by Anne Hope
Of course, she was three years younger than he, and back then he hadn’t spared her a glance. To him, she’d been nothing more than his little sister’s nerdy best friend. To her, he’d been the sun around which her whole world had revolved.
Everything has changed, and nothing.
Once again he couldn’t care less about her, and yet her heart still betrayed her with a painful series of thuds whenever he drew near.
Noah and Kristen vaulted over the couch, still playing tug-of-war with the baboon. The material sundered under the pressure, and the stuffed animal’s arm tore off, sending Kristen toppling backward. She landed on an end table, where a porcelain lamp sat. The lamp tottered, then crashed to the ground. Simultaneously, the baby let out a yowl loud enough to wake the dead.
“Look what you did!” Noah roared. “It’s all your fault.”
His sister’s bottom lip quivered as tears gathered in her clear blue eyes.
Rebecca had seen enough. Ignoring the knot of unease that twined in her gut, she cut through the mess to confront the kids. “What are you two doing? Look at this place.”
Two pairs of stunned eyes turned her way. “Aunt Becca,” Noah cried. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“Obviously.” She picked up the severed arm of the toy.
“Can you fix it?” a thin voice whispered. “Mommy always sews our stuff when they tear.” Kristen’s dampened gaze sparkled like diamonds on snow. A tender ache coiled in Rebecca’s chest. Her fingers itched to stroke the girl’s sunny blond hair, to soothe her with a comforting touch or a bolstering hug, but she couldn’t bring herself to lift her arm. It felt heavy, weighed down by the merciless sum of her regrets.
Instead, she nodded. “I’ll try.”
In the kitchen, Will’s howls escalated. With an oath, Zach stomped out of the living room. Moments later he returned with an inconsolable Will tucked in the crook of his arm. The baby kicked and screamed, gasping, a red flush staining his round cheeks.
Zach cooed and made funny faces, all the while trying to mask his panic and failing miserably. He looked so awkward, so terrified, she couldn’t help the amusement that tickled her throat. Before she knew it, she’d laughed out loud.
“What’s so darn funny?”
“You’ve got the look.”
He arched two puzzled brows. “The look?”
“Yeah, the look. The one you get whenever you’d rather chew on broken glass than do whatever it is you’re doing.”
Denial spiced with indignation sparked in his eyes. “I don’t have the look. The kids and I are getting along just fine. Aren’t we, kids?”
Will stopped bawling, and a victorious smile bounced across Zach’s full mouth. His triumph, however, was short-lived. The baby nestled his face in Zach’s shoulder, then violently hurled all over him.
Horror soaked Zach’s features when he saw the long streak of white vomit trickling down the front of his black T-shirt. “Shit.”
Rebecca bit her lower lip to keep from laughing again. “No, puke.”
He watched her through narrowed slits, his expression downright murderous.
That was when it struck her. Zach Ryler didn’t want her, but maybe—just maybe—for once in his life he needed her. And that simple thought made this whole ordeal somewhat bearable.
It took several hours before some semblance of peace settled over the townhouse again. While Rebecca boiled a pot of spaghetti, Zach and the kids worked to tidy the place up. Everyone was then rewarded with a nice meal, some orange juice and a box of Oreos. After lunch Zach put Will down for his nap, and Kristen and Noah snuggled on the couch to watch their favorite cartoon, Spongebob Squarepants.
As Rebecca finished washing the dishes, Zach collapsed in a chair, propping his elbows on the kitchen table and supporting his head with the heel of his palms.
“You look exhausted.” She turned off the faucet and went to join him at the table. “Why don’t you go get some rest? I’ll hold down the fort for a while.”
“I’m fine.”
“When’s the last time you slept?”
He shrugged. “Couple of weeks ago. Can’t seem to drift off even when I try. Too many thoughts in my head.”
She understood. The mind could be a cruel, unforgiving thing, unwilling to grant you even a few hours of respite.
