But I Need You (This Love Hurts Book 2)

by W. Winters

  “You did,” he says and I can see there’s more on the tip of his tongue but he swallows it. It wouldn’t have been a revelation. Judging by the look of condemnation on his face, it was an accusation. Probably something to the effect of, after you searched through a box of my dead brother’s belongings. He wouldn’t do that to me, though. He wouldn’t throw it in my face. That’s not the kind of man Cody is.

  I wish he would. I wish he’d give me a reason to throw the truth at him just the same.

  “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?” I ask him cautiously, reminding myself of the history we have together and the grace and protection he’s given me. “Even if you had secrets with Marcus?” My words are barely audible.

  They hang in the space between us, joined by the flashes of memories that dance with shadows and illicit thoughts you’re only ever supposed to dream about, not live.

  The waitress comes by with a smile but it vanishes when she pauses at our table, the tension palpable. “I’ll leave you to it,” she murmurs and taps the table. “If there’s anything you need, you just let me know.”

  With nods from each of us, she’s gone.

  “Even if you had secrets with Marcus, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?” I question him again, unwilling to give it up, and his response determines my next move.

  “Of course I would,” he answers and then sips his coffee, but his voice is flat and so is the thud in my chest.

  Like it’s given up.

  It’s wrong, so wrong. Something is badly fucked up in my head knowing that I trust a beast like Marcus over Cody Walsh.

  “I’m going to see my sister this weekend,” I say to change the subject. “And my mother.”

  Cody only nods and the silence prolongs itself. There’s only the chatter of other patrons and a ding at the door when someone leaves.

  “Did something change?” Cody asks with a hint of pain in his tone.

  “It does feel different, doesn’t it?” I respond with my own question, my walls up and solid as stone.

  “I don’t know,” he says then shakes his head and huffs, his thumb tapping on the side of the mug in front of him. “I don’t know if you’d even let me kiss you right now.”

  Tink, tink, it’s the sound of a lifeline. The moment slowing between us and I’m so very aware that I’m the one left to make the deciding factor.

  There’s one reason why I lean in and kiss the man who I’m certain is lying right to my face, as I’m doing to him.

  It’s because I want to, because I love him. And more than anything I want him to know that he is loved. Even if we are lying to each other.

  I want to pretend it’s only the shadow of a kiss, and that it will stay there on the black and white penny tile of a coffee shop, where our story can change with every new couple who sits in these seats. But it’s not. It’s the bittersweet, sad kind of kiss, the one where you don’t want to move away because it feels so final if you do move.

  His lips are soft and his hand cups the side of my head, holding me there. I’m grateful for that, for all of it.

  Everything up to this moment has felt like a lie, everything but this kiss and the next words spoke.

  With his forehead resting against mine, he inhales in relief but exhales slower.

  “You know I’ll keep you safe. You know I care about you, don’t you?” With his question spoken, his eyes peer into mine and he pulls back.

  He pulls back in that way that makes me want to move closer to him.

  “I do.” I really, really do. “You know I’d do the same, right?” I ask him.

  “You don’t have to, though.”

  It’s a sad smile that plays quietly on my lips. That’s the only response I can give him.

  Delilah

  The numbers on the digital display climb and climb while the smell of gasoline lingers. The wet spots on the cracked asphalt prove whoever was at pump three before me left droplets right where I’m standing.

  Leaning against my car, I glance up at the lone vehicle that drives down the small-town road this gas station resides on and then check my phone again. It’s an old town and just across the street are houses long overdue for renovations. I couldn’t imagine living there. Maybe a long time ago it wasn’t like it is now. Some other time a lifetime ago.

  With a deep inhale, I turn my attention back to my own problems and my own life. Or rather my cell phone.

  Two messages. Two different numbers. Two very different men.

  Marcus: You haven’t told Cody about it. But you also haven’t messaged me.

  For a woman with such a curious mind … I expected you would message me.

  Cody: Call me when you get there. I need you to keep me updated.

  Both men have expectations. Yet I have no idea what I can truly expect from either of them. Cody swears he has a lead on a case that’ll put him only twenty minutes from the hotel I stay at when I visit home. He lies. He lies to me shamelessly and now that I know that, I see him so differently.

  Marcus sent a small bouquet of pink roses before I left. I thought of bringing them along to give to my sister or mother, just to get them out of the house. There was no note, no name, just a small bouquet of the palest pink roses. Their stems were cut down to only six inches or so and the half dozen sat in a square glass vase. I left them there, though, on the kitchen island where the last bouquet sat.

  Two men. Twice as many expectations.

  I leave both messages alone, not texting either of them back.

  After less than a minute passes, my phone buzzes with another text. The nervous butterflies in my stomach settle when I glance down and see it’s only my sister, telling me to drive to our mom’s instead of her place and that she’ll be there a bit later. She had an emergency session come up.

  It’s easy to respond to her. Although if my life were any semblance of normal, maybe I’d feel the anxiety of my previous visit.

