by Alison Kent
Her temples began to throb, a bass drum pounding. “I told you—”
“I know what you told me, Cilla.” He straightened and crossed his arms, his expression strangely fierce. “But I need to know if there’s going to be an angry ex showing up with an assault rifle.”
On that count, at least, she could set his mind at ease. “If he showed up, it would be with the Wall Street Journal in one hand and a bottle of Glenlivet in the other.” Cary continued his steely gaze, so she went on. “He’d have to care to come after me. Trust me. He doesn’t care.”
“About you? About... her?”
The hesitation in Cary’s voice nearly broke her. “About anything but himself. His life. His schedule. His plans. I messed things up for him by getting pregnant. He wasn’t ready to be a father. He certainly wasn’t ready to be a husband.” And why was she sharing the details of the biggest mistake of her life? “Listen, I can go—”
“I don’t want you to go. I just...” He stopped, scrubbing both hands over his face in a frustration she knew intuitively was rooted in their past. “I want you to be safe. I want to know I can provide that for you. That you’re not going to be in any danger. That you won’t get hurt—”
“Or that I won’t hurt myself?”
The words crackled as her heart rose to gag her, her hand going to her hip and the railroad track of scars marring her skin. They were faded now to nearly white but were there to always remind her of her childhood. Of the indescribable emotional pain she’d tried to cut away with another that bled.
“I haven’t done that since the day you took my razor blade.”
And that was the truth.
Cary let that settle, the walls of the room seeming to squeeze and press like fingertips against Cilla’s flesh as she waited, until finally Cary asked, “Did anyone else know?”
His voice was soft, caring, the tone one she’d never heard from her ex. He, instead, had suggested a plastic surgeon, unable in the end to deal with the marks and what he saw as an unacceptable weakness. One with the potential to hinder his success should they be seen by someone who would ask questions, who would then question him.
Because everything had always been about him.
She shook her head, still struggling to rebound from the weight of that final straw. Still wondering how she’d fallen for his charms... though considering where she’d spent her entire life, the places he’d promised to take her were hard to resist.
“No one knew, no. And I was mortified when you found out,” she admitted, holding a breath that began to burn the longer he took to respond.
“At first I thought it was part of a box cutter,” he said. “Something you used to cut poster board for signs. But the way you looked at me when I picked it up...” He walked toward her, stopped and crouched in front of her, waited until she met his gaze to speak.
“I’m sorry for what you went through then. I’m sorry for what you’re going through now. But I’m not sorry at all that you’re here.” He paused, reaching up to wipe a tear from her cheek. “Just know, whatever it is, you don’t have to deal with it alone.”
Chapter Five
NINE DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS, Cilla sat in one of Cary’s kitchen chairs at his rectangular-shaped table built of long-scuffed pine, putting together what he assumed was a grocery list. It made sense that’s what she was doing with pen and paper because he had next to nothing in the way of food in the house.
He skipped as many meals as he ate and most of those he did in restaurants. The only cooking he did involved the microwave. He guessed that was another thing now that would change. One or the other of them cooking while she was here. Using decades-old pots and pans.
He should buy new ones. Better ones. Throw out the old as he’d been meaning to do with the rest of what remained of the past. The past he hated remembering. The past that had made him who he was. The past that included Cilla.
Last evening after she’d unpacked, he’d heated them both a mug of soup to go with the grilled cheese toast he’d managed not to burn. They’d eaten together in the kitchen, talking about the changes to Hope Springs when they’d said anything at all, leaving what had happened between them earlier in the bedroom to simmer.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about that... the simmering.
Once they’d finished, he’d cleaned up the kitchen, refusing Cilla’s help, and she’d gone upstairs early, exhausted. It had taken him a while to unwind. He’d tossed and turned more than he’d slept, listening when there’d been nothing to hear, waiting... for what he didn’t know. Maybe for her footsteps on the stairs. Maybe for the engine of her rental car firing. He wasn’t sure why he’d assumed last night would send her packing.
This morning, he’d made himself a cup of coffee and set a second mug next to the Keurig machine before heading into his studio. He’d heard her turn on the shower, then come down a half hour later. Restless and tense, he’d steeled himself, expecting her to stop by and say, “Good morning.” He’d run through what he’d say in return.
Instead, she’d left him to his work, respecting his space and his privacy as promised. Sadly, he’d accomplished nothing since. The idea—no, the reality—of having Cilla Reddy in his house... He was going to have to get used to it. To a change that had come out of nowhere. A change he’d invited to happen.
He’d been comfortably settled, his daily rut boring, sure, but defined so that he didn’t have to think about anything except work. Maybe her being here wasn’t such a good idea—the disruption to his routine, the tear at the frayed edge of his comfort zone. Even now, his stomach was in a knot.
At the jangle of her keys, he pushed away from his studio’s doorway where he’d been leaning, lost so deeply in thought he hadn’t realized she’d left her seat. “Going out?”
She smiled reassuringly as if sensing he needed to know she wasn’t running. “I have to return my rental car. I can get a cab to bring me back here—”
He interrupted with a shake of his head. “I’ll follow you.”
