Finally Mine: A Small Town Love Story

by Lucy Score

  Welcome home, Morettas.

  Gloria

  “Why is she leaving pies in your house?” Aldo demanded, gripping the card. Reading her name, let alone saying it, was painful. A reminder of the life that he couldn’t have now.

  “Dunno,” Ina shrugged her linebacker shoulders. Everyone always assumed Aldo got his build from his father. But his dad had been a slim-shouldered string bean with a toothy grin and a stratospheric stress level who’d keeled over from a heart attack when Aldo was thirteen. “She was supposed to do a few things around here for me while I was babysitting your ass. Does that bother you?”

  His mother was like a bulldog with a chew toy when she was trying to pry information out of him.

  “Nope,” Aldo lied. “I’m going to sleep.” Without another word, he headed back to his room, ignoring his mom’s calls about his piece of pie.

  He shut the door and leaned against it, letting the ache in his leg permeate everything. He could block it out for minutes at a time, could forget for moments what had happened, but it was always there lurking under the surface. The pain, the memories, the fear that he would never be normal again. His life would never be the same.

  In all his deployments, he’d been prepared for the fact that he might not come home. Soldiers all faced it, dealt with it in their own way. But never in his wildest nightmares had he predicted this. The sheer magnitude of the loss.

  Yes. He was home and alive. But he wasn’t whole. And she deserved someone who could protect her. That man was no longer him.

  26

  Gloria juggled the plastic container to her opposite hand and rested the flowers on her hip. Welcome home accessories stabilized for the moment, she stabbed at the doorbell.

  “Don’t be nervous,” she encouraged herself. “You’re just a friend stopping by to see another friend and his super scary mother.”

  “Aldo, get the damn door!” Mrs. Moretta shouted from somewhere inside the house.

  “You get the damn door! I’m on crutches, woman!”

  A shouting match broke out on the other side of the front door, and Gloria immediately regretted her decision to pop by.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered. Maybe she could hustle down the sidewalk and sneak away—

  The door was wrenched open, and Gloria’s jaw dropped.

  Aldo, looking thinner, almost gaunt, was glaring at her. His hair, longer and curlier than she’d ever seen it, was rumpled like he’d just gotten up. He had a scruffy beard that looked as though he’d paid it no attention. He was wearing gym shorts, and his left leg was bandaged where it ended just below the knee.

  “Fuck,” he swore softly and half-closed the door, blocking her view of his leg.

  “Who is it?” Mrs. Moretta screamed, like a wounded wildebeest trapped in quicksand.

  “Come see for yourself,” Aldo yelled back.

  “Um, hi,” Gloria said. “I brought you soup. And flowers.” She’d spent an hour and a half pulling together the perfect bouquet under Claire’s watchful eye. Black-eyed Susans for encouragement, chamomile for energy, jasmine for cheer, and ranunculus just because they were so pretty.

  Aldo made no move to invite her in…or say anything at all. He simply continued to stare at her with what looked like a war of emotions behind those shadowed eyes.

  Pain. She read it on him as if he’d tattooed the word on his forehead. And her heart hurt for him. She knew pain. Knew the fear that came with it.

  “How are you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “Fine,” he snapped. His mother bustled up behind him.

  Aldo stepped back, letting Mrs. Moretta at the door. “You can answer your own fucking door from now on,” he said in a low voice. But Gloria still heard him loud and clear. Both women watched him as he hurried away from the door as fast as his crutches would carry him.

  “I didn’t raise any assholes,” Mrs. Moretta called after him.

  “Apparently you did,” Aldo answered bitterly before slamming a door in the back of the house.

  Gloria didn’t know what to do. She’d expected…well, she hadn’t known what to expect. It certainly wasn’t this rejection, though.

  “Sorry about him. He’s been a dick and a half since getting blown to kingdom come,” Ina said. “What’s in the bowl?”

  Gloria felt like she was doing the walk of shame when she walked back in the door at Blooms. She’d used her lunch break to make her delivery, and Claire was perched on a stool behind the register reading a paperback when she returned.

