Finding Love (Behind Blue Lines Book 3)

by Christine Zolendz

  I nodded, realizing: this is the third time in four years I've heard this kind of speech. The difference with this speech was the way Matthew looked down his nose at me as he relayed it.

  “I didn’t…I didn’t know she was using the whole time. I put her in rehab twice in the last four years—when I saw what was happening—when it was blatant she was using. I thought she was clean. I mean, I guessed she might be using again, but—”

  “I understand completely,” he said, placing both his palms softly on the top of his desk. Did he, though? Did he understand?

  "When someone abuses a drug regularly, the body becomes accustomed to having certain levels of the substance in it." He tilted his head and smiled. I nodded like a fool. I knew this already, but I waited for him to continue. "And once this substance, in the case of Sheri, heroin, crack, and crystal meth—”

  “Wait, what?” I leaned forward, holding my stomach for fear I would vomit. “Crack and crystal meth? What the fuck?”

  "Yes. That's what Sheri was carrying in her purse when her mother brought her in."

  “She brought it? Here?”

  “Fortunately, we took it from her. She wasn’t pleased. Anywho, once all the substances are removed from her system, she'll be experiencing some withdrawal symptoms. Hopefully, they will only last twenty-four hours or so."

  I took a deep breath and shook my head. My stomach felt heavier than before, twisting and curdling. I was fucking disgusted.

  How could she do this to herself? To her kids? To us?

  “After detox, Sheri agreed to a mix of outpatient and inpatient rehabilitation, which will consist of behavioral therapy—a combination of group and individual therapy." He leaned back in his chair and paused for a moment before saying the next thing. "Pharmaceutical treatment is often necessary, in conjunction with therapy."

  "More drugs." My jaw clenched tightly. "Will she ever be totally drug-free?"

  “That’s truly up to her. Her journey to a sober life will not be quick or easy. It’ll be a lifelong struggle for Sheri. A lifelong commitment to working hard and staying clean."

  “Can I see her?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry, no.” He folded his hands together on his lap, his movements fluid and smooth. “I’m not sure any contact between you and Sheri would be beneficial to her throughout her rehabilitation.”

  What. The. Fuck? “Why?” I asked between gritted teeth.

  “Being a wife and mother is something that gives her great anxiety right now, Mr. Sanborn. We wouldn’t want her to fail before she begins, do we?” He stood up to make his final point. “The person you married, the one you loved? She isn’t here anymore, Mr. Sanborn. And rehab is the only way to save her.” He slid a dozen or so brochures across the top of the desk at me. “Here’s some pamphlets to help you out. You have a great night now, okay?”

  I drove home in a fog. Music blasted through the speakers. Horns honked as I careened my car in and out of lanes with my foot slammed flat against the gas pedal. I was numb to it all.

  I pulled up to the curb in front of my house but didn’t get out. I sat with the car idling, staring at the house across the street, wishing I could ring Callie’s bell and just talk with her. But I couldn’t. I made sure Callie had no reason to tempt me with thoughts about some alternate family where everything was perfect, complete with a wife that would look at me instead of through me. I completely dismissed her from our lives. And now I was parked in the street between our homes, watching the dim lights in her bedroom flicker and seeing a strange car parked in her driveway.

  A sharp, burning sensation tore through my chest, and I bit down hard, grinding my teeth together.

  Who was she with?

  I knew I had no right to be pissed. So why was I?

  She was a single, gorgeous woman who was single and allowed to entertain anyone she wanted in her house, in her bedroom, because she was single.

  I, on the other hand, was not single, and I loved my wife. I loved my wife.

  I kept repeating it.

  I loved my wife. Loved her.

  What did I love about her? I squinted at Callie’s house and climbed out of my car. I loved so many things about my wife. “So many things!” I gritted out, slamming the door closed.

  The dog next door barked at me.

