by Stacey Lynn
My heart hurts. My muscles ache. I can’t deny his pain or the struggle he’s facing. Or that he’s lived with this. I’m speechless, because a part of me now feels equally as bad for him as I do for my mom.
He swipes a hand down his face and heaves a forceful breath, calming himself. Smiling sadly at me, he continues. “I care about her, I do, but I can’t be with her. I can’t be that man for her and I hate that I’m not capable of it, but I’ve spent thirty years trying and she never listened. And I’m sorry, it probably does make me a dick, but I lost the strength to continue the battle. She gave me the absolute best years of my life, and then she slowly stripped them away, and I know it’s not her fault, but that doesn’t mean I’m the one who can help her stay strong, either. I did everything I could, everything I knew how, everything I’d learned. I took her to counselors for years, even before you were ever born. I took her after. I just…I can’t do it.”
“So you leave without a single explanation and ignore me for months? Why is any of this my fault?”
My chin trembles. Damn him. Fine. He couldn’t be married to my mom anymore, but why did I mean so little to him?
“I’m sorry. I…I don’t know why I haven’t called, except I knew how angry you’d be and would take her side without hearing mine. I didn’t want to put you in the middle and I didn’t want to explain all of this.”
“Well. Too late now, I suppose.” My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out. Perfect, perfect timing. The room is closing in on me and I need space. “That’s Cara. She said she’d text me when mom’s done with her doctor.”
“That’s it?”
“What else do you want me to say? You’ve moved. You’ve met someone, and I’m still here, dealing with all of this.” I cling to my phone. “You took off on me without an explanation. Maybe someday I’ll forgive you for that. For not warning me how bad she can get. When you left Mom, you left her as my responsibility, and I don’t have the thirty years’ experience in trying to manage her, so yeah…I don’t really like you all that much, Dad. You haven’t ever really been there for me.”
“I know. I know that, too. But I truly am sorry.”
“And I accept your apology.” My phone buzzes again. I stand and toss the water bottle into a nearby trash can, and turn to leave. “If you want my forgiveness, I’m not ready. If you want my understanding, you’ve got it to an extent. If you want me to throw my arms around you and say thanks for coming home now, when things are planned out and improving…you’re not getting that, either.”
He stands and pushes in his chair. “I’d like the chance to make amends with you. Not that we can go back, but maybe we can start something new.”
“Then you’re going to have to make an effort. But it’s on you to do it, not me.”
I open the door and step out, stopping when he calls my name.
When I turn, he’s resting against the doorframe. “When she’s healthier, and ready to talk to me, I’ll make things better with your mom, too. At least try to end it on a better note. Help her out more. You’re right…I shouldn’t have left the way I did.”
“Thank you.”
By the time I find my way back to my mom’s room, she’s sitting on the bed, watching a home design show on the television.
“Are you ready to go? Everything okay with the doctor?”
“Yeah, I can go.” She tugs at the hospital gown, and I smack myself. I’d ditched the bag outside earlier and totally forgotten she’d need it. “As soon as I get changed.”
“It’s outside.” I head back to the hallway, grab the small bag I’d packed for her and stowed under a chair in the hallway, and come back, only to find her eyes filling with tears.
“Mom?”
Her voice shakes. “I’m so sorry, Willow. I really am, and I promise, I’ll do my best to get healthy.”
It’s the only thing I need to hear. Between the adrenaline, lack of sleep, absolute terror of not knowing what was going on, and my dad and Trey…My emotions jump to hyperdrive overdramatic, and I throw myself into my mom, squeezing the life out of her and crying.
I hope, with the minuscule amount I have left in me, that she actually means it.
Chapter 26
Willow
Exhaustion is rooted deep in my bones as I carry another stack of boxes through the house. To say the week has been a whirlwind doesn’t give credence to how powerful wind can actually swirl. My life is currently on F5 tornado status and for the immediate future, there’s no slowing in sight.
I’m burning the candle at both ends, spending several hours a day packing items in my mom’s house that I know she’ll want to keep, and the rest to box up and donate and other items for a garage sale in the upcoming weeks to sell as much as possible of what’s left over.
We’re moving. She’s agreed with the plan and I’ve decided that, while she’s gone, it’s the best time for a clean start. I figure with the amount of stuff we can sell, and hopefully the money we can get for the house, she’ll be able to rent an apartment or buy a smaller townhome or condo where she can take the time to find a new job and get her life back on track as well when she’s done with therapy.
As for me, I’ve already begun looking for apartments, but until the house is ready and sold, I’m staying here.
By lunchtime, I’ve only taken breaks for eating, refueling, and spending many more hours working and finishing my current deadlines. Fortunately, I’d sent the final, completed project I have in the immediate pipeline back to the author last night, so for the next two weeks, my focus can be on the house, painting and updating it as much as possible, selling furniture, donating clothes.
It’s been a lonely week, and taking my mom to the coast on Thursday after her release from the short-term facility was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Yet there’s peace that comes from seeing her acceptance with it. She needs this, and while I won’t be able to speak with her for two weeks while she gets settled, I know it’s what’s best for her.
