Could Have Been Us

by Corinne Michaels

  But when I get outside, I stop and turn. “What would our moment have been?”

  She leans her head against the door, a sad, wistful smile on her lips. “I don’t know. I guess maybe we had our moment, didn’t we? We loved each other one time. One night. That moment is all we’ll ever have. I’m tired and need to get some sleep. Good night, Jack.”

  I want so badly to pull her into my arms, to hold her close to me, kissing her until neither of us can fucking breathe, but I don’t. I return her smile, hating how easy it comes. “Good night, Stella.”

  “Those boots can’t get much cleaner,” Grayson notes as I wipe the toe harder.

  “They can always be cleaner.”

  “To go back into the fire?”

  I shrug. It’s giving me something to do. Something to stop myself from replaying the conversations I’ve had in the last week.

  I was a fucking idiot. I said too much, and while he thinks it was Misty I was talking about regarding moments, it wasn’t.

  I want the moments with her.

  With Stella.

  Tonight’s fire took a lot from me. I didn’t realize how much I needed to expel this energy.

  Then there’s the fact that Stella disappeared again today, and I have a feeling she didn’t tell anyone because she’s in Georgia—again.

  Grayson puts his hand on my shoulder. “Listen, about the other night . . .”

  Fucking hell, he knows. He knows that I was at Stella’s late at night or he heard something from Delia and Jess.

  “I can . . .”

  “No, listen, what you said about taking a chance and living in the moments instead of the end was some profound shit coming from you.” He laughs, and I nod. “But you were right. I’ve been so worried about Jessica leaving that I forgot to focus on the fact that she’s here now.”

  Relief that it’s not what I thought ripples through me. This is a topic I can manage. If one of us can be happy, then it should be him.

  “Did you talk to her about this?”

  He nods. “She told me she loves me. Before I got in the car to come on this call.”

  I laugh because he seems surprised. The two of them have been in love since they were freaking teenagers. “And?”

  “And . . . I don’t know, maybe she won’t go. Maybe . . . maybe I’m a fool.”

  “Isn’t that the saying about being in love, it makes us fools?”

  Grayson snorts. “That’s the fucking truth.”

  “Well, we’ve known that about you for a long time.”

  “Enough about me and love, what about you? You’ve been distant and missed a few pizza nights.”

  I have been. I’m missing my usual fuck-it-all type attitude. The last few weeks haven’t allowed that.

  “I’m fine. It’s been crazy with work and just . . . memories.”

  That’s the closest I’m getting to confessing anything.

  He sighs deeply. “I get it. Sometimes they creep up on us.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Lately, I’ve been thinking of Yvonne,” Grayson admits.

  My head jerks back. He never mentions her. “You what?”

  “Amelia is growing, becoming more and more of her own person. I don’t know.” He runs his fingers through his hair, nervous energy around him. “I wonder if I’m fucking it all up. I’m a dude. What the hell do I know about raising a daughter?”

  “You think her mother would do a better job?”

  Grayson looks away. “No. I don’t, and she proved that when she left almost five years ago. How could she ever walk away from her? How could a woman give up her daughter without giving a shit? It blows my mind.”

  I work extremely hard to keep my voice even. “Maybe she believed she was doing the right thing?”

  He laughs without humor. “Yeah, the right thing for her. Not Amelia. She needed her fucking mother. She needed her, and Yvonne walked away. She’s a piece of shit, but she still is her mother.”

  The fact that he’s unaware of the parallel he just drew between his ex and Stella makes me want to rage and defend her. While I don’t think Yvonne, who literally walked away from Grayson and Amelia because she wanted a job, and Stella, who was a kid trying to do the right thing for her daughter, are the same thing, it pisses me off.

  Also, I’ve never once defended Yvonne, and I can’t start now.

  “Yvonne was selfish. She doesn’t deserve Amelia.”

  “No, but . . . I don’t know that anyone who walks away from their kids do.”

