by Mara Wells
Grams harrumphed and petted her cat.
“Grandpa William?” Carrie was surprised enough to stop flipping pages in the album. “That grandfather?”
“I keep forgetting you know them.” Riley laughed lightly. “The Donovans, I mean. All of them. I should probably ask you what it’s like, marrying into a family like that.”
“You probably don’t want to ask me.” Carrie closed the album in front of her and put away her phone. She had plenty of shots to work from. “I’m not exactly the poster child for how to work things out with the Donovans.”
Riley reached across the coffee table to cover Carrie’s hand with her own. “I’m so sorry it didn’t work out. Lance is a great guy, and you seem really great, too. It’s sad when people split up, isn’t it?”
A lump rose in Carrie’s throat, catching her unaware. The prick of tears stung her eyes. She flipped her hand over to squeeze Riley’s. “Yes, it is. But you and Caleb seem like a good team. I wish you every happiness.”
Riley squeezed back. “Thank you. I hope you’ll come to the wedding.”
“Whenever they deign to have it.” Grams stacked her albums, action that disgruntled the cat. He leapt to the back of the sofa with a disapproving glare.
“Oh, that’s not necessary.” Watch Lance all dressed up in a tux, relive their wedding as Riley’s played out before her? No thank you.
“We’re not going to leave Caleb’s nephew off the guest list. Three years old is probably a bit young to attend a wedding by oneself, so perhaps you’ll consider being his plus-one?”
A smile tugged at Carrie’s lips. “Okay, that sounds fine.”
“Perfect.” Riley released her hand and stood. “Do you have everything you need?”
“Yes, thank you so much. This has been really helpful.” Carrie gathered her bag and purse. “If you need any help converting the front lawn into the new dog park, let me know. It was my big mouth that promised everyone it’d be done this week. Least I can do is pitch in with the conversion.”
Riley’s mouth opened, then closed. She raised her hand, then dropped it. “What now?” she finally squeaked out.
Oh crap, she didn’t know. “The, uh, dog park’s been closed.”
“Fur Haven is closed?” Each word screeched up the frequency ladder until Carrie suspected only dogs would’ve heard anything else she said.
“But Lance and I talked to everyone, uh, last Sunday.” God, it seemed like months ago now. “We promised to move the park over here. Fence in the front, bring over the equipment and benches. That’s why I, uh, offered my help?”
“Fur Haven is closed?” Riley hadn’t moved past it. “Closed?”
Grams brought over an afghan and wrapped it around Riley’s shoulders. “Maybe you should call Caleb.”
“I will.” Riley burrowed into the blanket, drawing it tight around her, and headed for a back room. “Right now. All I’m saying is he better not already know.” She disappeared down the hallway, muttering under her breath about Donovans and their stupid, secretive natures.
Grams folded Carrie into a hug. “Bring my grandnephew by some day. We’re all dying to meet him.”
Carrie had to swallow down that stupid lump in her throat again. For so long, her family had been small. Carrie, Oliver, and Gamma with occasional help from Addison. She’d focused for years on what would happen when Lance found out, what kind of dad he might be, if he’d fight for custody or simply want nothing to do with them. She’d never thought beyond him—to his brothers, his parents, Grandpa William. All the relatives Oliver had never met. What would her son think, meeting them all? She knew she’d deprived Oli of his father, but she’d never thought that she’d also been depriving him of extended family.
Carrie forced a smile. “I’m sure he’d love it.”
“Good.” Grams walked Carrie to the door. “I’ll be in touch.”
Then Carrie was standing in the hallway, studying the battered loops of twenty-year-old carpeting, wondering yet again how things would’ve been different if she’d told Lance the truth years ago. Would she ever be able to stop circling the past like a dog that couldn’t decide where to lie down? No wonder Lance iced her out yesterday. If she could barely live with what she’d done, how could he?
