Unbroken

by Aria Ford

  Of all the advice to give me right now, I wasn’t sure if it was the best or the worst. But if my friend had chosen to speak from the other side of time to give me a Christmas message, I was going to do my best to listen. Groaning, still fighting a residual pain in my head, I sat up and began to follow his advice. I opened my case and dug out the one thing I had been determined not to forget.

  It’s Christmas tomorrow, I reminded myself. I should get things ready.

  Fingers trembling, head pounding, I set about the work. I had a few hours to get things right, and I intended to do my best. It had been too long—far too long—since I had followed my heart. It was about time I started to remember how.

  I hesitated before I wrapped the last of the presents I had brought. I really wasn’t sure how wise this was. Pete and his advice aside, I was playing with more than just my own feelings.

  I made a decision. I would do what I had intended to do in the beginning. Instinct had told me to bring this gift with me and to give it. I would still do that. It had to be done. I would see it as a way of making things right.

  I won’t let myself think about the future.

  There were two futures in my mind as I fumbled with wrapping-paper and sticky-tape and packages. The one was the one I longed for. The one where Amelia and I were free to be together and everything was wonderful. I knew it wouldn’t be without difficulties, but I also knew that there were no difficulties that we couldn’t face, bravely and together.

  The other future was the one that was most straightforward: The one built on my sure knowledge of me as a broken man. The one that told me I should leave here as soon as possible and never look back. Because I didn’t deserve something as wonderful as the love I shared with Amelia.

  As I finished wrapping the last parcel, my labor of love, I had both these futures in my mind, like two paths ahead of me. Even when I was finished for the evening, and sliding under the covers into bed, I still had not decided which path I would take.

  I listened to the voices on the landing in the hallway. Reese and Brett.

  “Honey…you shouldn’t have.” Reese.

  “I should have,” Brett growled. “I love you, my wife.”

  “I love you too, Brett.”

  I heard them kissing and I closed my eyes, feeling the pain of the reminder of my time with Amelia. I should not allow that to happen again. The closeness I felt for her was echoed in the closeness of these two—my hosts, that is—and that moved me. They had been married for a decade now, had two kids and a bank of memories. I could have had that with her, but I had chosen to push her away.

  In my heart, I knew I had done the only good thing I could have: the only future that was really open to me was the one which did no harm to anyone. I wanted Amelia to forgive me for making such a fool of myself yesterday. I wanted her approval of me, her forgiveness. But I couldn’t ask more from her than that. I couldn’t expect that she would shackle herself to me, would put up with me and all I had become, my inner wars, my secret pain. I wouldn’t do that.

  All I wanted for Christmas, I decided firmly as I closed my eyes and drifted into sleep, was a chance to make things right.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Amelia

  I sat in my room, heart too sore for tears. Looking at my pale, scared face in the mirror, I took a deep breath.

  I had just come back in from outside, cold and tired and miserable. The kids were tense. I had hoped to calm them down, but now things had gone wrong.

  “Come on, Amelia,” I said under my breath. “You have to go and fix things.”

  Poor Josh. We had been playing catch out in the yard—him, Cayley, and me. It was a freak accident that he had thrown the ball over my head. Instead of me being able to intercept it, the thing went through the window of the Peterson’s home.

  I knew the Petersons a little from my last visit: they were nice people and would probably understand. Josh was a thoughtful child and would never have done it on purpose. Now he was terrified. His chief fear was that his daddy would find out what he had done.

  His daddy is stressed at the moment because of Carson.

  That was why I had promised to go myself and talk to Mr. and Mrs. Peterson. Josh was terrified. It was hard to imagine my brother Brett causing such fear in anyone. It wasn’t that the kids were scared of him. They just didn’t want to upset him more than he already was.

  With that instinct for anger that kids tend to have, they were both aware of the tensions boiling in both their parents. So was I. Ever since Carson had passed out my brother and his wife had been tense. They were both extremely calm and capable dealing with the matter, but afterward the tension had set in. They tiptoed about the house quietly, as if to expect that Carson was going to break forth from his room and wreck things if he woke up. I sighed. Strangely, I felt impatient about it.

  He’s drunk. He’s not some kind of monster.