  “What about adoption? Don’t you think there are valid reasons?”

  Grayson seems surprised. “Of course there are. Yvonne didn’t give her daughter up for adoption. She abandoned her because she wanted a career and Amelia didn’t fit into that.”

  I rub the brush against the tip of the boot a little harder. “In the end, I think her walking away was the best thing that happened to you and Amelia.”

  He claps his hand on my shoulder. “I think so too because, if not, I wouldn’t have Jess and I wouldn’t be taking them to the beach house.”

  I glance up at him as he smiles. “You’re going away, the three of you?”

  He nods. “It’ll allow me to show Jessica what we could be if she’ll stay.”

  “She’ll stay,” I tell him.

  “I hope so, but if she won’t, then I’ll let her go and hope she returns.”

  “Which is all any of us can do, right?”

  “Yeah. I guess it is.”

  It’s all I’ve been doing the last twelve years—letting Stella go and hoping one day I’ll be good enough for her.

  Chapter 7

  Stella

  “Samuel?” I shake him, careful not to jostle him hard enough to knock him from the bar stool he’s passed out on. “Samuel, wake up.”

  He moans, and the bartender looks at me. “He kept saying someone was coming,” he explains.

  “How long as he been like this?” I ask.

  “Weeks. His wife died, and he’s been here daily. He cries a lot, more than anyone I’ve ever seen, and drinks until the tears stop.”

  Jesus.

  “And how does he normally get home?”

  The bartender hands me a sheet of paper. “This is his version of an emergency card. The first number was his brother, who lives in Arizona. He usually called him a cab. Today, he wouldn’t pick up, so I called the only other number listed, which is yours.”

  I let out a soft breath and look down at Samuel. He’s a mess, and I’m not sure what the hell to do. Clearly, he needs help.

  “Samuel,” I say again, a little more forcefully.

  His eyes open, and the smell of alcohol on his breath when he speaks is enough to make me drunk. “Stella. You came.”

  “Yes, but what is going on?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Yes, Misty is gone, but you’re drunk at five on a Thursday. What are you doing?”

  He closes his eyes, resting his head on his fist. “I’m forgetting.”

  “Are you?” I say as more rhetorical than anything.

  His head wobbles from his fist and falls forward, hitting the hard bar, causing him to snap back upright. “You can have her.”

  “Have her?” I ask with a mix of fear.

  “Yeah, you can have Kinsley.”

  “Samuel, stop. Where is she?”

  “At a friend’s for dinner. It doesn’t matter. I can’t do it. I’m done now.”

  “Yes, you’re done now. We need to get you cleaned up and sober.”

  Samuel shrugs and looks at the bartender. “Mickey, can you get Stella something to clean?”

  Mickey’s eyes fill with sympathy. “Do you need help?” he asks.

  “Please. I don’t know where to go, but he’s . . .”

  He nods. “Are you his daughter?”

  “No.” I struggle to explain because the way Mickey is looking at me makes me think he assumes I’m something else. “I’m a friend who was close with his wife.”

>   “I don’t judge,” Mickey says, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

  “I’m not that. I promise, it’s complicated, but his wife was a good friend and . . . whatever. I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

  There are bigger issues than some random bartender in Georgia thinking I’m Samuel’s mistress. Things like trying to get a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man back home without my—his—daughter recognizing me.

  Thankfully, it’s only five, so it should be a few hours before she’s home.

  “Again, I don’t judge,” Mickey says, trying to help me lift Samuel off the stool.

  “Samuel, we need you to help just a little,” I say as I try to pull him up.

  He groans and then stumbles a bit.

  “Once you get him into the car, I doubt you’ll get him out,” Mickey notes.

  “Want to make five hundred bucks?” I ask, knowing this is my only option. I need help getting him home, into his house, showered, and into his bed before Kinsley shows up.

  “What?” he asks.