She held up her list. “Do you mind shopping with me? Or at least dropping me by the store? You can wait. Or I’ll call you when I’m done.”
“I can do that,” he said, not quite certain what he’d just agreed to. Any of the options were fine by him.
“And I could do it online, but I might as well put in a change of address with the post office while I’m out,” she added after a long moment of holding his gaze.
It felt like a test. Like she was giving him one last chance to opt out of their arrangement. The idea that she would share his address rather than live at the one he’d never forgotten... Cilla Reddy, 257 Loving Lane, Hope Springs, Texas, 78130.
“Not a problem,” he said, his heart pounding, bruising his ribs.
Laughing softly, she hooked her purse strap over her shoulder. “You’re an awfully accommodating landlord.”
“I’m new at this gig,” he said, not ready to admit it was his tenant who had him off balance. “Give me a chance to get my sea legs.”
“DON’T WORRY. I’M PAYING for all of this,” Cilla said, as he eyeballed the items in her basket. She added bottles of almond and vanilla extracts while he looked on.
He’d have uses for neither after she moved out.
“I assumed you would be.” He shrugged sheepishly when she looked up at him and laughed, getting back to her list.
He swore it was as long as Santa’s. And it had him wondering about her financial situation. Which was absolutely none of his business.
She reached for a small bottle of decorative green sprinkles and shook it. “I’m going to assume you’ve got friends who’ll eat the cookies I’m going to bake. Because there’s no way you and I will be able to go through them all. Though they can be frozen.”
“Maybe cut back on the number then.” Because his having friends was an issue.
She shook her head as if he wasn’t making any sense and laughed again. A joyous sound that took him back to the years when he’
d turned at hearing it. In the hallways. In the parking lot. In the gym or the cafeteria. He’d fallen in love with her laugh.
He’d fallen—
“You obviously have a lot to learn about Christmas, Cary Browning. It’s not a proper holiday if there aren’t more treats than there are mouths to disappear them.”
He’d have to take her word for it. Treats had never been on his family’s menu.
He did remember one year having Oreos with red filling—the bag left torn open, crumbs on the countertop, the cookies going soft then stale. An afterthought more than a celebration.
“We can get cookies at Butters, you know.” And buying them would be cheaper than paying for all these ingredients, ninety-nine percent of which would go to waste after she was gone.
And there he went again, thinking about her leaving. He took a deep breath. It didn’t help.
“I know that. I used to buy dozens of cookies from Peggy Butters for school events, but only when I didn’t have time to make them. It’s so much more fun to make them.”
“If you say so.”
“Oh,” she said, turning on him suddenly, her hair swinging to settle around her shoulders. “Do you have baking sheets? Or cooling racks?”
He had no idea. Or what shape they’d be in if so. But seeing her curls bounce again made him happy. “My mom probably did.”
“I don’t want to buy new ones if you do,” she said, putting the cart back into motion. “I’ll dig through the cabinets once we get home.”
Home. “You don’t have to do that,” he said after clearing his throat.
She tossed another laugh over her shoulder. “Are you going to? Because obviously you haven’t done so thus far.”
Following, he shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “I never had a reason.”
“Don’t you cook for yourself?”
“That’s what a microwave is for.”
She picked up a box of light brown sugar, picked up a box of dark. “You need to learn how to cook.” She decided on both and a bag of powdered, too. “We’ll start with supper. What do you want?”
“Tonight?” he asked, thrown by how comfortable this was, how natural. How strangely domestic when domesticity was not the basis of their relationship. They were landlord and tenant. Friends at most.
“Tonight. Tomorrow night. A pot of stew or a big lasagna will last longer than a single serve frozen pizza,” she said when they turned into the freezer aisle, her words stopping him from adding a six-pack of double-pepperoni to the cart.
“Stew sounds good,” he admitted.
“Then stew it is. Meat first, then we’ll pick up carrots and onions and potatoes. Celery and garlic. Bay leaves. Hmm. Paprika maybe.” She ticked off the items as if reading a recipe then reached for her purse. “I need a pen to add everything to my list.”
“I got it,” he said, pulling out his phone and making a digital note.
Cilla watched as he swiped a finger over the keyboard then said, “Thank you,” when he turned the screen for her viewing. “I think that’s it.” Nodding because her smile had him mute, he followed as she pushed the cart toward the butcher case at the rear of the store.
Two men worked steadily, wielding knives and cleavers. The younger of the two, who Cary knew to be the older man’s son, tore a sheet of white paper from a long roll then glanced up. A broad grin brightened his heavy features. “Cary Browning! Long time no see!”
Cary lifted a hand. “Hey, Allan. Do you remember—”
Allan’s expression fairly glowed. “Gosh-dog-it. Cilla Reddy? Is that really you?”
Cary held his breath, waiting for Cilla’s reaction. She and Allan Campbell had dated all through their junior year and the first half of their senior. They’d broken up right about the same time Cary had picked up her razor blade.
“Hi, Allan,” she said, her words warm and true. “It’s good to see you.”