  The memories of the bruises flash back, complete with my mother’s smile. The accusations. The uncomfortable moment with my father. Mom said my father won’t be here, though; he’s headed out of town for a convention tonight.

  I’ll add that to a list of things to be grateful for. At the very least I don’t have to look into my father’s eyes and wonder if he hits my mother.

  With a clunk, the gas pump halts and the wind blows a colder air from the roaming hills and mountains off the highway. Goosebumps travel down my blouse and my gaze instantly moves to the back seat where my luggage rests and my coat remains draped over it. The cream sweater wrapped around my shoulders is made from crocheted yarn and the bitter air easily moves through the holes.

  It’s fine, I tell myself, ignoring this nagging feeling in my gut. Everything is fine for now.

  It’s only when I’m seated back in my car, with the ding, ding, ding from my keys resting in the ignition driving my irritation higher, that I read the texts again.

  I turn on the car if for no other reason than to stop the incessant dinging. Both messages came within two minutes of each other, both as I veered off of the highway and onto these less traveled but somehow more worn paths. It must’ve been an hour after I left. Cody’s first and then Marcus’s.

  To Cody I respond: Just stopped for gas; I’ll be there in two hours and text you then.

  A text, not a call. I realize there’s a difference, but given that I’m going straight to my mother’s and not the hotel, he can deal. Even if things hadn’t changed between us, I still wouldn’t call him when I got to my mother’s. Calls are for emergencies and a text will do just fine. A churning in my gut refutes that statement, knowing I’d be pushing Cody away and not liking it in the least.

  To Marcus, I fail to come up with a suitable response. He fed me information and all it did was prompt me to rattle off more questions. So I ask him, If I had more questions, would you answer?

  Both men respond in the same way the initial messages arrived, one after the other, Cody’s being first.

  I’ll talk to
you soon. The response from Cody is exactly what I expected.

  The exact same response from Marcus does nothing but give me chills: I’ll talk to you soon.

  With a shiver running down the length of my neck and trailing over my shoulders, I turn up the heat and head back onto the road.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know this is only a distraction and things are going to get worse. I’m only hiding.

  I’m grateful to be hiding, though, and with every mile I get closer to my mother’s, I find myself watching the clock and wishing I were home.

  For the first time, it’s not my mother and sister who need me, I realize, it’s me who needs them.

  With hours to pass on my way up to my hometown and the radio playing, but my unwilling mind not listening, tiny memories come back to me. They seemed so insignificant, these little blips that didn’t really matter when I was younger. But as I sit in the car, turning the heater on and off nearly as much as I shift in my seat, my critical eye taints the sweet memories.

  One in particular never made sense.

  Mom was sobbing when we got home from a trip that she didn’t come on with us.

  I can still hear her wretched cry of relief when we walked into the living room.

  “Mom? What’s wrong?” Cadence asked as I stood there in shock, a small doll hanging from my right hand. The floral backpack Cady wore had the gifts we brought back for Mommy. We were so excited to give them to her. All three of us, Daddy included.

  Never in my little mind did I expect to come home to my mother crying on the floor of the living room.

  “My babies,” my mother cried out and swept Cady into a tight hug. I stayed back watching her sway; I’m sure my expression mirrored Cadence’s shock. “Where were you?” She heaved in a breath at the same time the question ran away from her.

  “We were good, so Daddy took us on a trip.”

  “A trip?”

  “Of course, Mommy.” My father’s voice was far too upbeat at the sight of my mother crying and distraught. Didn’t he see she was scared? He stood behind me in the kitchen, his large hands resting on my shoulders. “Silly Mommy,” he joked. “We’re home,” he said and beamed with a bright smile. It was odd, everything about the moment. Maybe that’s why I remember it so well.

  “I got you taffy, Mommy,” I offered and my mother gripped me in the tightest hug, holding on to me and squeezing too tight. I didn’t understand what was wrong with her. Our father said she was just being silly. Back then I felt awful, though, since she’d obviously wanted to come with us. That’s what I thought.

  “Of course we came back. We’d never leave you.” I think those were the words from my father. “Family doesn’t ever leave.”

  At the time, I was so happy to see my mother smile, wiping under her tired eyes and clinging to me and my sister. We made her happy, although it didn’t make sense that she was upset at all. We’d been good, our grades and our behavior both, so it was wonderful to be rewarded with a trip to the amusement park for the weekend. How could Mom not have known?

  The realization never clicked. The pieces didn’t add up and the questions stayed buried at the back of my memory where childish things that didn’t matter went to die.

  The crickets are already out and chirping noisily when I pull into the driveway. It’s dark for only being seven but the fall brings early sunsets in this part of the country, especially in these Podunk towns in the mountains of northeastern New York.

  The old fence in the backyard has been patched with newer pickets that stand out even in the dim illumination provided by the streetlights. They’re a bright white among the dingy, worn paint of the others. The grass needs to be cut too. I imagine that’s what my father would be doing this weekend if he weren’t headed out for a conference. Vaguely I wonder what conference it is. If I was earlier in my career, I’d have already texted him and would have preferred to spend my weekend at the conference rather than the dinner and movie plans my sister concocted. That seems like a lifetime ago too.