  I tell him my plan, and he looks at me like I’m insane. I might just be, but I’m desperate and Samuel and Misty were—are—important to me. If she were alive, this would not be happening, but she’s gone, and I owe her.

  The least I can do is get him sobered up.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “One thousand,” I say, upping my initial assessment of how bad this could be. I need his help, and I’m willing to pay for it.

  “Sweetheart, you got yourself a deal.” He calls back to the other bartender, explaining he has to help me, and the other guy agrees to cover for him.

  With that taken care of, Mickey and I work quickly to get him into the car. Then comes trying to figure out how to get into his house since there’s no house keys on his set.

  I did not think this through.

  Mickey is at the car door, looking at me as I search around for a key. “You can’t get in his house?”

  I sigh. “Clearly not.”

  “You’re a very bad mistress.”

  “Well, that’s because I’m not a mistress,” I reply as I swipe my fingers along the top of the door.

  Misty was a practical person, she’d have a spare key somewhere.

  “Do you know the garage code or the front door one?”

  I turn, glaring at him. “If I did, I would’ve opened it.” Of course he has one of those fancy keyless entries.

  However, most codes are birthdays, and there’s one birthday that’s important to them that I know. It’s worth a shot. I walk over and lift the lid to the keys. “Please let this work,” I whisper.

  Sure enough, the hum of the motor revs and the door lifts.

  Mickey walks over, his voice in my ear. “Impressive.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m paying you for help, not comments.”

  Thank God the door to the house is unlocked. After a lot of effort, we get Samuel inside the house, but his legs give out when we enter.

  “Stella, she’s gone,” he says from the floor. “I need you . . . I need . . .”

  Mickey and I look down at him, and the smug bartender is grinning as he turns back to me.

  “Think what you want.” I shrug. “He needs to shower and to eat before he passes out and sleeps it off.”

  In a move I’ve seen my brother and Jack practice a million times, Mickey hoists Samuel up over his shoulder. “Where’s the shower?”

  “I have no idea.”

  That’s the moment it hits me. I’m in their home. The place where Misty and Samuel have raised Kinsley. In all the years I’ve imagined her life, I never once thought I would step into it.

  Their living room is quaint and cute. The couch is old, well loved, and clearly, a place where they watched movies or snuggled as they opened Christmas presents.

  The kitchen is right off that room. It’s dated but still gives an air of comfort. The oak cabinets need to be replaced, and the countertops are not in fashion, but it’s clear that cookies were baked here and Thanksgiving dinners were cooked in the oven.

  Misty is everywhere. Her touch, warmth, and spunky personality fills the rooms around us.

  “Let’s try the back,” I suggest.

  The house is a modest ranch home, and from where we entered, the only way to go is straight, so that’s where we head.

  We walk through the home, opening doors and closing them when we discover it’s not the master bedroom. There’s a spare room that doubles as a sewing or craft room. Another empty bedroom, a hall bathroom, and then we get to where the house bends to the right and leads to a short hallway with two doors. I open the one to the right, thinking it has to be the master.

  It’s Kinsley’s.

  The light gray walls are covered with posters. Most of them are of some soccer player who I don’t know, and there’s a board with push pins securing various flyers. There is also a white desk in the corner with books stacked high on top of it, a full-size bed with a sage-colored comforter.

  “Stella?” Mickey calls my name, pulling me from the room.

  “Yes?”

  “He’s fucking heavy.”

  I shake my head, closing the door as I exit and forcing myself back to the task. “Only one door left.”

  We push through, and thankfully, it’s his. The bedroom is a mess—clothes strewn all over the floor and the pillows tossed off the bed. Even though I’ve never been in this house, I know this isn’t the way the room usually looked.

  “Oh, Samuel,” I say on a sigh.

  He’s in pain. So much so that he’s drowning himself in alcohol. I understand, to a point, wanting to ignore the pain of loss. It’s deep and can take you under, but he has to remember why he can’t.

