Chapter 7 - What Sloane Had Known
I almost deleted Sloane's message. I did not want to become her confidante or spend another afternoon sorting through the ruins Landon left in other people's lives. Then I read the first paragraph. She was not asking me to forgive her. She wanted to correct something she had said at the resort. When their relationship began, she knew he was married. She believed his marriage was ending because believing him made her own choices easier.
She had asked about the divorce repeatedly. Eventually, he told her it was final. That was the lie she repeated to me, but it did not erase the earlier truth. “You deserved to know the difference,” she wrote. I sat very still. Part of me had wanted a clean division between the woman who knew and the woman who was deceived. Real life offered neither. Sloane had accepted a convenient story, and Landon had kept improving it whenever doubt returned.
Attached were messages about Bellwether House. In one, Landon told her I had agreed to invest because I preferred financial returns to managing a business. In another, he described me as emotionally fragile and warned that contacting me directly would upset me. I recognized the method immediately. He had made himself the interpreter of both our lives. Any question could be dismissed as a failure to understand the other woman, and he controlled the only bridge between us.
I replied that I appreciated the correction and would share relevant records with my attorney. I added that I did not want ongoing updates about their relationship. She respected that boundary. Two days later, Elena received correspondence confirming that Sloane had withdrawn from the proposed venture and provided the original investment emails. Her cooperation clarified the timeline. It did not turn her into my friend, and it did not need to. Accountability could be useful without becoming reconciliation.
Meanwhile, the little storefront remained empty. I visited with a tape measure and a notebook. Noah gave me a written estimate for basic repairs and pointed out work I could postpone. He charged for his time. I appreciated that more than a grand gesture. My life had become crowded with people offering emotional discounts that concealed expensive expectations. Here was someone giving me clear numbers, practical choices, and the freedom to say no without having to manage his feelings.
I asked a former coworker, Marisol, whether she might teach an introductory collage class. She asked about pay, schedule, and ventilation. Her questions made the idea feel wonderfully real. I built a budget using money I could afford to risk, kept a separate emergency reserve, and planned four trial classes before committing to a larger schedule. For once, caution did not sound like Landon's voice telling me to wait. It sounded like my own voice helping me begin.
Then a local community group declined to promote my trial workshop. Their coordinator forwarded a message from a concerned acquaintance suggesting I was unstable and using a personal crisis to solicit business. The wording was painfully familiar. I read it twice, then closed the laptop before anger could choose my response. I sent the coordinator the class outline, refund policy, and references from previous design clients. I asked to be evaluated on the actual offering. She apologized and restored the listing.
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That afternoon, I signed a short lease after reviewing it carefully and asking questions about repairs. The landlord handed me two keys on a plain metal ring. I sat in my car afterward, turning them over in my palm. They did not promise happiness. They opened a door. I was beginning to appreciate the difference between being promised a future and being given room to build one with my own hands.
That evening, Landon called from a number I did not recognize. “People are asking questions,” he said. “Then answer them honestly.” He sounded exhausted. “You could help me fix this.” I looked at the paint samples spread across Brit's kitchen table. For years, that sentence would have sent me running toward his problem. This time, I heard its real meaning. “I am fixing my life,” I said. “You will have to take responsibility for yours.” Then I ended the call.