  Sitting back in my car I stare up at the two-story family home with dark red brick and cream shutters. So many memories are carved into the walls of this house. Good ones and bad ones both, but right now, all I can envision are the times I smiled along with my sister.

  As our mother did our hair at the kitchen sink and all the games of hide-and-seek that drove my father crazy. All the good times do little to settle the sadness that lingers in my chest. It’s a weight that won’t move and maybe that’s because back then, there was so much hope. So much innocence.

  All I can think is that little girl I used to be would be horrified by who I’ve become.

  My eyes burn with the sting of exhaustion and something else. I grab my purse, leaving my luggage and coat where they are even though I’m certain it’s bitter cold out there. It’s always ten degrees colder up here than it is down in Pennsylvania.

  There’s an ominous feeling that greets me as I approach. After the large front door creaks open and shuts just as easily, there’s only silence in the large old house. I can’t remember a single time when it was this dark and quiet. “Hello?” I call out and expect my mother to shout down from upstairs. Maybe she’s still getting ready.

  The lights being out in the foyer doesn’t help that strange feeling, so I flick them on as I call out for my mother, “Mom?”

  A torn sob echoes from somewhere to the left, beyond the kitchen. I think it came from the living room.

  “Mom?” I repeat, crying out as dread spreads through me and I pick up my pace. My keys rattle in my hands and my purse nearly slips as I get to the threshold.

  My mother’s there, on her knees on the floor and she doesn’t stop crying as I approach. It’s like she can’t hear me.

  “Mom, what’s wrong?” The moment the question is asked, my heart stops. There’s blood. So much blood. But it’s not touching her. I follow the pool and find it leads to my father. My purse drops along with my keys as my knees hit the stone floor hard.

  My hands shake and I make my way toward him, inching myself along with my hands in the air as if to reach for him but they’re held back.

  There’s so much blood and the smear of it in front of me, a smear from his leg being dragged through it is dried. With my right hand trembling, I place my palm on his back.

  My mother’s sobs still haven’t stopped. My name is incoherent in her last cry as she rocks back and forth.

  Breathe. He doesn’t.

  Tears flow freely down my face, stinging my eyes.

  “Dad,” I call out and then with the back of my hand, I press my fingers to his cheek. The second that skin touches skin, I pull back and push myself away.

  His skin is cold as ice.

  Thud, thud, my heart pounds and attempts to race, but it’s like it’s caught in free fall. It can’t speed up or slow down, it simply is what it is.

  “Mom … what happened?” My question’s strength is nonexistent. It’s faint and full of the same fear that courses through my body.

  Until I see the glint of metal next to my mother. A gun.

  “You shot him?” I don’t know how I’m even able to question her. It’s not real. Of course she didn’t. She wouldn’t kill him. She can’t kill anyone. It’s my mother.

  Before I can apologize, my mom speaks.

  “I had to, baby girl,” my mother cries, tears streaming down her face, dragging the remains of mascara with it. With a sniff and a harsh wipe across her face, my mother’s dark brown gaze stares down at my father’s body. He lies on his stomach, blood soaking through his shirt and creating a halo of darkness around his face. It bleeds into his cheek, staining his skin.

  There’s no movement of his chest. No breathing, no blinking, no signs of life at all and vomit rises up my throat as my trembling fingers cover my mouth.

  My entire body shakes, glancing between my dead father and my mother who just admitted she murdered him.

  “I had to, Delilah …” she whispers. “I h
ad to.”

  “No,” I say, denying it, shaking my head and crawling backward until my back hits the cabinets.

  “You don’t understand. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “Mom, no,” I whisper. The realization grips my shoulders the way I wish I could grip my mother and shake her. Shake her and demand she tell me the truth because this can’t be real. She didn’t do it.

  With her bottom lip quivering and my mother’s expression worn and full of pain, she looks me in the eye and tells me, “I’m sorry I didn’t do it sooner.”

  Evidence convicts. Confessions can lead to convictions too, but as I drive exactly fifty-five miles per hour with my mother laying down in the back seat of my car, careful not to go over the speed limit, I refuse to let her confess to anything to anyone.

  It doesn’t make any sense. Not what my mother did and not what I did. I dragged her out of there as she pushed against me, fought me even. I pulled her away and I’ll be damned if I’m going back there.

  She’s not going down for murder.

  I won’t let it happen.

  “Lilah, baby,” my mother pleads with me between the sobs.

  “Shhh, Mom,” I whisper and lick my bottom lip, tasting my own salty tears. “I just need time to think. I’ll fix this. I promise,” I tell her. I can’t believe she did it. She didn’t. My mind’s at war with itself.

  There’s something missing, something wrong and I can’t let anyone know until I know what really happened.

  The convenience store sign is lit, but half of it is out when I pull into the Gas & Stop. I’ve been to this place countless times. It’s stood here since I was a little girl. Around the corner there’s a pay phone. I’ve waited for years for it to vanish like the rest of them have, but somehow it’s remained.