Don't give it up—either one of you.
July 30th
Pieces of my life are rushing by these days. Feel death's grip reaching for me. Should have tried harder. Should have found you and grabbed you and said goodbye to you, Ryan. Should have pulled you close, and said "I understand your anger and it's okay. I love you." The words seem so easy now.
If this gets to you, know how I love you all. Please get this journal to my son, Ryan if anything happens. He needs it to move on. Don't feel guilty, son. I'll always love you. If I make it back, I'll tell you every day, in person.
Those words we say in anger, when all is said and done, mean nothing. I know you were frustrated and didn't know how to tell me. I get it. Don't worry about a thing—my family, my loves, and my life.
Christopher Tilton Senior's last entry was three days after Ryan's birthday. Three days. I wondered, when Ryan celebrated, did his thoughts automatically go to his father's death? Was he able to celebrate his own life and achievements? Had Ryan moved on? Would he ever?
Some of the pages were scribbled on. I assumed they were Ryan's. The words, "I'm sorry, I love you," were written across them. It was as if he had been in hell right along with his father.
The remaining journal entries were made by Christopher Tilton Senior's youngest son.
I wondered if this was the first journal he ever kept.
The first journal of Ryan's life, co-written with his father.
Tragic.
Beautiful.
Sad.
Heartbreaking.
Amazing.
August 7th
Your wish may be that I'm free of guilt, but I can't let go the last words I said to you.
How do I get over it? How do I live without the fear of losing another person I love because I argued, got angry, lost control, and then never saw them again?
I feel like I killed you.
Maybe I did.
August 8th
Your funeral was today. I'm fucked. No one's here for me.
August 9th
You left me. Angry, pissed, raging. I loved you. Why didn't you choose us? How could you decide to fight again? Four times!
You knew it was bad there. You knew.
August 10th
What do I do now? Play baseball? Seems meaningless. Go to college? Fuck that. Why? How do I face an empty life? Mom is sad. She can't talk or look at me. Only fourteen and I've lost my father. Big fuckin' deal, I have your journal. So the fuck what?
August 12th
Thanks, Dad. You left me and all I have is a book. Even Chris has left us. He doesn't give a fuck if mom and I rot without you.
August 14th
I'm pissed off at just about everything and everyone, especially you, Dad. You loved your country more than your family. Why did you do it? So now you're dead and you'll never be back. I can't ever talk to you again. Guess you're happy you died serving your country?
August 17th
I'll never forget it. A few weeks ago, I headed off to play baseball. One month and two days later, on July 31st at 11:35 a.m., I answered our front door.
Why did I answer?
Maybe if I'd pretended no one was home you'd be alive. Maybe if we never got the news, time would've stopped. Instead, two uniformed Marines stood at attention. They were so big that they almost blocked out the sun that shone behind them.
I didn't know that after that day, the sun would never again rise for me. "Son, we'd like to speak to your mother," one of them said. His voice was somber and had an edge to it.
I should've told them mom wasn't home.
I stood out of sight and listened from the hallway as they told her the horrible news. She screamed and fell to the ground. I didn't know what to do. I can't help her.
You were one of five to die on the same day.
Then I hear one of the Marines tell us you were a good man. How the fuck did they know anything about you?
Well, that's how I got your journal, Dad.
Hope you don't mind that I'm writing in it.
August 31st
Building my walls high and strong, like my father. You'd be proud of me.
You died young, so I guess that means I will, too? Don't worry, I'll control everything—my friends, family, co-workers, reputation, and when I marry, my wife. No one will ever leave me. I'll leave them before they get the chance.
October 15 th
Six weeks has gone by. I'm walking in fog. I close this book in turmoil. I'm in trouble at school. My grades have slipped. I just don't give a shit. Why did you die on me? I have no one and I don't care. I want you back. I'm sorry for what I said. So sorry for what I said. Just come back. I promise I'll be a good son for you.
I need to start something new.
Don't know what.
I need to close this forever.
I think I'll buy one for myself. I like writing in this, but I don't want to look at your sad words. They're too tough for me. I love you, Dad. I really love you, Father, Friend, my hero.
He'd written the same mantra I had also believed—to make sure we left people before they could hurt us.
At only fourteen, we were the same—abandoned, scarred, afraid.
Ryan's last entry was heartbreaking. Reading about his tender feelings brought to life the conversation I had with Walter Dixon—his high school coach and mentor—all those weeks ago.
I held the book to my chest and mourned for the hurt little boy—and perhaps, the hurt little girl that had been inside me. After putting the brown leather journal back on the wooden shelves, I sat down at his walnut desk.
The big leather chair was on rollers. I imagined Ryan sliding across the hardwood floor from his bookshelves to his desk. I sat reflecting on the sadness I'd just read. When ready, I looked for a pen and some paper. All the drawers in his desk opened except the bottom one. When I found what I needed, I wrote about the journal I'd just read and the men who had written in it. The tragedy and love was devastatingly majestic.
I wrote about Ryan's golden brown hair and the specks of gold dotted through the blue of his eyes. I described the little creases in his lips that invited mine to kiss them, his chiseled looks, incredible masculine aura and body, and the gentle storm that he was for me. Every time I opened the pages of my journal, I wanted to remember the story of my first love and every detail I could think of to make me remember him.