Cara has been a godsend, calling every day to see how I’m doing. She’s stopped by with Jimmy, giving me work breaks so I can play with her boy and she can take over.
But the person I miss the most is Trey. The way I told him to go away. It’s still for the best, until life settles down, but more than a dozen times I’ve picked up my phone to text him. Or call.
Only to put the phone away and push thoughts of him to the back corners of my mind. I don’t feel capable in any way of having a relationship right now. I have daddy issues that need to be settled. Mommy issues that need healing.
I’m a giant ball of a mess, dropping into tears at a moment’s notice, screaming the next. My mom’s therapist recommended I seek one of my own, and she might be right, but it’s currently not high on my priority list.
Apparently, though, I’m high on my dad’s priority list, because he’s also called every day. Some days I’ve answered. Some days I haven’t. Sometimes he’s left a message, and twice I’ve answered the front door only to realize he’s had dinner delivered for me. He’s trying, though, so while there’s a vast distance in our relationship—literally and figuratively—he’s working on healing it, inch by inch. I can only hope it continues, and if it does, we’ll see what happens then.
I’m currently in a small office off our family room, a room I loved as a child. Rich, dark oak shelves line all the walls from floor to ceiling, and it looks like my parents have been collecting books since they were kids and possibly before. The smell of paper and Pledge filters through my nose, and I’m so tired of packing that the dark and worn leather love seat facing me is tempting me to grab a book, throw the cream-colored, plush blanket over me, and spend the rest of the day lost in one of my dad’s old mystery novels.
If only I had the time to do something like this. But the realtor is coming next week to list the house, and she’s bringi
ng in a designer to stage it. She’s made it clear that everything not necessary must be gone, which means I’m looking at spending the entire day in this room, packing books and trinkets.
Lucky, lucky me.
I prop the stack of flat boxes against the doorway and head back to the kitchen to grab more rolls of tape I’d forgotten earlier.
I’m halfway back to the library, tape and permanent marker in hand, when a knock at the door derails me.
It’s early in the day for visitors, barely ten o’clock in the morning, and I’m not expecting anyone today. I take two more steps, assuming it’s a delivery or door-to-door solicitor, but pause when the bell rings. Three times in a row and the urgency of the shrill sound echoing through the front hall makes me turn and hurry toward the door.
Perhaps it’s Cara. As I get closer, I think, it can’t be. The shadowed figure through the frosted glass is much too large to be Cara, and I hesitate again, something flipping in my stomach as I reach for the handle.
Even through the etched-glass windows on the front door, I’d recognize that commanding figure with his back turned to me, ball cap on his head. It’s the shoulders and size of the rest of him I’m having a hard time forgetting.
Trey. But why is he here?
I unlock the door, and he turns so that by the time I’m pulling the door open, he’s stepping closer, almost at the threshold when I open the door.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, and I’m surprised that he’s here, uncertain as to why, but if the tightness lining his eyes and rimming his mouth is anything to go by, he’s not happy to be here, either.
So why come?
He huffs, a cold sound that shows his frustration. “Not exactly how I expected to be greeted.” He shoves his hands to his hips. “Are you going to let me in?”
It’s shameful that it takes me a second too long to decide and Trey doesn’t miss it. A muscle in his jaw ticks and he presses his hand to the door so I can’t close it. Not that I’ve decided I want to quite yet.
“I’m surprised to see you,” I say, stepping back. He’s dressed in a worn T-shirt, frayed at the hem of his sleeves. His athletic shorts hang low on his hips. He looks like he came from the gym, or he’s dressed to head there after.
“Probably because you’ve ignored my phone calls and texts all week.” Two thick black brows arch at the accusation, his full lips pressing down.
He’s right. I have. But what do I say to the guy who I started falling for in a weekend and then left as soon life went haywire?
“Trey…” I start, and close my mouth. I still don’t know what to say to him.
“Let me in, Willow. I came to talk and help you pack. That’s all. And if you’re not ready to talk, we can pack in silence.”
I step back, letting him in all the way. “I didn’t mean to ignore you. I’ve just been busy.”
“And avoiding me.”
My shoulders fall and my lip finds its way between my teeth. He’s right. I have been. I’m not typically an avoider by nature, which makes me ashamed of myself. “I don’t know what to say.”
My admission is weak. I’m embarrassed at how I treated him at the hospital. I’m embarrassed he knows how much of a mess my life is. That he saw me yelling at my dad. He’s seen the worst and ugliest parts of my life and it’s enough to make any man run away.
“A simple hello would have worked. Letting me know what’s going on.”
If only life was so simple.
“I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“And I can’t help that I care about you enough to be worried. Or to want to help.”
“Trey—”
“Don’t.” His frown lifts as he steps closer. “I said we didn’t have to talk. I’m here to help and I know you need it. Let me do this for you.”
The door closes behind him, and even though my parents’ entryway is vast and open, he’s so large he absorbs the space around him, making it feel cramped…warm…not entirely unwelcome, though.