  “Well? How did it go? How does he look? Did he like the flowers?” Claire peppered her with questions, excitement bright in her eyes.

  “It was, uh, fine. He’s fine, so he says. He looks…” Gloria was humiliated to find tears welling up in her eyes.

  “Oh, no. Oh, sweetie. What’s wrong? Is it his leg?”

  Gloria shook her head and snatched a tissue out of the box next to the computer before she could completely dissolve. “No. I’ve never seen a sexier amputee. But he’s different.” Her biggest fear. She blew her nose and stared up at the overhead lights, willing the tears to evaporate like the hopes and dreams she’d stupidly hung on a man she barely knew. “He’s so angry. And hurt. I can tell he’s hurting. But he’s so…closed off. He didn’t want to see me.”

  Claire shoved off of the stool and grabbed another tissue. “I command you to stop right there. You’re not to cry a single tear over whatever he said or didn’t say. I’m so sorry that happened, and I’m going to kill Ina for not telling me Aldo was struggling. This has nothing to do with you and everything to do with him. Everyone heals differently.”

  “Sometimes people don’t heal,” Gloria said, jabbing crescents into her palm with her fingernails. She would not cry. She would not feel like her chest had caved in. When had she built all these dreams around him? When had she decided that Aldo Moretta was the one man for her? God, she was still a silly, stupid little girl.

  “You can go ahead and stop whatever vicious dialogue that’s happening in your head right now, missy,” Claire said sternly. “I can see that nasty little voice working its poison.”

  Gloria took a deep breath, breathing in the scents of eucalyptus and rose. They soothed her immediately. She checked in with her body. No pain anymore. No soreness. She didn’t have injuries to tend to daily. She only had a small hole in her heart, and that she could survive.

  “That’s better,” Claire said, observing the straightening of her shoulders. “Now, do you want to go home, or do you want to help me make a carnation blanket for Lou Turnbill’s old-ass horse in honor of the Belmont Stakes?”

  “I want to make a damn carnation horse blanket.”

  27

  I’m embarrassed. And hurt. And so stupid.

  Why was I counting on this? I could see myself with him. I could see us making homemade ice cream on his porch or kissing in the rain. Going grocery shopping. Curling up on the couch with popcorn and a movie.

  He kissed me before he left. He kissed me the way a man kisses a woman he won’t forget.

  And now he’s back, and he looks at me like I’m a stranger.

  Is it because of his injury? Is it post-traumatic stress? Or were his feelings just not strong enough?

  I want to make him talk. I know what it’s like keeping feelings, secrets, bottled up. It’s poison. It eats at you from the inside out. But it’s not my place. At least I don’t think it is. Hell, I don’t know what my place is. I’ve never had a place before.

  I’ve never had permission to speak up or call someone out. And I’m still waiting for permission. That makes me angry with myself. Why can’t I be strong? Why is it this constant battle of second-guessing myself and hoping someone will do right by me? Why can’t I be like Harper or Sophie? They’re so confident and real, and if someone tried to take something from them, they’d laugh in their faces.

  Why can’t I be like that?

  Will I ever be like that?

  And don’t sa
y “give it time.” I’m tired of waiting. Why not now?

  I’m tired of feeling stuck. I think I was waiting to begin my life until Aldo came home, which by the way, is exactly what he asked me not to do. So now what’s stopping me from finding a place to live? Or signing up for some online courses? Or dating?

  Okay, maybe not dating. I danced with a gorgeous firefighter who flirted with me, and I felt nothing. So maybe that part of me is still…damaged.

  I got another letter this week. And I’m more upset about Aldo rejecting me than Glenn threatening me? It’s humiliating. Why am I letting either man affect me? One’s behind bars, and the other has made it very clear that he wants nothing to do with me.

  I want to be my own damn hero. It would be a nice change from being my own biggest problem.