Chapter 28
Carrie eyed the distance from the couch to the door like it was a vast tundra and she was an underprepared Arctic adventurer, out of food and water but still determined to complete the trek. Beckham’s escalating barks cheered her on. All she had to do was shift Oliver off her lap and stand. No problem. She stood all the time. Standing was no big deal.
Whoever it was knocked again, dashing her hopes that it was a delivery, a ring and drop that she could deal with later. Much later. Like after her brain no longer felt like it was composed entirely of snot and goo, floating so loosely in her skull that the slightest pressure sent it sliding out her nose.
She’d been absolutely fine this morning when she’d left for Grams’, but by the time lunch rolled around, she’d been inordinately tired. She’d stopped at home to find that Oliver was running a fever, so she sent her mom home and rushed to the doctor’s office, for all the good it did. Nothing to do for a virus except wait it out on over-the-counter medications.
The trip had exhausted them both, and Oliver slept through the doorbell, the knocking, and now her inelegant struggle to get him off her lap and on the couch. Yeah, she’d given him the nighttime stuff during the day. They both needed sleep because by the time they’d made it home, Carrie’s own temperature was rising, and every muscle in her body ached.
She laid a hand against Oliver’s heated skin. Still too warm, but not as bad as earlier. She fought her way to her feet, belting her cherry-blossom robe more tightly around her waist, and one step at a time, made it to the door. She looked through the keyhole, hoping it was her mother here for sickroom duty backup.
“Lance?” She croaked and unbolted the door. Of course it wasn’t her mother. She was still dealing with the remnants of the virus herself. But Lance? Had she missed a meeting or something? She racked her mildly fevered brain and found nothing. It’d be at least a week before she could get started on the Dorothy’s décor. In the meantime, she could handle everything from home—sourcing products, negotiating contracts, arranging delivery dates in such a way that everything arrived when she needed it.
“You can’t blow me off when I have time scheduled with Oliver.” Lance barged in as soon as the last lock clicked open. “It’s not fair to him. Or me.”
“What?” Carrie held a hand to the wall, steadying herself. Lance’s energy was a burst of force pushing against her.
“I know things are weird between us, but Oli is still my son. You promised we could spend time together, and you don’t get to change your mind whenever it’s convenient for you.” Lance crowded her personal space until her back was pressed against the wall. He held his phone in front of her face. The letters swam. “Tonight canceled? No explanation? No apology? What is wrong with you, Carrie?”
She slid in slow motion down the wall until her butt hit the floor. She vaguely remembered sending a text while they were in the waiting room at the pediatrician’s office. She’d been proud of her thoughtfulness, letting him know well in advance that the evening’s plans were kaput. She’d copied the same message to Adam, adding some sick-face emojis. She should’ve sent the emojis to Lance, too. More information, less spelling involved.
“Sorry?” She looked up. He loomed over her, a ubiquitous Excalibur Construction T-shirt dusted with what looked like plaster, a slash of dried paint across the thigh of his jeans. He looked good, and truth be told, she was glad to see him. Even as awful as she felt, her pulse did an energetic jig at his nearness.
He squatted across from her. “Seriously, what’s wrong with you?”
“Virus. Oliver, too.” She offered him a wobbly smile. “S
urprised you don’t have it. You know, after the other night.”
He ignored the reference, holding out a hand to help her up and guiding her to the couch. “Oli looks knocked out.”
“Children’s Nyquil.” She plopped onto a cushion and checked her son’s temperature with the back of her hand again. “Fever’s dropping, so that’s a good sign.”
“You should’ve told me.” Lance sat on the other side of Oliver, laying a hand on the boy’s ankle.
“I thought I did.”
Lance shook his phone at her. “This is not an explanation. You should’ve called.”
Carrie nodded, properly chastised. She simply wasn’t used to thinking of anyone else when it came to Oliver.
“You look bad.” His gaze made her already fever-flushed face burn. Her hair felt lank, and any makeup she’d started the day with had long ago worn off. No bra. Overdue for a manicure. Definitely not how she liked to present herself. Definitely not how she wanted Lance to see her.
