Shards of My Heart (The Forgotten Ones Book 2)

by Nellie K Neves

  “Oliver is going to love his truck. He’s already watched Gremkey Gongo three times this week.”

  “He’s a cute kid.” Zane falls in step beside me. “His laugh is the best, totally carefree. It speaks to the way you’ve raised him.”

  “The way I’ve raised him has come under fire lately.” Flashes of my run in with Jennie Baker jam up my mind.

  “You don’t have it easy, Finley. You’re doing the best you can. People would be blind not to see that.”

  “Then people are blind.”

  “I want to kiss you,” Zane blurts out just before he catches my arm. On instinct, I jerk back and put space between us. Ache clouds his features. I hate myself for my reaction.

  “Can I kiss you, Finley?” he asks again, undaunted by my response.

  “No,” I say, but it’s hardly more than a whisper.

  He nods as if it’s the answer he expected. “Can I hold your hand?”

  I draw in a sharp, audible breath because I didn’t realize until this moment that I’d stopped breathing entirely.

  “No,” I say.

  “What if you help me hold my egg?” Zane pulls the green egg from his pocket and displays it in his palm. “Then you’re not holding me, you’re holding an egg. Because, let’s face it, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  He’s good at finding ways around my faulty logic. As if his superpower is sniffing out the holes in my defense system. My hand wraps around the egg, and consequently around his hand. It works for me. He can’t keep a tight grip on me unless he wants to break that egg. Logic tells me that’s the last thing he wants to do.

  I’m safe.

  “You got a fish?” The house is thirty feet away. I shouldn’t be ticking down the distance, but it’s built into my system.

  “Yeah,” Zane falls into step beside me, “she’s pretty too. Blue and red, mostly. I named her Fin.”

  “Like a fish fin?” I ask with a smile.

  “Like you.” He pulls us to a stop. “So, I remember why I have her. That way I’ll remember to take care of her because she’s important to me.”

  “That’s a tight relationship to a fish.” I tease him because I need this to be less than it is. “Maybe you should talk over these co-dependent fish tendencies with your shrink when you get back to LA.”

  Zane’s frustration with me grows because I won’t acknowledge what he’s saying. “I don’t have to. I talk to my shrink by video chat. Three times a week. I told her about you.”

  “About me? We haven’t known each other that long. What could you tell her at this point?”

  “That I get excited to see you every morning. That I like the way you laugh, and that you’re a good mom. She knows you don’t care about my Hollywood status, and you’ve only seen a couple of my movies. I told her that you remind me that I’m not a loser, just someone who’s made some bad choices.”

  His thumb rubs against my skin. I simultaneously want to rip my hand free and also crush the egg to hold him tighter. Can he see the struggle I’m in? Does he understand what he does to me?

  “Why don’t you like staying in a trailer? Why are you at Cecelia’s house?” The question has been burbling in my mind since Jay first told me it was Zane’s only request. If he’s going to root through the trash bins in my mind and blurt out inappropriate questions, I feel like I deserve the same courtesy.

  Zane has walls of his own. They’re hidden behind his wide smiles and deep laughter, but I recognize what it looks like to hit a tender heart.

  “Too many memories,” he tells me. Taking a step forward, Zane presses his lips together before he asks, “Can I touch your face?”

  No is the first thought in my head, but the pleading in his eyes begs another question.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “You touch my face every day. You have no idea what it does to me. I guess I want to show you how it feels. I need to know if you can feel it too, or if I’m alone in these emotions.” It’s another half a step closer before he asks, “Can I touch your face?”

  Against my better judgement, I whisper, “Yes.”

  I can’t help but pull back as his palm inches toward me. The last time I felt a man’s hand on my face, it hurt. But this is different. I’ve always worried about letting someone close to me again, as if it might jar free memories of Todd and his abuse, but how can it when Todd never felt like this?