  I loved how she used to show up at my office in the city and drag me to a little dive bar downtown until we were both so drunk, we couldn’t see. We’d fuck back in my office, over my desk, in front of the windows, on the table in the conference room—we didn’t care.

  The job I loved, in the office I loved. The job I went to college for—worked my fucking ass off for. The same job I lost when Sheri went with me to a holiday party and where she stole jewelry from my boss’ wife. The same job I had to take off a total of fifteen days in three months and cost us one of our most prestigious clients when Sheri ripped up the blueprints I spent weeks making in a fit of drunken rage.

  I stomped up my front steps and flung open the front door.

  I did love my wife. She always--

  She would--

  I stood in the middle of my dark living room, alone.

  Stop lying to yourself. So many things about Sheri disturbed me. If I stayed still for just a minute and thought about it, looked back on our relationship in the solitude I found myself in, it would be clearer. The truth was, I preferred the Sheri I got when we were alone to the wild, uncontrollable party girl one who emerged in front of other people. She tried desperately to impress everyone and anyone who would listen. She’d bounce around a room, spinning tales of fictional hardships and dramatic fabrications of some heroic deed or suffrage she fell victim to. She was like a category five hurricane, sweeping your feet right out from under you.

  Sheri was impulsive and violently possessive, erratic and overwhelmingly emotional. Small incidents would set her off into full-blown adult tantrums. She would fly off the handle if the local supermarket didn’t have gummy bears, or some days my just asking what she wanted me to pick up for dinner set her off spiraling into a crazy explosion of screaming and sobbing fits.

  And I was always there to rescue her, to save her from herself. At least that’s what she pretended was happening.

  I held on to the belief that I just needed to love her a little harder, needed to save her from herself, then she could be happy. We had a family. I just needed to take care of everyone more, love everyone more—enough for the both of us, but the only thing I ended up doing was having to keep reminding her she was a wife and mother, beautiful and smart, worth something.

  All along, I thought if I loved her enough, I could fix her.

  I slowly spun around, rubbing my hand across my chest. There was an ache there that wouldn’t to go away. I turned and turned, looking at how empty my house was, how quiet and sad.

  The only time Sheri was ever happy anywhere with me was when she was high. I used to smoke the occasional joint with her, but I never cared for being out of control like she did. We had four months together before she got pregnant. I didn’t really know her at all. Her pregnancy was so hard, all I did was cater to her and my unborn child. And after, I was too busy taking care of kids and working to see how unhappy and sick she was. She hid it from me completely.

  Shame on me for not seeing, not stopping and asking why all this shit kept on happening.

  I sat on the couch and stared at the walls. I didn’t know what to do.

  I flipped through my phone, wondering if maybe I should just throw a little text Callie’s way. Callie went through this. She always said the right things to me. She would understand when even I didn’t.

  Hey, I texted.

  I stared down at the phone, willing the three little bouncy dots to appear, letting me know she was replying.

  There weren’t any, of course.

  I blinked up. There was a big crack in the paint on my wall.

  Anything. I needed to think about anything other than Callie with another man in her bed and ho
w I shouldn’t care because I was fucking married.

  My head was ripping in two, my heart shredding right down the middle. Why couldn’t I get it all under control?

  I pulled the contact up for Sergeant Max Kannon and hit the call button. He answered on the first ring; he was somewhere noisy.

  "Kannon here,” he grunted.

  “Sergeant Kannon? This is Dylan. Dylan Sanborn. Remember, my—”

  “Hey, son,” he said warmly. “You good?”

  “I’m not so sure tonight.”

  “Well, I’m off duty. Having a drink at The Fountain. If you want to stop in, a beer might help,” he offered.

  “Yeah,” I said automatically. “That sounds like an awesome idea. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  I said a quick goodbye and checked myself out in the bathroom mirror. Shit. I had streaks of grease and oil across my forehead. No one told me? I scrubbed my face clean and changed my shirt. I didn’t bother shaving; a little scruff never scared anyone.