“I’m guessing you’re taking some time off work?” Throughout their marriage Zach had been obsessed with his career, often working seventy-hour weeks, but she couldn’t remember ever having seen him this weary.
“I had six weeks of vacation time saved up. I haven’t had much reason to use it these past two years.” He raised his head and their eyes locked. Something hot and gripping passed between them, laden with meaning. She could’ve sworn she caught a note of remorse in his voice, heightened by a trace of loneliness that perfectly matched her own.
She averted her gaze; she had to. “What are you going to do with your place in Beacon Hill?” she asked, changing the subject.
“Sublet it. It’s a nice area. I’m sure it won’t take me long to find another tenant.”
She glanced out the window at Union Park, where trees fluttered in the wind, fountains gushed amidst lush green grass and neat rows of Victorian townhouses stood framed by quaint brick streets. She thought of the higher-end Beacon Hill with its Federal-style rowhouses and its narrow, gas-lit sidewalks, only a stone’s throw from downtown Boston. “And you’ll be happy living in the South End?”
“Why not? It’s the kids’ home. They’re more comfortable here, despite what happened. Took them to my apartment for a few days while this place was being cleaned up. All they cared about was going back home.” He rubbed his temples as if to relieve some invisible weight. “Plus, this area has kinda grown on me. It’s metropolitan, close enough to downtown and still kid-friendly. Did you know there are eleven parks here?”
Her mouth curled despite herself. “Something tells me you’ve become acquainted with each and every one of them.”
“You betcha.” The quiet resignation on his face, coupled with that boyish grin of his, reminded her why she’d once been so infatuated with him. “Kristen knows them all by name. She strong-arms me into taking her to a different one each day.”
She swallowed to wash away the syrupy emotion pooling in her throat. “That doesn’t surprise me. She has her mother’s memory. And her uncle’s bullheadedness.”
“Now there’s the pot calling the kettle black.”
She quirked a brow. “Are you saying I’m bullheaded?”
“I don’t think bullheaded is strong enough to describe you. You’ve got a one-track mind. Once you get fixated on something, there’s no derailing you.”
They were heading down an old, familiar path, and at the end of it only heartache dwelled. “There’s nothing wrong with being persistent.”
“There is if it slowly tears you apart.”
She eyed him steadily, accusingly. “When something’s really important to me, I’d rather die trying than give up.” She never would have quit on their marriage the way he had.
He flinched, and too late she realized her words had scratched open an old wound. “You almost did,” he said flatly.
She didn’t want to discuss that again. They’d gone over the incident so many times it made her head spin just thinking about it. “I told you that was an accident.”
He didn’t answer, and she was seized by the desire to shake him. Why did he refuse to believe her? “Is that why you walked out on me? Because you didn’t want to be married to a basket case?” she asked instead.
His jaw clenched. A muscle twitched below his cheekbone. “After all these months you still don’t get it.” He shook his head as if he were the injured party instead of her. “If it makes you happy to think of me as a coward and a quitter, go right ahead. I’m too tired to argue.”
She wanted to tell him that it didn’t make her happy. She hadn’t been happy in years. Happiness was as tangible as air, as evasive a
s water. Whenever she tried to close her fingers around it, it melted from her grasp. Maybe people weren’t really meant to hold on to it. Maybe it was simply a promise, hovering just beyond their reach, tempting and seducing them with the possibilities it offered. Just another way to keep them forging ahead, as tantalizing and as deceptive as hope.
She stood and walked to the window. The sun gilded all it touched, made the water spraying from the fountain glow silver and gold. Above, white-winged clouds floated across a yawning blue sky. “There’s nothing left to argue about,” she finally said. “Sometimes things just end. There’s no going back.”
The problem was, she still didn’t know how to move forward. For as long as she could remember, Zach had been a part of her life. She’d met Lindsay in middle school, and from that day forward Zach had been there—the embodiment of all her desires wrapped in a most seductive package.