  I couldn’t be angry. In fact, I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, except I was so sad. I felt Carson had let himself down and that he had, somehow, let me down too. It wasn’t so much that I felt shame about how he had behaved, but because it highlighted to me how absolutely unsuited we were. I was starting to believe the fact that he was unsuited to me.

  I sighed. Come on, Amelia. You’re wasting time. You should go and sort things out.

  I ran a comb through my hair, fixed my makeup, and headed downstairs to face Mr. Peterson. As I trudged down the path, the sky already dark above me, I realized I wanted to cry. The previous day’s elation and today’s misery combined in a way that was overwhelming me. I couldn’t bear it anymore.

  “Carson?” I moaned. Partly, I wanted to slap him, partly, I wished I could run up and embrace him, kiss him, make love as we had the day before and tell him how much he meant to me. He was infuriatingly wonderful and wonderfully infuriating.

  I reached the neighbor’s door and, sniffing, knocked on it. “Mr. Peterson?”

  Mrs. Peterson, a kindly old lady, answered. “Hello?” she said, frowning uncertainly.

  “Uh…” I paused, licking my lips nervously. “I came from next door. I just wanted to apologize for the window. I’m so, so sorry.” I chuckled, self-consciously. “If there’s anything I can do to make it better, please tell me.”

  Mrs. Peterson frowned. “But, dear, you’ve already fixed things.”

  “What?” I frowned.

  “Yeah,” Mr. Peterson said, appearing from another room, smiling down at me with a bemused expression. “Your friend came and paid for the window already.”

  “It was so kind of him,” Mrs. Peterson said warmly.

  “Um…sorry?” I said, smiling. “Who did?”

  Mr. and Mrs. Peterson looked at each other, worried frowns on their faces.

  “Your friend, dear,” Mrs. Peterson said. “The tall man with the black hair. Very handsome, if I might say so.”

  “Military man,” Mr. Peterson said, nodding firmly. “You can spot them anywhere.”

  I stared at them. Something in my heart melted. “Carson?” I whispered under my breath.

  “Yes. That’s right, dear,” Mrs. Peterson said warmly. “Now you come in from the cold and get warm. Would you like some cocoa?”

  “Thank you,” I said, blinking back sudden tears. “But no. It’s okay. I should go back.”

  “Happy Christmas, dear,” Mrs. Peterson said gently.

  “Yes! Happy Christmas!” Her husband called.

  “Th—thank you,” I stuttered. “Same to you too.”

  I turned on the doorstep and headed, blindly, into the gathering night. My heart was pounding, my head confused.

  Carson Grant paid for the window? What? How?

  He was blind drunk, sleeping it off upstairs in the bedroom. How could he possibly have known about, thought of, and paid for, the missing window?

  “There’s something very weird going on here.”

  Either Mr. and Mrs. Peterson were having a mass-hallucination or Carson was deliber
ately overdoing how drunk he was.

  But why? It made no sense.

  Why would Carson make a fool of himself, upset his hosts, and ruin things for the kids? He wasn’t a cruel man. Why would he have done something like this?

  I don’t understand.

  I reached the back door and collapsed over the threshold, shivering, my face aching with cold. I blew onto my fingers, glad of my thick leather gloves, and stamped to let my feet get their feeling.

  I looked up and found myself staring into two small hazel eyes. Josh was crouched on the staircase, fearful, face wet.

  “It’s okay,” I said, giving him a thumbs-up sign.

  His face relaxed suddenly, his whole posture changing with relief. “Really? Oh, auntie!”

  I smiled and held him close to my chest, kissing his hair.

  “Yes,” I said into the soft, fluffy locks. “It’s okay. I think there’s some Christmas magic at work here.”

  Quite what the Christmas magic was, I had no idea. I still hadn’t figured out what Carson was up to. But at least, on that landing, with Josh’s arms clinging round my shoulders, all was well in the world.

  I lifted him up and carried him to where he and Cayley were sleeping in the study. Set him on his bed.

  “Now. Are we going to play hide-and-seek before dinner, or what?”

  He smiled up at me, eyes bright again.

  “Yes!”

  “Let’s go and find Cayley,” I said.

  “She’s up there already,” Josh explained. “She always goes there when she’s worried about something. She says it’s her special worry-solving place.”

  “Oh. Good,” I said. “Maybe it works. We don’t need to worry for the window anymore, after all.”

