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“How ready?”

His eyes meet mine. “Very.”

That almost makes me smile.

“But you didn’t.”

“You were speaking for yourself.”

I hadn’t realized how badly I needed to know that difference: ready to step in isn’t the same as deciding for me.

Locke slides the wet willow through another crossing. “You told him no before I did anything.”

“I did.”

“You told him many things.”

“I must have been saving it up.”

“I liked hearing them.”

“You liked watching me yell at my ex-husband in front of half the town?”

“Yes.”

He looks quietly pleased. Then he says, “I was proud of you.”

The words hit somewhere beneath my ribs and my throat tightens around the next breath. I stare at him, but Locke doesn’t look away.

Nobody has ever said those words to me about leaving Trent. People have said I was brave, strong, and smart to get out. My mother has said she was relieved. Blair once said the final decree was the best piece of legal writing she’d ever seen, which I’m fairly certain was Blair-speak for congratulations.

Proud feels different. Maybe because Locke saw the part that wasn’t brave. He saw my body go still when Trent said my name. He saw the fear and never mistook it for weakness.

And he’s proud anyway.

I wipe quickly beneath one eye. “You realize you’re sitting naked in my bathtub weaving yourself back together while you say this.”

“Yes.”

“Just checking.”

“I’m still proud of you.”

“Okay, stop now.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m trying not to cry.”

He considers that. “Is crying bad?”

“No.”

“Then why are you trying not to?”

I look at the fresh green willow threaded through the place Trent broke. At the man who stood ten feet away from me in the town square because I was still speaking, and who moved the instant I needed him.

The answer has been sitting inside me for longer than I realized.