8
Vivian.
Guilt is a living thing. Some mornings it’s a quiet ache in my stomach, easily ignored as I pour coffee and pretend I’m still the woman Gerald married. Other times, it claws at my insides, sharp and relentless, whispering that everything I’ve built will come crashing down because of what I can’t seem to stop needing. I thought I could hold it together. I thought I was strong enough to keep lines drawn in the sand.
But I was fooling myself, and I think I knew it.
The day after our weekend together, the guilt came roaring back, bigger and meaner than ever. The house felt too bright, too exposed. Every room carried the scent of Landon’s skin, the memory of his hands and mouth and voice. I scrubbed the sheets, mopped the floors, threw open every window. None of it helped.
Worse,
