With each step up the stairs, Tony thought about his stance. It was simple. Until she retired for the evening, someone should be with her. What if she needed something? What if something happened? This wasn’t debatable. As he turned the corner to enter the master suite, Tony stopped. His Claire was there, on the floor rummaging through boxes. What was packed? Was she leaving? Anything she needed was here when she moved in. As the room seeped with crimson, Tony learned that red was also the color of worry. Why would she have boxes?

Then he remembered: her things from Everwood. He’d told the staff to send everything to the estate. That had to be what it was. She wasn’t leaving—was she?

From the disappointment at the lack of staff, to the worry over the boxes, the emotion he had worked for two weeks to subdue, consumed his being. As he watched his wife, Tony knew he should turn around and go back downstairs. The floodgate had opened. Emotions didn’t surge singularly. Disappointment and worry were only the front-runners. Desire and need were quickly approaching. He no longer had the energy to hold it back. Though he should have stayed downstairs, he didn’t turn around. Hunger colored his vision as his desire for his wife intensified.

Without turning in his direction, Claire said, “I’m sorry it took so long. I thought I knew where they were.”

When she stood and their eyes met, he knew without a doubt that she could sense the change. He saw it too in her eyes. The spark he’d doused now burnt his soul. Damn, she could probably hear his heart. It was beating out of his chest as he tried to appear aloof. In a few steps, she was before him, handing him what she’d found. Tony reached for the notebooks and asked, “What are these?”

“They’re my compartments,” she replied.

Confused, Tony opened the top notebook, and asked, “Your compartments? What do you…?” His words trailed as he began to read:

I suppose I should start in the beginning—March 2010. No, that wasn’t when I was born. It was when I began to live. Most people think I’m crazy—maybe I am. You see I began to live the day my life was taken away. Funny, I don’t remember how it happened. I do know now, it never could’ve been stopped.

Anthony Rawlings wanted me. If I’ve learned one lesson in my life—and believe me, I’ve learned many—Anthony Rawlings always got what he wanted.

Tony didn’t know if he could do this. He’d read the damn book. Why did she want him to see this? He continued:

I can’t explain how it happened. I can’t explain how I fell deeply and madly in love with a man who did the things that Anthony did—but I did! These feelings have been discounted by multiple people: family members, doctors, and counselors to name a few. They’ve told me my love wasn’t and isn’t real. They say I’m a victim of abuse, and as such, I don’t understand the difference between love and applied behavior. How can that be true? If I don’t know my own feelings, how can anyone else?

It was different than her testimony. It was different than Meredith’s book. This was real and in Claire’s handwriting. It was raw and vulnerable. Her therapists and doctors had told her the same thing that Jim had said—that they were wrong together. Yet, despite it all, she claimed to still love him, to never have stopped loving him, even when she thought he was dead, that she’d killed him. He continued to read:

So here I go. I’ve lived this story, and I’ve told this story. Now, I’m going to try to do both, because without reliving it, even in my mind, I can’t possibly explain that I’m not crazy…

I met Anthony Rawlings on March 15, 2010. That night I worked the 4:00PM to close shift at the Red Wing in Atlanta. He came up to the bar and sat down. I remember thinking…

Tony closed his eyes. He’d lived it and he’d read it. While with Jim, he’d relived parts: parts he wanted to forget and parts he’d remember forever. Fluttering the pages of all four notebooks, he noticed every page of every book was filled with writing. Glancing up, he saw Claire leaning against the wall, her arms folded over her chest watching him. Her blank expression failed to reveal her thoughts; however, in her eyes—her damn emerald green eyes—he saw the fire he’d missed. The one he’d doused too many times, most recently with his talk of divorce.

Staring, Tony fought the urge to touch her, comfort her, and apologize for ever thinking they should be apart. Gone was his control: his desires overwhelmed him. He wanted her more than he wanted life. How did he ever think he could let her go?

The temperature of the suite warmed exponentially as he laid the notebooks on the dresser yet maintained their gaze, their connection. Surrendering to his need, he moved forward. Instantaneously, mere inches separated them. Then, Claire looked away, breaking their connection.

He lifted her chin and searched for the fire. Though she didn’t fight his grip, she obstinately shut her eyes. It was too late to stop. Tony knew what he wanted. “Open your eyes. Look at me,” he commanded.

Instead of obeying, Claire tipped her forehead against his chest, and said, “I can’t.”

She could probably hear the racing of his heart as he demanded her compliance. “Look at me. I want to see your damn eyes—now!”

“Please, please, Tony,” she pleaded. “Don’t. I can’t take another rejection, not from you.”

Rejection? He could never reject her. That was the furthest thing from his mind. He lifted her chin, and this time, brushed her lips with his. With a softer tone, he asked, “Why did you show me that?”