  I locked up and stood on the front lawn, watching Callie's window. Her bedroom lights were a dull glow, and that goddamn car was still parked there. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked for messages. Nothing.

  I didn’t have the right to be mad.

  I stormed past my car and down the street, positive I could walk off whatever this was easily on the few blocks to the bar.

  I met up with Sergeant Kannon a few minutes later. He sat at the back of the bar alone, facing a small crowd of people. On the table in front of him was a tall, frothy glass of beer. One of those huge ones that probably held two cans.

  “What’s your poison?” he asked, motioning for a waitress to come over to the table. I didn’t have a poison really. There wasn’t much time in my life for social gatherings and indulgences. “Holy shit,” I said, barking out a bitter laugh. “I haven’t been to a bar for a drink since before Addison was born.”

  “Well, sit down and catch up,” he said, bringing his beer to his lips and taking an enormous sip from it.

  “I would love a Jack and Coke,” I said to the waitress. “Just hold the Coke.”

  “Thatta boy!” Sergeant Kannon yelled.

  “Sergeant Ka—” I began.

  “Call me Max, please.”

  “Max, thank you. For inviting me.”

  Another realization dawned on me. I had no one. I had not one friend left to call for a night out. I had no family. I had nothing but two little kids and one hell of a sweet neighbor.

  Whoops, almost forgot the junkie for a wife part.

  He smiled and placed his beer quietly down onto the tabletop. “So start talking, Dylan. What’s on your mind?”

  Chapter 15

  Callie

  Vince from narcotics was a waste of a dick—a waste of a big, thick dick—the poor guy just didn’t know how to use it well. He didn’t know how to use any of his extremities adequately; fingers, lips, tongue, all wasted little body parts. I'm questioning if he was even aware he was in possession of those other appendages, since he used none of them. NONE.

  At the moment, I had the misfortune of being trapped in the steel vise grip of some twisted version of a spooning position.

  "That was incredible," he panted heavily against my back.

  His chest was slick with sweat, and the scent of his cologne was beginning to make my stomach churn violently. I just wanted to get up and actually find someone and get laid—and this guy thought we’d just had incredible sex? It was honestly the worst three minutes of my life.

  Every muscle in my body stiffened with frustration. Even the joints in my jaw ached with pain from how tight I was grinding my teeth. I mean, just because your dick is inside me and you tell me to cum, doesn’t mean it will magically happen. I didn’t ride here on my unicorn. Cuming on demand isn’t a real thing, not for me anyway. If it were, I’d be ordering one after the other like it was happy hour.

  I tapped out on his slimy arm. “Okay, I need to use the bathroom.”

  I had to give him a little shove with my elbow to get him to move. The waterpark he turned my bed into made for a cringeworthy body suctioning effect as I tried to escape. I couldn't get to the bathroom fast enough.

  I ran the faucet and leaned my palms on the sink. It took me a few seconds to be able to look up at my own reflection in the mirror. "There is something seriously wrong with you,” I whispered to the crazy-eyed woman staring back at me.

  For starters, I kept calling the guy I just slept with Vince from narcotics.

  Beyond that, Vince from narcotics ended up being more of a collection of the most nightmarish quirks I could imagine, rather than a real person. He wanted to be tied up and got visibly annoyed when I told him I didn’t have any rope or cord on hand, and he stomped around, huffing and whining. He felt the need to touch everything in my house. He thumbed through my mail, scolding me upon finding an unopened letter from Publisher’s Clearing House and poked his fingers over the plants, pictures, and books I kept around each room. He even made my bed before we got on it.

  I splashed water over my face and rubbed hard at my eyes.

  How long would I be stuck in this house with him? I don’t think I could last more than fifteen minutes.

  All I had wanted to do was erase Dylan from my brain. Dylan, Addison, and Ben. I was caught up in the fantasy of it all. There was once a time when all I thought about was becoming a mother, a wife, someone who was needed and wanted. For months, it had been the center of my life. Losing it all left me empty and without purpose.