  The warmth of his palm slides easily along my jaw, encompassing my cheekbone and holds me steady without trapping me there. It’s as if he understands that all I need is someone to help keep my broken soul from crumbling to pieces. My eyes fall closed as his palm catches the edge of my lips. I lean into his touch, needing more of his comfort. His grip shifts as he brings his thumb to my lip, brushing across the width, barely there and yet igniting my senses at the same time.

  I open my eyes and find him watching me, brow furrowed, lips parted, eyes brimmed with tears. “I won’t hurt you, Finley,” he whispers. “I promise I won’t hurt you.”

  Does he know that Todd used to say the same thing? And seconds later I’d taste my own blood. He’d scream that I made him do it. He told me I was the reason he had to lie and cheat. If I were better at being his wife, fulfilling his fantasies, he wouldn’t have to cheat.

  My fault.

  Even if he hadn’t told me. I would have assumed the guilt.

  If I could have been a little more perfect, none of it would have happened.

  “Finn,” Zane brings my attention back to him, “Finn, I swear I won’t hurt you. I don’t have it in me.” A tear falls from my eyes. He’s quick to wipe it away. “I want to take you in my arms and keep you safe. I want to protect you, so you never have to be scared again.”

  “You don’t get it,” I say. “You couldn’t possibly understand what I’m feeling right now. The fear and the anxiety, never knowing—”

  “I know fear,” he says without releasing me, “I wake up every day wondering if I’ll have the strength to stay sober. I wonder if I’ll ever feel as good without a high, because I can’t forget that euphoria. I go to bed exhausted every night from actively fighting myself all day. I don’t trust myself, so I understand how you can’t trust anyone else.”

  “We’re quite the pair,” I whisper with all the sarcasm I can muster.

  He’s not buying into my deflection and he repeats himself. “I won’t hurt you, Finley. Do you believe me?”

  Three tears roll over his hand as I blink my eyes. He watches them fall as if he’s the one who caused them.

  “I want to believe you,” I stare up at his grey blue eyes, “does that count?”

  Barely enough to be called a smile, he tries, nonetheless. “No, not really, but that’s eight seconds you’ve looked me in the eye, and that’s a new record.”

  Chapter 9

  Despite our supercharged moment in my backyard, nothing’s happened between Zane and me. It’s the same routine. I pick him up, I do my job, I drop him off, and I’m a single mom. For a whole ten days, it’s been business as usual. Part of me is glad that he hasn’t mentioned our moment, but a part of me is disappointed. Aren’t princes supposed to sweep a girl off her feet?

  I suppose the fairytale maidens don’t set quite so many rules as I do. Granted, none of them ever met Todd.

  Zane gave me the bags. I guess that’s new. He made this big deal out of them, telling me how trendy I am now, not to mention how many plastic trees I’ve saved and some other hippie garbage. I took them because they look sturdy, and I think they’ll work to transport Oliver’s sand toys to the park. And sure, I’ll think of Zane Alexander every time I use them, because he’ll be far away being famous, and I’ll still be here in Ridgedale.

  I won’t forget that night either. Staring at him, maybe for the first time ever, because I’ve never allowed myself that freedom. His palm against my face, thumb on my lips, heart in my throat, no, I won’t forget that. Or the way it ended without going anywhere.

  We didn’t even break the
egg for heaven’s sake.

  I have tomorrow off, the first one in over ten days, again. I expect Zane to ask for a dinner invite in some sneaky way, but he’s quiet all the way back to Cecelia’s house. In fact, he’s been quiet all day.

  “Fine,” I blurt out as we stop in front of the house. “You can come to dinner. You silence treatmented it out of me, just stop this torture.”

  His wide eyes and elevated eyebrows are my first indication that I’m way off base.

  “I wasn’t aware I was torturing you,” he says. “For that matter, I didn’t know I was fishing for the invite either.”

  “Well, we have tomorrow off, and last time you were so eager to come over, I figured you’d find a way to work it out again. But you’re just sitting there saying nothing.”