  When did I decide that my worth came from how someone else sees me? Does that happen when a girl grows up without a father to tell her she’s smart and kind and pretty and worth so much more than the scraps of attention users will throw her way?

  Or was I born hungry for someone else’s opinions?

  I don’t even know what I think about myself. Am I smart? Am I organized? Am I a good person? Or am I just a collection of all the damage I’ve allowed someone to do to me?

  And if so, how do I become my own hero? Because I’m ready. I’m done being damaged and fragile and careful and scared. I’m done.

  28

  “You’re driving me fucking nuts!” Aldo yelled from the living room. If he ever learned to speak at normal volume again, it would be a miracle straight from the little baby Jesus.

  “That’s a fine way to talk to the woman who dropped everything to nurse you back to health because you couldn’t swerve around a bomb,” his mother snarled back from the kitchen.

  “You played Candy Crush and yelled at me if I didn’t turn on The Price is Right every day,” Aldo roared.

  “You aren’t driving yourself to PT. I don’t care how big and tough you think you are. So you’re welcome to walk. Go ahead and hitchhike. See if I care. I didn’t raise you to be a grown man who shouts at his own mother.”

  “That is exactly who you raised me to be!” If he had to spend one more second listening to Ina Moretta grouse about the evening news or the price of cream-filled donuts or his lack of gratitude when she woke him from the only sound sleep he’d had since the fucking bomb to show him a funny dog video on her phone, he was going to murder her.

  “Hey!” A third voice joined the fray from the area of the front door.

  Aldo crutched into the foyer, and his mother poked her head out of the kitchen.

  Harper stood in the doorway, legs braced as if for a fight. She had a bulging bag in one hand.

  “Come right on in, bursting into my house like that. Didn’t your parents teach you any manners?” Ina yelled.

  “They must have died too soon, I guess,” Harper said several decibels above conversational tone.

  Aldo blindsided her with a bear hug, dropping his crutches on the floor. He didn’t question this sudden rush of affection that welled up in him like hope. He didn’t care if he was just relieved that there was now someone present who would keep him from going to jail for homicide or if he was happy to see a friend he hadn’t let down.

  Harper grabbed on to him and held tight. Aldo knew Luke would have given anything to trade places with him in that moment.

  “Pick up your goddamn crutches! You know the doctors don’t want you walking unassisted yet!” His mother continued on, sprinkling some colorful Italian for variety.

  “I’m glad you’re home. And alive,” Harper said into his chest.

  “I will marry you and have your babies if you get me the hell out of this house. I have a PT appointment in thirty.”

  Harper looked him up and down, and he tried not to flinch when her gaze lingered on the gleaming titanium that was now part of him.

  “Luke might have a problem with the first, but I’d pay money to see the second. So it’s a deal. Besides, I want to see what you can do with that hardware.”

  “I can do anything. They just won’t fucking let me.” The frustration bubbled up again, bleeding into the happy.

  “If you don’t do what the doctors tell you, you’ll end up screwing up your stump or breaking that thing,” his mother warned pointing at his prosthesis.

  “Mrs. Moretta, I’m going to take Aldo to his appointment today,” Harper said as a grin spread over her face. “Is there anything you need while we’re out?”

  Ina grumbled for a moment. “Well, I suppose I could use another box of Chardonnay.”

  Aldo used the cursed crutches to get to Harper’s VW Bug and then tossed them into the back seat before lowering himself gingerly into the passenger’s seat. Everything still hurt. Everything still exhausted him, and he didn’t like the whole “be patient” line about waiting for his strength and mobility to come back. What if the pain never went away? What if he missed his leg for the rest of his life?

  Harper slid behind the wheel and started the ignition. The car purred to life, thanks to a complete overhauling Luke had surprised her with before deployment. His friend might be a scaredy-cat dumbass, but he was a thoughtful, generous one.

  Aldo dropped his head against the seat. “I love that woman, but I swear to God, one of these days one of us is going to murder the other.”

  Harper snickered and shifted into reverse. “That was World War III in there.”