Over time she’d grown to love him, hate him and eventually lose him. Now he was back in her life again, and she didn’t know what to do with him, didn’t know where he fit anymore. They could never be lovers again, but with any luck maybe they could learn to be friends again. They had no choice. Three kids depended on them.
The chair scraped the linoleum floor as he rose. “I think I’ll take you up on your offer.” He refused to meet her gaze. “I could use a shower. I still smell like puke.”
She watched him leave, happy to have some time to herself. Zach’s presence unsettled her. Something about him slipped past her carefully erected defenses and filled her with bitterness, a weakening sense of loss and, worst of all, the one feeling she’d sworn she’d never allow into her heart again—hope.
Chapter Four
Rebecca pulled out her laptop, tapped into the WiFi network and began searching the Web. With any luck her efforts would trigger an idea for her next story. She worked for a magazine called Women Today, and once a month she submitted an article dealing with issues the modern woman faced—career, family, health and so forth. She didn’t have much to say about family, but career and health she could usually gush about for pages upon pages.
Writing her last article, however, had been an ordeal. As much as she’d tried, her mind had kept drifting to Lindsay, to the unspeakable circumstances of her death. She found it no less difficult to concentrate here in her home, where reminders of her best friend were everywhere. The watercolor she’d painted back in high school hung in the hallway. Wedding pictures of her and Liam, with Rebecca and Zach standing vigil on either side of them, adorned end tables and bookcases. A small pewter frame boasted the image of Lindsay holding a newborn Noah in her arms. Rebecca hadn’t been able to bring herself to look at that photograph in years.
It sat on the kitchen counter now. Sunlight poured through the window in white sheets to kiss the brushed silver. The glare of the glass taunted her, constantly pried her gaze from her computer screen until she felt compelled to stand up and walk toward it. She reached out, closed her fingers around the cold metal.
For the first time she forced herself to really look at the snapshot. She noted the exhaustion on her friend’s face, the limpness of her hair, her widened hips and bloated belly. In all the years Rebecca had known her, Lindsay had never looked worse…or happier. The way she held that baby as if he were a natural extension of herself, the tenderness soaking her features as she gazed at his dozing face, hit Rebecca like a punch to the gut. The small frame suddenly felt heavy in her palm, so she placed it back on the counter and turned away.
Decisively, she walked to the table and shut off her computer. There was no way she’d get any work done today. She was far too distracted and far too emotional. If there was one thing she’d learned, it was to write with her brain, not her heart.
Her heart was erratic, undependable, and more often than not led her down the wrong path. Her mind, on the other hand, was a compass, keeping her focused, pointing her in the right direction.
And right now it was telling her to go check on the kids. They were way too quiet for her liking.
Noah stood outside his dad’s home office, trying to find the guts to walk in. He hadn’t stepped into this room since that night—the night his parents died—and he was tired of feeling like a coward. If only he hadn’t been such a chicken that night, maybe…
A fist tightened in his throat. He was such a loser.
His aunt thought he was watching TV, but some dumb baby show had come on and the computer was here, so he figured he’d have a lot more fun playing one of his games.
If only he could open the stupid door.
He wrapped his hand around the handle. It was cold, like the weight in his chest. Slowly, he turned it, inched the door open. The hinges creaked, and he nearly lost his nerve.
Stop being such a baby. Nothing’s in there.
Nothing but the images in his head. Images he just couldn’t erase, no matter how hard he tried.
He took a deep breath, a small step forward, then another. Before he knew it, he was inside.
See, that wasn’t so bad.
The room didn’t look much different. The carpet was gone, but that was about it. It was hard to believe his parents had died here. But they had.
All his insides stung as if something was trying to rip the flesh from his bones. He hunched his shoulders to hold in the pain, to keep it from devouring him. It didn’t work. It just tied him up in knots and made his belly ache.