“You don’t have to stay.” She crossed her legs, a bare knee peeking out from her robe. As far as she was concerned, he’d barged in; he could barge out. “Doctor said it’s a virus. Should pass in a day or two.”
Lance watched their son sleep, a look on his face she’d never seen before—a mix of fierceness and helplessness. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The relief sweeping through her surprised Carrie. She’d told herself she had things well in hand. She’d stocked up at CVS on the way home from the pediatrician. They’d eaten soup for lunch. The only thing left to do was lie around and get better. No help needed. So why the warm sense of comfort at Lance’s declaration?
“Thanks,” she said after a too long, too awkward silence. She should argue with him, but she didn’t have the energy. Or the will.
“What can I do?”
She propped her feet on the coffee table and toed the remote his way. “It’s broken.”
He pushed the power button, and nothing happened on the TV. Like she’d said, broken. Then he smacked the remote a few times, and the screen lit up. He scrolled to Netflix. “Any requests?”
“He loves Doc McStuffins.” She liked it, too, all one hundred twenty-five episodes that she’d already seen a few times each. But if Oliver wanted to watch a little girl play doctor with stuffed animals that came to life, she was all in. She wouldn’t mind if her son became a real doctor someday, although she understood it was much too early to be predicting these things.
Lance found Doc McStuffins in the Watch Again queue and hit Play. The familiar music filled the room, and before the opening credits were even done, Carrie felt herself drifting into a semi-medicated and hazy sleep. She struggled to keep her eyes open a little longer, watching as Lance rearranged Oliver onto his lap, head snugged under Lance’s chin.
Oliver blinked his eyes open and smiled at her. She let her eyes finish closing, no longer on high alert for any sign of change in Oliver’s condition. Lance would wake her if needed. In the meantime, she let her medications take over while the Doc counseled one of her patients on the TV, saying, “It’s very brave to ask for help.”
* * *
Lance hated to admit that he found Doc McStuffins dangerously addictive and quite soothing to all the agitation he’d brought with him but now had nowhere to direct. He’d been so sure Carrie was blowing him off, and he’d been wrong. He should’ve known such a short, terse text was out of character for her and that something was off. He’d let his fear of losing touch with his son take over. He and Carrie might have had a civilized agreement about visitations and how to handle future disagreements, but on the drive over, stoking his anger into a raging wildfire hot enough to burn through the entirety of the Everglades, he’d realized that he wasn’t going to be happy with any arrangement that didn’t include letting Oliver know Lance was his father. Nonnegotiable. That was what he’d been practicing, stomping up her walkway, banging on her door. Nonnegotiable, and if she were going to be stubborn about it, he would call one of Grandpa William’s lawyers. He knew he was backsliding, letting the anger make decisions he’d later regret. Still, he drove to Carrie’s. He couldn’t seem to stay away.
He’d driven away on Monday with mixed feelings. Yeah, the sex had been great. Phenomenal even. But he couldn’t shake the sense of loss, all those years separated from Oliver. He wanted Oliver, wanted Carrie, too, but how could it possibly work out if he couldn’t get over what she’d done? It’d been cowardly, hiding behind work the past few days. Sitting now with Oliver on his lap and Carrie napping beside him, that sense of rightness slid over him again.
Oliver shifted in his sleep, digging a heel into the soft tissue above Lance’s knee. Lance changed their position on the couch with a few adjustments, stroking Oliver’s hair. Beckham tucked himself against Lance’s hip, and Doc McStuffins sang a song about bubbles. Lance stared at Carrie, a few physical feet but a thousand emotional miles away from him. Why hadn’t she told him they were sick? Why didn’t she ask for help? It was frustrating, how much she kept to herself. It reminded him too sharply of the last year of their marriage, when there seemed such a mismatch between the words they said to each other and what was really going on. He should be honest with her about what he was feeling, both the good and the bad. Maybe if they came to an agreement about what their future looked like, it would be easier to let go of the painful past.
Her phone, face up on the coffee table, buzzed. Sherry. He knew he shouldn’t, but he reached over and picked it up.