This is why I can’t be with him. My list of to-dos is ten miles long, and if Trey sucks me into his orbit, I can see myself forgetting all of it. The weekend away was long enough to realize I have too many other responsibilities right now. I have to get a handle on them first before I can risk anything with Trey.
But man, I want him here. Helping me. Making me laugh. Making me feel good.
“Thank you,” I whisper, feeling emotions bubble beneath the surface I’ve unsuccessfully pushed down all week. Now isn’t the time for them to flow, though. Not with Trey here, so close, moving closer.
He reaches out, taking the tape from my hand before I realize what he’s reaching for, and smirks. “Come on. Show me where the boxes are.”
He’s steps ahead of me down the hall before I can blink, lost in the scent his presence leaves behind. As if he knows the effect he has on me, he glances back at me over his shoulder and winks. “Come on, Willow. These boxes aren’t going to pack themselves.”
Chapter 27
Trey
Willow’s reaction at seeing me isn’t altogether surprising considering I’ve spent all week sending her texts and calling a couple of times and she hasn’t replied to any of it. I don’t even care if it makes me a fool for continuing to reach out to her. Someday, she’s going to realize I’m in this for the long haul.
Her reluctance, though, does send a sharp pinch of pain to my chest. I’d hoped she was busy and not ignoring me, but apparently she’s been both. And that…well, I don’t like it.
For the last week, I’ve tried to get lost in work. But for the first time in my life, it’s not work sucking all my attention, it’s the pretty blonde, leading me into a small room she’s called her parents’ office, that’s distracting me from everything else in life. Her hair is piled on her head, wisps of it sticking out at the base of her neck, around her ears and temples. She looks like she’s not sleeping, not eating, and possibly showering even less than I remember to do when I’m on a deadline for work.
Despite the dark circles under her eyes, the exhaustion in her posture as she turns her back to me and doesn’t speak, and her avoidance, she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. And yeah, I’m here today to talk to her, to get her to face me, to get her to acknowledge what we have, but if I have to bide my time spending hours, days, even weeks helping her out, I’m willing to do that, too. At some point, she’s going to realize I’m not going anywhere and eventually…hopefully…she’ll cave and finally open up.
“I started in this room today,” she says, spinning in a slow circle. “I’m thinking of donating all the books since I don’t think they’ll sell.” She chews her lips, showing her uncertainty, and maybe her sadness.
If I could kick my own ass for not showing up sooner I would, but I had figured I’d give her space to come to me. When I’d realized the chances of that happening were sliding toward less than zero percent, I changed my mind.
I grab a flattened box propped against the door and fold it open. “Where do you want me to start?”
She sighs, puffing out her cheeks, and blinks. “Top shelves maybe? The high ones I can’t reach.”
Done. I move to the far wall, grabbing the tape on my way, and drop the box on a large writing desk that’s already been cleared off. “Whatever you need, Willow.” I turn to her. “I mean that.”
She blinks rapidly, blond lashes fluttering against her cheeks, and I realize she’s blinking back tears. My hands ball into fists. It takes everything I have not to reach for her when my entire body demands I comfort her. Yet she’s so far away, holding herself back not only emotionally but physically, I don’t dare risk it.
I give her privacy and reach for a stack of books and get to work.
Quietly, so quietly behind me, her steps shuffle, moving farther away from me. “Thank you, Trey. For your help and being
here.”
It’s something—not enough, but I take it. And when I reach for more books, I realize I’m smiling. I’ll wear her down and I don’t care how long it takes.
We pack for well over two hours, saying very little. At one point, I grab my phone and turn on a classic rock playlist to have more sound in the room besides our breathing and the scratching of cardboard boxes getting opened and closed and taped. I’m here to help and I meant what I said. If she doesn’t want to talk to me, or about anything important, I’ll give her the space.
I’ll still be here to help.
It’s during a break in the music, when I’m walking back into the office from where I’ve carried a half dozen boxes to the hall, when I stop and watch her. Willow is standing at the bookshelf, one hand curled around a shelf, one placed to her stomach, and she sighs heavily.
We need to take a break.
A quick check of my watch says it’s well after noon and I’m betting she’d been packing for several hours even before I showed.
I go to my phone, stop the music, and open up a delivery app.
“What would you like for lunch?” I ask, not looking at her. I’m not giving her the option of telling me she’s not hungry. I’m pretty certain I’ve just heard her stomach rumble. “I can order subs, pizza, sushi, burgers. Anything you want?”
“I’m not—”
“You are hungry. And you look ready to collapse.” I wave my phone in the air. “I can have anything you want delivered. Just let me know what it is.”
She looks away from me like she’s ashamed. “I haven’t felt like eating.”
“Stress will do that to you, but that doesn’t mean you don’t need it. Something light? A salad?” I’ll make sure to get lots of protein on it, though—chicken, steak, eggs, whatever—so she has more substance.
She scrunches up her face, ready to decline. She must see the determined look on my face and her shoulders fall. Conceding, she says, “That’d be good, I guess.”