Because nothing this good can last. It's been proven in my family. Something bad is always right around the corner. But for now, he's wonderful.
I pictured how someday, I'd sit in my rocker and run my hands over the timeworn pages, smiling at my memories of the wonderful man I once knew. Deep into the alternate world of written emotions, visions and descriptions, and the taking apart and putting back together of things and events, I jumped when the phone rang.
Already two hours had passed.
Oh God, should I answer it? What if it's some woman looking to come over? Should I let it go? What if it's Ryan? Will it go to message? Certainly he has an answering service or machine or voice mail capability of some kind. Maybe not . . . he's on the road so much. What do I do?
"Ryan Tilton's home." I gave in and answered.
"Hello? Is Ryan there?" It was a woman's voice. She sounded aggressive.
Chapter 35
Message Received
"No, I'm sorry," I apologized to someone I didn't know. Oh crap, now what? "He's at his baseball game and should be back around 11:00." Did I give out too much information? Maybe I just told her how she could hook up with him and now he won't come home tonight. "Can I give him a message?"
Please don't say something like, "this is Candy. Tell him I'll catch him at the game."
"Who is this?" she asked with authority.
"My name is Nicky Young, who's this?" I shot back.
"I'm Ryan's mother, Mrs. Tilton."
Oh, damn . . .
"My son's told me quite a lot about you, Ms. Young."
"Some good,
I hope." Some good, I hope? Why did I say that? I must sound ridiculous. I don't know what to say. I'm shocked she ever knows who I am.
"It seems my son is quite smitten with you."
Unease slid down my body.
Smitten? What kind of word is that? Is she being flippant?
"Do you have any response?" Her words were clipped.
Red alert! Be on your guard.
"I'm not sure what to say,” I replied. “I don’t understand how you just used the word, smitten."
"Do you think he's in love with you?" With a thoughtful pause, she waited for my response.
"Yes." Is this normal for someone's mother to begin a conversation like this?
"Are you in love with my son?"
I could hear her breathing.
"Yes."
"You're at his apartment and he's not there—it appears you have the run of the house. What do you think that means?"
Nothing like being direct.
"It means we're friends and we trust each other. He knows I’m not playing games. I'm very fond of your son. Well, I haven't met a lot of boys. I mean, yes, I've met a lot of boys, I've gone to school with them, but gone out with them, Mean. Your son is very unique."
Oh damn . . . I'm just stumbling all over the place.
"He's unique?" she asked.
Wrong answer.
"Yes," I gulped. “Very.”
"Have you ever had a serious relationship?" she asked. "Do you think you're in one now?"
Think carefully Nick. Your answers could ruin this possibility before it ever begins.
"No I haven't been serious with anyone before. Yes, I'm in one that's serious now.”
"How do you know? You're not too young to understand what you feel for him?"
Well, enough of this. Ryan is my love and I'm going to stand up for the two of us, no matter what she thinks. Okay, Mrs. Tilton, here I go.
"I can understand the concern you have for your son. However, before you form an opinion of me because of my age, let me reassure you, I know about people. No, I haven't had a steady boyfriend, but I know Ryan is an amazing man. I'm here by myself because I was sick. He brought a doctor to see me. His orders were for me to stay here."
"What? Ryan ordered you to stay there?"
"I meant the doctor's orders, not Ryan's." I cleared my throat.
"Oh."
Was that a slight laugh? Does she have a lighter side? Will she share that part of her with me anytime soon?
"And, well, I'm not going to beat around the bush, Mrs. Tilton. I don’t know how I’d feel discovering a woman I’d never met at my son’s apartment telling me she’s in love, but I am." Uh-oh, I'm on a roll now. “He's honest and very loving. The things he does and says are . . . he really gives to others and I've never seen anyone in his position volunteer like he does." My damn rambling burst to life. "Did you know he started networking groups out here and my sister might get into a program because of him? I've gone to the veteran's hospital because he shared it with me . . . I'm sure you know . . . I'm just nervous, so I'm just, um, nervous."
"You're also smart from what I understand." Her voice seemed to lose its edge. "You've been accepted to Stanford?"
"Yes. I start in the spring."
"And how do you think a relationship with my son might work while you're going to school?" she asked point blank.
"Honestly, I don't understand how we'll work that out. I guess we'll have to see, Mrs. Tilton. I really want a career before marriage or a family. I apologize if I'm being too forward. I probably shouldn't even say this much, I don't know what Ryan will think that I've been so open, but I feel I owe you the truth since you're his mother."
"I appreciate that," she said more gently. "I hate phony. Obviously you're not. I can hear you're nervous. I'm coming out the week after next. We can talk more then. I assume we can spend a day or two together?"
"Of course." Finally! I think we're at the end of our conversation! At least she wants to talk. I guess that's a good sign.
"Will you let Ryan know I called? His cell phone is off. I know he'll be home late, but I need to let him know I'll be arriving next week at a different time than I'd initially told him. Plus, I'm stopping over at a friend's before I make the trip and she doesn't get reliable cell reception. I leave tomorrow. Please make sure Ryan gets my message tonight."