  “That’s what happens when you spend two fucking weeks straight with Ina Moretta. I think it was her goal to drive me crazy.”

  “I hear that’s what moms are for,” Harper said, backing down the driveway into the street. “Where are we going?”

  Aldo gave her directions, and they cruised their way out of town.

  “By the way, there’s a bag of goodies in the back for you,” she told him.

  Aldo swiveled in his seat and grabbed at the gift bag. “Where’s the candy?” he demanded. He treated his body like a temple ninety-nine percent of the time. That one percent was reserved for Skittles and Sour Patch Kids.

  “It’s in the bottom. I consulted with Luke on this, so a lot of it you can thank him for.”

  “New earbuds and an MP3 player?”

  “It’s full of get-pumped playlists for therapy, and you can also use it to drown out your mom.”

  He pulled out a tiny plastic egg next. “Earplugs.”

  “Luke said your mom snores.”

  “Like a fucking company of lumberjacks at a chainsaw convention. What’s this? A bracelet?”

  Harper rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I thought you could start accessorizing. No, it’s one of those step-counter heart-rate monitors. It’s what normal people who don’t run half marathons on the weekend use to measure their fitness. And since for the next week or two you probably won’t be hitting a 10K, I thought you could use it with your physical therapy. It’ll sync with your phone, too.”

  He stared at it. Since you won’t be hitting a 10K… He could barely hobble to the bathroom and back without breaking out in a cold fucking sweat. “This is cool, Harpoon. Thanks.”

  “Seriously? You’re gonna go with Harpoon?” she teased.

  He was too tired to play. “We’ll see where the day takes us,” he said, unwrapping a mini chocolate bar and popping it into his mouth.

  29

  The clinic was a twenty-minute drive north of town. Aldo ate candy and stared pensively out the window, ignoring the sidelong looks Harper sent in his direction. He knew he wasn’t his old self. He didn’t need another reminder.

  She called the office to tell them she would be back in later and made some murmurs that he could tell were dodges to questions about him. Everyone wanted the inside scoop on how Aldo Moretta was dealing with coming back in pieces.

  “Beth wants me to hug you for her,” Harper said, dropping her phone in the console where she’d probably forget it.

  “I have a feeling I’ll be getting a lot of that,” Aldo said grim
ly. He didn’t want anyone’s pity. He didn’t want their attention. All he wanted was to be left alone.

  “I know there’s a certain beautiful brunette who’d be willing to get in line to hug you,” Harper said slyly, twisting the knife she didn’t know he carried in his chest. Seeing Gloria had been a fist to the gut. She was bright and beautiful and happy and hopeful. And he couldn’t be the man she needed. He’d missed his chance for the final time. When she’d looked down, he thought he’d die of shame. When he’d turned his back on her, well, he’d turned his back on the future he’d so desperately wanted.

  It was for her own good. And he’d regret it to his dying day.

  He grunted and prayed that Harper would drop it. Obviously, the friends hadn’t spoken since his dickheaded production at his mother’s front door. But Aldo’s luck had run out in Afghanistan, and it sure as hell hadn’t come back since. The sooner everyone got used to it, the better.

  “Have you talked to Gloria?” Harper asked.

  “No.”

  “Care to expand on that? I feel like I’m talking to Luke here,” Harper sighed.

  “Turn here,” Aldo said, relieved to see the white stone new construction on the right. The whole front of the building was handicap parking, and he swore he’d put his fist through his PT’s face if he or she suggested a handicap sticker for him.

  Harper pulled into the lot and eased to a stop at the doors. “I’ll grab your crutches,” she told him.

  “I’ll walk from the parking space,” he said with enough snark to dent Harper’s sunny disposition. He was an asshole, and he couldn’t stop himself.

  She shrugged. “Fine.” And then proceeded to park in the very last space at the far end of the lot. She took the keys out of the ignition and dared him to say a word. Ignoring her, Aldo stepped out of the car, standing on his good leg. Harper wrestled his crutches out of her minuscule back seat.