  He needs to clean himself up and handle this.

  For Kinsley.

  Mickey and I enter the master bathroom. I turn on the cold water, and he doesn’t hesitate before dropping Samuel down onto the bench. Samuel jerks awake, trying to move out from under the spray.

  We block him, forcing him to sit under the water. “You’re drunk, and you have to clean yourself up before your daughter gets home,” I tell him.

  His eyes focus on me for a moment. “Stella?”

  “Yes?”

  A sob rips from his chest. “She’s dead, and I can’t do this.”

  “You’ve said that already, and I’m telling you now that you have to do this.” There’s no room for another option. “You have to pull yourself together.”

  I’ve dealt with drunk men before. I have four older brothers who I’ve sobered up many times, and Samuel needs the same treatment.

  “I’m done.”

  I turn the handle to warmer now that he’s at least semi aware. “Shower first, then we’ll talk. I’ll be back in twenty minutes, get dressed with the clothes I put out.”

  Mickey and I leave the bathroom, and I lean against the wall. “What now?” he asks.

  “Now, I need to clean up this room, get him to eat and drink, and get the fuck out of here before his daughter comes home.”

  I start on the bedroom since the rest of the house didn’t seem too bad. I put some clothes away, change the sheets, and make the bed, leaving the side that appears to be Samuel’s down. Mickey is in the kitchen, searching for something to help absorb the booze in Samuel’s system.

  Twenty minutes pass before I hear the water shut off, and I knock. “Samuel?”

  He grunts.

  I really do not want to go in there. Mickey comes back in with some bread, water, and Tylenol. “This will help a little.”

  “Yeah, it’s something. He’s not coming out.”

  He raises his brows. “You think I should get him?”

  “Yes. I don’t want to see him naked.”

  “And I do?”

  I shrug. “Better you than me.”

  Before we can argue about it more, Samuel pushes the door open. He still is a mess, but at least he doesn’t smell like a dumpster soaked in alcohol. I guide him to the
bed, thankful he listened.

  “Here, eat.” I shove the plate into his hands.

  “I’m sorry, Stella.” Samuel’s voice breaks. “I wish I was stronger.”

  “You are stronger,” I remind him. “Misty loved you. She always had faith in you. You have to stop drinking and start taking care of things.”

  A tear falls down his cheek. “I don’t know how to do this anymore. She handled everything. She was my everything and now she’s dead and I can’t do it.”

  He keeps saying this, but he’s forgetting why he has no choice but to pull his shit together. “Kinsley needs you to do it, Samuel.”

  Samuel puts the food on the side table and sinks into the bed, his eyes closing as he clutches a pillow. “I . . . just . . .”

  “Shh,” I croon. Not wanting him to repeat what he seems to think is his new mantra. He can. I know he can. He just needs to sober up and try again.

  “You’re going to be okay,” I tell Samuel while we sit at the diner.

  After Kinsley left for school, I went back over, picked him up, and we started the mission to get him back to the Samuel before Misty’s death.

  Samuel called his boss, who lost his wife two years ago. Thankfully, Samuel was granted a bit of time to get himself together. The job is shut down for a permit issue anyway, so it works out. He needs to heal and find a way through his grief.

  Then I hired a cleaning company that will come twice a week for the first month and then weekly after that. Mickey, my new Georgia best friend, has agreed to call me if Samuel shows up at the bar again, get him home, and sober him up. For a very nice price.

  As much as I hate the idea of asking someone else to look out for Samuel, there isn’t much I can do from five hours away.

  The worst part is that he’s alone. He has no family close by, and no friends outside of work. Everything that Samuel has was Misty’s doing. She knew everyone’s name, birthday, and anniversary. She ran their home, always taking care of life, and he doesn’t know what to do now.

  And they say men are stronger than women.

  “I’m not the same as I was,” he says, taking a sip of the coffee.

  “No one is after they lose the love of their life.”