So he did what he always did when he wanted to forget how much life sucked—he ran to his dad’s computer. He hadn’t gone on Falcon World in weeks, ever since he and his dad had that nasty scrap and he’d forbidden him from ever logging onto his favorite site again, which was totally unfair. Still, he felt guilty for disobeying him, even though his dad wasn’t around anymore. Maybe it was because he was in this room, where his parents had been shot.
The pain returned—a sharp, burning sword slashing through him—so he turned the computer on. What did it matter if he played a game or two with one of his online friends? What was the big deal, anyway? He tossed a glance over his shoulder as he waited for the lousy machine to boot up. It seemed to take forever.
Finally, color exploded on the screen. Using his parents’ e-mail address, Noah quickly reactivated the account his dad had blocked, then went to the login page. He knew his way around a computer, and that pleased him. It was cool to be good at something, especially computers. He typed in his screen name, Raptor100, followed by his password. Anyone who signed up had to use the name of a bird. That was the way things worked at Falcon World. He didn’t recognize any of the other players, but he hung out with them for a while just the same.
Then Night-Owl came on. He always seemed to be around when Noah was there, so they’d become friends. They chatted about all sorts of things—mainly the latest games and how annoying adults were.
Noah loved the talks he had with Night-Owl. It was great to speak to someone who actually listened for a change.
“Hey, Raptor WB. WU?” Welcome back. What’s up?
Noah didn’t feel like going into the whole ugly story, so he wrote: “Nothing much. My life blows.”
“Y?”
“NVM.” Never mind.
“Glad you’re back. This place sucks without U.”
Warmth spread through him, numbed the hurt. It felt good to know that someone actually wanted him around. Normally, people just wanted him gone.
“Wanna play Checkers?” That was the game he and Night-Owl always played on Falcon World, so Noah suggested it, partly because he wanted to change the subject and partly because he was looking for something to help him forget.
“K.”
When the game came on, all Noah could see was the gun, that long barrel with the squares carved into it. It blurred his vision, made his brain go blank. He tried to push the images aside and focus on the game, but they refused to go away.
So much for forgetting.
After Night-Owl beat him three times, Noah decided to give up. “EIE!” Enough is
enough.
Night-Owl sent him a laughing face. “ROFL. Sore loser.”
“BM.” Bite me.
“Wait till we meet F2F.” Then, “Why didn’t you show up last time?”
Embarrassment singed his cheeks. “My dad grounded me.”
“IDGI. Y?”
Noah didn’t get it, either, so he wasn’t sure how to explain it to Night-Owl. “Long story,” he typed.
“Wanna come over tomorrow? I got DSI.”
Excitement shot through Noah. DSI had cooler games than his Game Boy. It would be awesome to play some of them with Night-Owl, but his dad would be royally pissed. Then it hit him again, like a hammer to the brain. His dad was dead. Uncle Zach and Aunt Becca were in charge now.
Maybe they wouldn’t mind letting him visit his buddy. Night-Owl was all right. He was twelve and lived in Boston. He loved video games, just like him. He had a crazy cat named Ralph. He couldn’t see why Uncle Zach and Aunt Becca would have a problem letting him meet Ralph.
Then again, maybe they would. He couldn’t chance telling them.
From the kitchen came the sound of footsteps. His aunt was up and about. Noah’s heart pounded a ferocious beat against his ribs. “PAH. BBL.” Parent at home, he typed. Be back later.
He quickly shut off the computer, then raced back to the living room. Kristen was nowhere in sight. An episode of Dora the Explorer flashed on the television screen. Backpack was singing a silly song about having everything you need.
He flipped the channel and popped in a PlayStation game. Then, settling himself on the couch, he grabbed the controller and adopted his bored, innocent, couldn’t-care-less expression.
Noah slumped on the couch, playing some animated video game when Rebecca entered the living room. He was alone. An unsettling hush hung in the air, disrupted only by the occasional beep of Noah’s game.
“Where’s your sister?”
“Don’t know.” The boy’s eyes refused to stray from the screen.