“Sherry, it’s Lance. These two are sick as dogs.”
Beckham’s tail beat against the back of the couch at the mention of dogs.
“Oh no, I was afraid they’d gotten my virus.” Sherry coughed. Great, another symptom to look forward to. “What’re you doing there?”
“Helping.” Not much, but he did feel proud he’d gotten the cranky remote control to work, and Oliver seemed to enjoy using him as a mattress.
“Gamma?” Oliver slapped his hand on the phone. “Gamma, I’m sick.”
“Poor baby,” Sherry cooed. “Is Mr. Lance taking good care of you?”
“Yes!” Oliver sat up, driving a foot into Lance’s knee hard enough to make him grunt. “Doc McStuffins says ‘Just take a deep breath and calm down.’”
“She always knows the right thing to say, doesn’t she?” Sherry cough-laughed into the phone. “Can I talk to Mr. Lance again?”
“Sure.” Oliver handed the phone back to Lance, repositioning himself on the couch for a better view of the TV.
“Do they need anything? I can be there in fifteen minutes.” Sherry coughed again. He didn’t need three sick people to take care of.
“No, I’ve got this. Decongestants, fever reducers, and fluids.” He was about to hang up, but Sherry’s voice stopped him.
“It’s good you’re there, Lance. She’s missed you.”
Lance didn’t answer.
“Hard to tell with her. She plays things close, doesn’t she? But a mother knows. Don’t give up this time, Lance. She needs you.”
“I’m not the one who gave up.” He hung up the phone, the Everglades-burning rage flaring up again. He squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them again, Carrie was awake.
“What?” She patted her hair. So typical. Always worried about appearances. Not that he didn’t appreciate her appearance. Even sick and unkempt, she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever met. But that wasn’t the most important part of her. Didn’t she know that? For the first time since he’d met her, he wondered if maybe she didn’t. She had, after all, built an entire career around keeping up appearances.
“Why’d you give up?” The words were out before he had a chance to police them.
“I’m sick.” She tucked strands of hair behind her ear and fussed with the hem of her robe. “It’s not exactly a red-lipstick kind of day.”
“You l
ook great.” He meant it. She always looked good to him. “I meant about us. Why did you give up on us?”
Carrie grabbed a tissue from the small table beside the couch. “I didn’t. You’re the one freezing me out. I don’t even know what I did wrong.”
Lance ran a hand over Oliver’s silky hair. He was sound asleep again, the congestion making him sound like an old man snoring. “Not this time. When you filed for divorce.”
She blinked her big hazel eyes at him. “You were so unhappy. You deserved—deserve—to be happy.”
“I wanted to be happy with you.”
“But you weren’t.” She held his gaze, even though tears popped up without falling, her eyes turned wet and vulnerable.
“I was an idiot.”
His words surprised a laugh out of her. “Hard to argue with that.”
“And you were too scared.”
“Fair.” She grabbed more tissues from the box but didn’t use them. “Things changed between us. I wanted to end it before we truly hated each other.”
“I could never hate you.”
Carrie flipped a hand at him. “Easy to say now. I saved us. It’s why we can be friends.”
Lance felt the growl building in his throat. “We can never be friends.”
Her big eyes got bigger. She held the tissues to her chest like she was stanching blood from a shot to the heart. “Ouch. I thought, at least for Oliver’s sake, you’d be willing to try.”
Lance reached across the three feet of space, the length of Oliver’s body, and a wiggling Beckham to grab Carrie’s hand. “You misunderstand.”
Carrie licked her lips. “I do?”
Lance nodded, lifting himself from the couch and pulling her to her feet. They stood wedged between the couch and the coffee table, between their son and Doc McStuffins.
“It’s true we can never be friends.” He tilted her beautiful face toward his with a finger under her chin. “Because I love you. I’ve never stopped loving you.”
From out in the cold straight into the heart of an inferno. Carrie visibly swallowed. He waited for her to say the words back. Instead, she wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his chest.
