got to his feet, and held out his hand.
I allowed him to pull me to my feet, and I punched him playfully on the arm. “Tease.”
But as we started up the dune path toward the road, I lost my balance and stumbled in the soft sand. He stopped and eyed me.
Sweat prickled my skin.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah, just feel a bit . . . odd again.”
Concern reentered his eyes. “We can go right home.”
“No. No, it’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.”
He placed his hand at the small of my spine and guided me up the dune path and onto the sidewalk. There was a public washroom off the sidewalk with a mosaic mural on the wall. Beside it was an outdoor shower where surfers rinsed off their wet suits and boards. I suddenly became conscious of a brown sedan parked across the road. I stilled.
A man in the driver’s seat watched us. As I stared at him he powered up the window. I frowned. I wasn’t sure why the car had caught my eye in the first place. Maybe it was just that eerie sense of being observed. I’d read somewhere long ago that our bodies can be aware of things when our brains aren’t. Perhaps my unconscious had picked up something.
When we reached
