Oh, my. This is very telling. And, Jesus, Ember. Your daughter was crushing on an older man right in front of you, and you weren’t even a little bit worried?

Clutching the diary against my heart, I take a deep breath and thank God that Toren is a decent man.

If I ever have another child, I promise I will be more aware of what’s going on.

I shove the journal into my suitcase on the foot of the bed and zip it shut. Asher is taking me to Katherine’s for three days, and I’m excited to visit her and see her bed and breakfast. Teddy is coming with us and has his own duffel bag packed full of toys and food.

“Look at you, all packed up already.” Asher breezes into the room and throws his iPad and earbuds onto the bed. “Sorry I got stuck on a call.”

“That’s okay. I would’ve packed for you, but I wasn’t sure what you wanted to bring.”

“It’ll just take me a few minutes. You want to send Katherine a text and tell her we’ll be leaving in about half an hour?” He disappears into the walk-in closet.

“I packed my phone already. It’s buried somewhere.” I scratch my head. “Or it might be in with Teddy’s stuff.”

“Grab my iPad, and use that. Her info is saved in there.”

“Okay.”

I bring up Katherine’s information in his contact list and start a text message.

Me: Hi, it’s me on Asher’s texts. Just wanted to let you know we’re leaving soon.

Katherine: Perfect! Dinner is in the crockpot. I can’t wait to see you guys!

Me: I’m excited to see you too!

When I close the text app, I see a folder on the main screen titled My Love . Without even thinking, I tap on it, and the screen loads with thumbnail images. It takes me a few seconds to realize all the photos are of me.

Ember.

Before the accident.

I tap on one to enlarge it, and I see I’m in my early twenties, at the beach wearing very short denim shorts and a bright-red bikini top. I’m smiling at the camera, and my long hair is blowing in the breeze. I look happy and healthy—not a care in the world.

I feel a tinge of envy toward my past self, totally unaware of how much my entire life would someday change.

I swipe to the next one, and the next, and the next, until one fills the screen that immediately sends a different, deep stab of envy straight to my heart.

Jealousy.

Pre-accident Ember is standing in the bedroom doorway wearing sexy black-lace lingerie—her full breasts almost spilling out of the bra, nipples pointing against the lace. Long hair cascades down over her shoulders in big, loose curls. Tiny micro-bikini panties with spaghetti-thin straps wrap around her hips. Her stomach is toned and tight, her waist narrow—the perfect hourglass figure that all women want and men go wild for. Swiping to the next photo reveals her totally naked, lying on the very bed I’m currently sitting on, in incredibly sensual poses, touching herself with shiny, red-tipped nails, a huge diamond glinting on her hand, blowing kisses at the camera.

At Asher.

My heart races as I realize there are videos. Of her. Of them together. My finger has made a decision all on its own and clicks on each little image with the tiny play arrow. The screen explodes with them making love, their bodies damp with sweat, writhing and slamming together, moaning each other’s names. She’s curvy in all the right places, soft against his erotic hardness. Who knew my body could bend and spread that way? Not me. I can barely touch my toes, let alone contort into some of these pretzel-inspired positions.

My stomach rolls and burns with a myriad of feelings as I frantically swipe past the videos until screen shots of what appear to be past text messages between them pop up.

Jesus, what next? Stop clicking…

Lines and lines of fun, sexy banter, declarations of love, heartfelt miss yous. More sexy pictures sent back and forth to each other. There’s so much love here, so much insatiable want. It’s visual and written and moving. I can feel its energy buzzing through me, tingling through my limbs, burning in my thighs, pulsing in my core. There are no pictures of Kenzi. No photos of friends or family. No casual pictures at dinner, on stage, or at a party.

Everything in this folder is incredibly private, sensual, carnal, and intimate, and I’m a voyeur, pawing through this vault of memories that no one should ever see. But it’s too late. I’ve seen it, and I hate it because, deep down, I know what this all means.

This Ember was his dream girl, and I’ve stumbled upon a digital library of her—the love of his life—sexy, happy, teasing, loving.

To make matters even worse, it’s right on the home screen of his iPad, which he takes everywhere with him and uses several times per day. It’s not hidden. It’s right up front with easy access.