  “And that’s torture?”

  “Yes!” I say without checking my emotions. “You carry most of our conversations. When you’re quiet, I’m left to my own thoughts, and let me tell you, they’re bleak.”

  “Bleak?” I’ve never seen Zane look so confused. Meanwhile, I’m having word vomit issues like I’ve been force fed emotional Ipecac.

  “Yes, like thinking you’re mad at me. Maybe I took your scars off too fast because I can see red on your cheek still, and now you think I’m not fit for my job. I’m worried that I said something this morning and you’re still stewing over it. I mean I know I said I didn’t like your last movie, but it’s not like they can all be winners, Zane. But what do I know? I can count all the movies I’ve seen on three hands. And over half are yours, and from the last month! And yes, I know I don’t have three hands, just another deficit of mine. Imagine how much better I’d be with three hands.”

  He’s still not talking, and I’m dying inside because all he’s doing is staring at me.

  Cue another round of emotional word vomit.

  “I figure this is it, this is the moment where you tell me I’m not interesting anymore, or maybe you ask for Kiara’s number because we were talking today, and she’s a lot cuter than I am. I’m a makeup artist who never wears makeup, who does that? Or maybe you want Mona’s number because all along you’ve been interested in her, and that’s the kind of thing that happens to me, Zane. Because you know what doesn’t happen to me?”

  I wait until he shakes his head.

  “Happy endings. They never happen. Eventually, I screw it up. I say something wrong, or I expect too much, or I paint my nails the wrong color, but it’s only a matter of time, and that’s where my mind goes when you stop talking to me.”

  The car is silent, just the sound of my breath rising in and out of my chest, far faster than it should be, because I don’t know how to interact with oxygen when I feel this much anxiety.

  “Tell me how to fix it,” I say to him. “And I’ll fix it. But I don’t want to lose your friendship.”

  His brow mashes together at my final sentence, a huge contrast to the wide-eyed surprise he’s been wearing for the last couple minutes. I draw in a new breath and brace myself for his answer.

  “Finn, why would you lose my friendship? Why do you automatically assume everything is your fault? You haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “But,” my voice is small and pleading, the consequence of too many years of being shoved down emotionally, “you’re quiet. I figured it was my fault.”

  “All the problems I’ve created in my life, and you assume I’m focused on your issues?” His laughter is breathy and weak. “I can’t begin to see past my mountain of mistakes to notice even one of yours.”

  “Then why?” I ask. “What’s going on?”

  Zane’s head rocks back until it collides with the headrest. Then he beats it six times. Each one reverberates against me as I assume the worst.

  He’s married.

  He’s in the mafia.

  He’s an axe murderer.

  He’s a woman.

  He’s pretty enough.

  It’s possible.

  “The only reason we aren’t filming tomorrow,” Zane says, “is because I’m flying to LA in the morning to appear in court. They’re deciding whether or not I should have a license again, among other things. I’m quiet because I’m worried.”

  “That you won’t get it?”

  “That I will get it,” he says. “I’ve been a year without a license. I’m over a year sober. I can’t help but wonder if those two things correlate. If I have freedom to choose where I go, what’s to stop me from scoring some cocaine, or something stronger? I can drive to Main Street and get a drink at the bar, no one would ever have to know.”

  I want to tell him that in a town this small everyone would know within ten minutes, but I don’t think that’s what he’s getting at.

  “You’re scared of freedom?” I ask, but it’s not really a question when I say it. It’s a statement of my realization.

  “Yes.”

  “Because you’ll know how committed you are to your new way of living?”

  “Yes.”

  The silence is back, but for once it’s not heavy, not with the way we’ve built our friendship. Silence isn’t always a bad thing. Sometimes it’s the space we need to figure out what comes next.

  I set my elbow on the center console and lower my arm until it’s palm up in between us. Zane looks at my hand, then back at me, then at my hand again before he asks, “What are you doing?”