"I'll make sure of it, Mrs. Tilton. Until what time are you available?" I sound like someone who doesn't speak English. Get it together, Nick.
"I'm available any time for my son," she snickered.
"Of course." I was overanxious to please her. "I didn't mean it like that." Damn, she says whatever is on her mind.
"I'll see you in a week or so, unless . . . are you traveling with him this road trip? You'd certainly get to know each other better that way, wouldn't you? Maybe we'll see each other at the airport?"
Oh God! She means having sex! Doesn't she? Who does she think I am . . . a woman using sex to enchant her son? Or does she know we're not having sex and that means I don't love him enough? What's the right answer? What do I do?
"I'm not going on the road trip with Ryan. I have commitments here at home." When will you ask for what you want, Nicky? Quit trying to please others and live your own life.
All I understood from her judgmental statement was her disapproval if I went with him. I was in his apartment. She probably assumed we were having sex. The way I'd always related to it? Sex meant marriage and during an evening at Ryan Tilton's, the outdated belief rose up against me. It was stupid and rash. In only a moment, all those years of what it meant to be a virgin—the fear of sin and going to hell—made my decision about traveling with Ryan.
Why did it matter so much that Mrs. Tilton saw me as someone who wasn't having a physical relationship with her son? I supposed I was still trying to be a good girl—ever the good daughter, the good friend, obeying all the rules, keeping the peace, careful not to make the waters turbulent—although in so many ways all I wanted to do was cause turbulence.
Everything was so clear to me in our conversation. I knew if I told her I was going on the road with him, I'd have to fight like hell to get her back in my corner. She couldn't respect a woman having sex with her son after a few weeks of dating, could she? Instead of rooting for her son to have found love, wouldn't she see me as someone who slept around and used sex to seduce and win the affections of her little boy?
"I see, Ms. Young. Well, have a good evening." It seemed as if she almost hung up and then changed her mind. "Ms. Young?"
Chapter 36
Damn, Another Call
"Yes, Mrs. Tilton?"
"Please call me May."
"May."
"Please don't break his heart. He's been through so much and deserves someone who's ready for his love. You have years ahead of you. He doesn't. You can imagine how I want him to have the right woman when he's never been in love before. Of course you deserve what you want as well. He wants a family right away. Did you know that? But you want a career . . ." she gave a long sigh. "How can you really know what you want at your age? Even when you're twenty, twenty-two, those years are full of turmoil."
Ouch.
"If you're not serious and he's only a stopover until you go to Stanford, please cut it off now. You'll meet so many new friends there, especially boys. The longer you stay with him, the more he'll have to wait for the things he's wanted for so long. Do you know his father died when he was only fourteen?"
"Yes, he told me. I'm sorry for your loss, too," I offered.
"Thank you. Of course, you should be free to explore your feelings, I just . . . please don't mistake his. He's already told me you're made for each other. How did he phrase it?" She waited a beat and then said, "'She's mine, and I'm hers'."
"He's said that to me since last year," I admitted.
And if you believe in your son, you must understand that I'm not someone who is here to pluck out what I can from his life while he's in the limelight and give h
im children like a machine.
"You're a smart woman. I have every confidence you'll both figure out what's important for each of your lives and make the choices that further you on that road."
"Yes, ma'am," I gulped, "I know we will."
"Fine then. Well, good night, Nicky. See you next week."
Taking no chance he'd miss her message, I taped it to the outside of his front door. God forbid he overlooked it or I forgot to tell him. I'd fail with the first thing she asked me to do!
I was in the midst of deciding whether or not to tell Ryan about my conversation with his mother when the phone rang again. I hoped it wasn't May Tilton asking me yet another question. One conversation in a day was more than enough with her.
"Hello, Ryan Tilton's home."
Please don't be her.
"Is it?" Ryan laughed.
"What should I say?" I sighed in relief. "Why didn't you call me on my cell?"
"Because I wanted to hear how it sounded when you answered my phone, Ms. Young. I've dreamt how one day I'll call and you'll just say 'hello' because you'll be living with me. How are you feeling?"
"Good. No dizzies, headache, or upset stomach. I've recovered because you left and I've had a chance to relax," I giggled.
"Is there anything I've done to help you get better?" He sounded amused.
"Oh . . . let's see . . . um, I think so. Yeah, I definitely do think you have done a little something for me."
Your turn.
"There's a lot I can do for you. And so much I can do to you." His voice slid all over my belly.
"Resting at your apartment and getting that medication from Dr. Welluck did the trick. Oh, and resting on your chest and the great brunch you fixed did wonders, too."
"So what have you been up to? Checking out more of the drawers in my nightstand?"
"Ha-ha, Ryan. No, just resting—basically."
"Basically?"
"Well, I've been writing," I shifted on his chair and put my feet up on his desk. Keeping it to myself, I pretended I was living there and we were talking like this for the hundredth time. "I found some paper in your library and I've been sitting in your manly desk chair catching up on my journal notes."
AMAZING HEART (Broken Bottles Series Book 4) Page 24