  Back then, it was my job that saved me. It was the only thing that offered me any gravity in this world, the only thing even on the shittiest, darkest days gave me hope.

  And this past week, for a brief point in time, I had a reminder of what I had lost, spending that small amount of time with Dylan and his children. I small glimpse of all the things I ever wanted. A feverish dream I was now wide awake from. There was no logical reason for me to think I cared about him or think I could be something special to him. He already has his broken little doll; he didn’t need another. And he was too good of a man for me anyway.

  Whether it was insecurity, jealousy, or just sheer self-deprecation rearing its ugly head didn’t matter. The only thing of any significance was, Dylan Sanborn was married. Period. End of dream.

  Vince banged on the bathroom door hard. “Hey, you almost done?”

  Please God, restrain me from throat punching the guy. “Yeah. I’ll be right out,” I said, turning the water off. I peeked at myself in the mirror again and tried to run my hands through my wild hair.

  Vince pounded on the door again. “Your phone is blowing up out here.”

  I opened the door and padded over to my nightstand, where my phone was ringing. On the screen, Max's face looked up at me. "Yeah, boss?" I said, answering the phone immediately.

  "Hey. What are you doing?" Max's voice sounded muffled, like he was covering it with his hands.

  "Regretting all my poor life choices." Behind me, Vince was almost dressed. He was sitting on the edge of my bed, pulling on his socks and ignoring me. It’s like we were still having sex.

  “Great. Get your ass down here. We’re at The Fountain.”

  "We?" I glanced quickly at the clock on my desk. It was almost nine. If the team was there, I was in for a long night of decompressing, and I didn't think I was up for it.

  “Yeah. Me and your neighbor from across the street.”

  Dylan? I ran to the window and flung the curtains to the side to look at his house. It was pitch black, and his car was parked out front.

  "Is he okay?"

  “Having some friends around might make the situation a bit better for him,” Max answered.

  There was not one ounce of hesitation in my voice. “Be there in five.”

  I ended the call and began rummaging in my drawers, looking for something worth wearing.

  “Everything okay?” Vince asked, straining his neck to look back at me.

  “See
ms one of my friends is at the bar having a bad night,” I explained, slipping a shirt over my head.

  He smiled as he watched me dress. “I had fun with you tonight.”

  I stepped into my pants and wiggled them up my legs, not responding to him. For the first time, I didn’t know what to say to someone who I just got out of bed with. Everything felt wrong. I was trying to get back to my life, but it seemed like my life was shifted a little bit to the left, and it suddenly looked all askew. This was what I did. Callie Ward; Queen of the One-Night Stands. It was the only thing that made sense in my life.

  So why did it feel awful?

  “That’s it for us, though, right?” Vince’s voice took on a dark, dry tone. “Guys around the base say that’s your modus operandi." He gave a small chuckle, as if he told a great joke. “Hit-It And Quit-It Callie Ward.”

  I stilled, bent over, ass in the air, with my pants halfway up my legs. “Are you trying to slut-shame me?” I barked out an obnoxious laugh and yanked my pants the rest of the way up. “What are you, a Neanderthal? Any guy in the precinct gets to fuck around all they want, and they get congratulated for it, but I get slapped with that pathetically unoriginal nickname?"

  “I just didn’t think it was true. But here you are, planning on leaving not five minutes after we hooked up." Vince shrugged.

  “What is your question, Cave Dweller? You think somewhere in the three seconds and three pumps you used your dick on me that you somehow awakened my sexual awareness for only you?” I stormed forward and got in his face. “You want to really want to know why I won’t fuck you again? Because now that it’s done – and I’m still unsatisfied, by the way – you’ll be easy to forget. You did nothing to stand out. I’ll wash you off in a quick shower.”

  “Shit, Ward. It’s fucked up, okay? I liked you. I didn’t want it to be just this.”

  “Go fuck yourself, Vince.”

  Chapter 16

  Dylan