“Good, heck. It’s fan-freaking-tastic.” He reached for the ties of his apron. “Hey, Dad. Watch the counter for a bit.” He turned back to Cilla. “You don’t move. Let me wash my hands and get rid of this apron so we can have a proper reunion.”
“I’M SORRY IF THAT WAS weird for you, seeing Allan,” Cary said, setting the last of the purchases on the kitchen countertop. He thought about putting the nonperishable items away then decided to let Cilla do it so she’d more easily find them again.
She placed on the table the cutting board she’d found and scrubbed clean then reached for the roast wrapped in white butcher paper. Allan had chosen it for her. The best of the best for the best, he’d said. “Why would it be weird?”
“I’m not sure.” Though he was sure this was not what he wanted to talk about... even if he was the one who’d brought it up. He shrugged and put the milk in the fridge. “You share a past. He probably knows more about you than—”
“Than you do?” she asked, her hands momentarily stilling on the meat. His throat tight, he responded with a nod she wasn’t looking at him to see as she added, “He might know more but you know one thing he doesn’t.”
That she used to cut herself.
She turned and fetched a knife from a drawer, her gaze searching his as she smiled softly and handed it to him. “You’d think he would, wouldn’t you, since we were... intimate.”
“Yeah,” was all he said because he couldn’t imagine being that close to Cilla’s body and missing those wounds. He stared at the knife in his hand, the weight strangely burdensome. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Cut the roast. One-inch cubes, please. I’ll peel the potatoes and carrots.” She brought the vegetables to the table along with a peeler and paring knife and settled into the chair across from where he stood. “It wasn’t weird,” she said, reaching for a carrot. “It was... nice. Seeing him from this distance and realizing we never would’ve worked.”
“Why not?” Because in school they’d been voted the junior couple most likely to last forever.
“We wanted different things.”
“Like not to smell like raw meat?” he asked, cutting through the center of the roast.
Laughing, she set the carrot aside and reached for the next. “I don’t think that would’ve bothered me if everything else had fit. Or maybe just a little bit.”
He waited for her to go on then nudged her when she didn’t, not quite sure why knowing this about her mattered so much. “Why didn’t you fit?”
She picked up a potato, checked it for blemishes, and started peeling away the skin with increasingly choppy strokes. “We made it through two football seasons, but I knew after the first that football would always be an important part of Allan’s life.”
“That was a problem?”
“I hated the game. For me, all that excitement, the pep rallies, the cheerleading...” Her hand shaking, she set the potato aside and pushed away from the table, filling a glass with filtered water from the tap at the sink.
“What about it?” he asked after she’d swallowed half of it.
She looked down at the glass in her hand. “It was a way to pretend I was happy.”
He whacked a chunk of meat into smaller pieces, none of them resembling cubes. “I always thought you were.”
“You were supposed to,” she said and returned to the table.
His hands slowed as she sat, as she situated the chair the right distance away, as she wedged herself into the seat. She flexed her fingers then went back to the potatoes.
He waited, but she remained silent, so he said what was on his mind. “I used to ride my bike by your house and hear the laughter. It sounded like everyone was having fun.”
The noise she made fell somewhere between bitterness and contempt. “That wasn’t fun. It was alcohol.”
He butchered another piece of meat. That sound, the gaiety had meant so much to him. It had given him hope. She had given him hope. “Oh.”
“Yeah. The big, giant Reddy secret. It’s why I couldn’t wait to leave for college. T
hen I stupidly fell for a guy I worked with who was a drunk.”
“Oh.”
“You would’ve thought I’d have learned, wouldn’t you?”
He was pretty sure that was rhetorical, so he didn’t answer—though something about girls ending up with men like their fathers did flash through his mind... along with a picture of Earl Reddy’s bloated, ruddy cheeks.
“Have you ever been in love, Cary?”
All of my life. The response came out of the blue as had her question, and he lost his grip on the knife, slicing off a thin sliver of meat while working to catch his breath, to calm his racing pulse. To figure out why sweat was running into his eyes when winter would officially arrive in another few days.
He used his wrist to wipe it away and finally said, “No.”
“That makes two of us,” she responded, leaving him with so many things he wanted to know, the most pressing being: Was the drunk her baby’s father?
“Are you finished over there?”
Nodding, he set the knife aside and looked at the mess he’d made of the roast. “I don’t know why you didn’t let Allan do this.”
“That one’s easy,” she said with a mysterious smile. “Because Allan doesn’t have your hands.”
Chapter Six
COOKING DINNER FOR Cary, with Cary, left Cilla feeling things she wasn’t sure what to do with. They should’ve been two friends preparing and sharing a meal—and they were. They had been. Except while they’d worked together in the kitchen, their friendship slowly and subtly had begun to shift into something deeper.
Something with roots solidly fixed beneath them years before.
She was pretty sure Cary’s coming to the same realization was what had sent him out the back door into the cold. At least that had been one of the reasons he’d fled.
They’d been cleaning up when she’d had to make yet another trip to the bathroom. They’d been laughing. Joking about her bulk being an obstacle course. Revisiting cheery pieces of the past. Enjoying themselves. Relaxed and comfortable.