  “It’s called the available hand,” I say. It’s a little bit junior high, but I never claimed to be good at any of this.

  “I still don’t understand.” For once, he’s the one fighting his nerves.

  “Well, I’m sure it’s not done in Hollywood, but I think it’s still practiced in other parts of the country.” But probably not after eighth grade. “If a girl, or a guy I guess, is willing to hold your hand, they stick it out in the middle, palm up and they wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “For the other person to take it or not. That’s why it’s an available hand, not a mandatory hand.”

  He cracks a grin, and I’m floating to know I put it there when he’s this low. His teeth catch his bottom lip before he lets it slide free. “And this available hand, what does it mean?”

  “It can mean lots of things,” I wiggle my fingers because this angle makes my hand go numb. “It could mean, I like you, or my hands are cold, or it could be a false available hand where my hand is really just waiting for you to share your candy.”

  “I don’t have any candy.”

  “Then it’s probably not that.”

  Zane looks at my hand again before he swallows loud enough I can hear it. “What does it mean to you, Finn? What does this particular available hand mean?”

  He has a way of seeing past my defenses, like I never built a wall in the first place. I don’t have to tell him my answer, but one look at his face, and I want to explain why I put it out there.

  “It means I’m sorry you have to go through this. It means, I wish I were there to hold your hand in the courtroom because no one should have to face lawyers and judges alone. It means, I understand some of how you feel and the fear of having the freedom to choose after having being robbed of those choices for so long. It means I’m here for you, even if I can’t be there for you.”

  Still chewing on his lip, Zane considers my answer. “I was hoping it was the ‘I like you’ kind of hand.”

  My available hand pops up to shove his shoulder, but we’re both laughing.

  “That’s it,” I fold my arms tight around my middle, “timer is up. The hand is no longer available.”

  Zane props his elbow on the center console and lowers his arm to match where mine was a second ago. “How’s my technique? Is it available enough? Do I need to make a little sign that says, ‘hand wanted’?”

  I roll my eyes and slip my hand into his, giving it a little squeeze to let him know I meant everything I said. For a second, we watch our hands, fingers intertwined as if they’re a whole entity on their own.

  “There’s
no egg there this time,” Zane says.

  “No, there’s not.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  Truth is, I’m barely breathing with the way he’s making me feel.

  It’s hands.

  Holy cow, what’s wrong with me?

  Oliver holds hands with little girls at the park, it’s not like this means anything.

  But I can’t live with that lie. Seconds ago, I explained to him everything that this meant. Beyond even that, it’s a symbol, a tangible symbol that we’re connected, our lives have become intertwined, and I don’t know how to be without him.

  “I still want to kiss you, Finley,” Zane says without looking away from where we match up.

  “You haven’t owned your fish very long,” I tell him.

  “I know.”

  “And I’d lose my job.”

  “I know.”

  “And I don’t know if I’m ready yet, Zane.”

  “That’s the only one that actually matters,” he says.

  His eyes fall shut. I feel like the weight of his past falls over him, but at least I’m there to support some of that crushing guilt and regret.

  “Thank you for this.” He still hasn’t let go. “I’ll be pretending you’re there with me.”

  “Good thing I’m not. I always say the wrong thing.”

  Without waiting for my permission, Zane lifts my hand and presses it to his lips. The kiss is quick, a flash of warmth, but it burns long after he’s pulled away.

  “No,” he says, “no you don’t.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Oliver has preschool the next day, and thankfully Mona is willing to take him. There’s no way I can win against Jennie Baker. If I show up looking like myself, then she’s going to rub my face in her perfection again. If I dress up and try a little, she’s going to assume I did it just for her, and she’d be right. Letting him go with Mona is my best choice.

  Well that, and grocery shopping sans my little helper. As I stroll the aisles at a leisurely pace, no hands grabbing random boxes off shelves, no whining for this or that, no ‘Mama, are we done now?’, I’m starting to see the upside of preschool. At least a little bit.