  “No!” Josh said brightly. “Thanks, auntie.”

  I smiled and stroked his head. “Okay, I said. “Come on, guys! Hide quickly, because on the count of ten, the big, bad wolf comes to get you! One…”

  I closed my eyes, listening to the fidgeting and squealing as the two kids ran about the attic space. I breathed in dust and sweetness and felt my throat close with tears.

  Why was Carson doing this? And what was he doing it for?

  I knew he was fond of the kids, but somehow it seemed there was a second motive. It felt almost as if he had done it to help me. To reach out to me. I sighed.

  Come on, Amelia. You know how unlikely that is. The poor guy is so messed up he can’t really care about himself, never mind you.

  That, as far as I could see, was the truth. However upsetting, I had to be glad I had seen his current struggle before I chose to get involved more. His pain and challenges were way over my head, and he wouldn’t have any room for me in his life—not for the next decade or so, anyhow.

  But if he was so lost, so unable to reach out, why did he reach out to Josh? And was it a way of making peace with me? I couldn’t guess. All I could hope was that, for Christmas day, it would all sort out.

  I noticed the silence surrounding me and realized I was supposed to be playing hide-and-seek.

  “Okay, you two! Ready or not, here comes the wolf!”

  As I stomped about the attic, trying to pretend I hadn’t seen Josh by now, my heart ached. All I wanted for Christmas was to stop feeling so confused and to feel at peace in my heart again.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Carson

  I woke with my head clear, the sky darker outside, and decided to go and find something to read; a certain way to ease my distracted thoughts. I walked out of the study and past the door of the attic, a book Brett had recommended in my hand. My head had just started to clear, and I was feeling awake now. Even though it must be fairly late at night, I noticed the light was still on in the attic. I paused. The kids were in their room—I could hear the excited chatter drifting along the hallway.

  I guess they forgot to turn off the light.

  I reached around the door, feeling for the switch. Someone drew in a breath.

  “Amelia?”

  I moved to stand before the door. My guess was correct: Amelia was still up there. She turned, blue eyes huge like I’d surprised her. She looked so lovely that I would have found it impossible to look away.

  “I…” she looked at her hands, unsure what to say. Her chest was heaving and there was red in her cheeks. I winced, wanting her overwhelmingly. Everything about her, from her pale skin to the sweet rise of her breasts, made my body long to hold her and take her downstairs.

  “I didn’t know you were in there,” I said with a weak chuckle. “I thought the kids left the light on.”

  “They’re in bed,” Amelia said quietly, as if that answered anything.

  “I know,” I said.

  We stood there, facing each other. I looked at my hands. I had no idea what to say. I knew I should just go, but something about the look in her eyes—cautious but not frightened, hesitant but not assessing—drew me onward.

  “I guess I should apologize,” I said. It was something I had wanted to do all day. The aim of my exercise in intoxication was to show her myself at my worst, not necessarily to inspire her to hate me.

  “No,” she said, her voice with that brittle lightness that I knew showed hurt. “You don’t need to. Why should you? What for?”

  “I…” I sighed. “Amelia, you know me.” I cleared my throat. “You saw me, in the kitchen, the other day. I’m messed up.” I looked at my hands, not sure what to say. “I’m sorry you had to see that. And not sorry. You see…you had to know. You had to know I’m messed up.”

  I had to tell her. Had to be sure she understood, after all, why I had to do what I had to do.

  She contemplated me for a moment, then turned away. “Yes, and no,” Amelia said.

  When she looked at me, those eggshell-blue eyes held a tenderness that took my breath away.

  “What?” I asked, not wanting to say anything that would shatter things, would break the moment.

  “You are wounded, Carson. It’s true…but you are healing.”

  I sighed. My palms pressed into each other, fingers gripped tight. “I dunno, Amelia.” I didn’t want her to think that. I knew myself, lived with myself every day. I knew that some days were really bad, when the way she’d seen me behave would look like a walk in the park.

  “It’s true,” she said softly. She walked across the laminate and looked up at me. “I know you.”

  “You did know,” I corrected harshly.

  “No,” she insisted, interrupting me. “I know you and I know how stubborn you are.”

  I laughed. “Well, that’s true.” We were on familiar ground, at least. She always teased me about being stubborn.

  She smiled. “Yes. And I know that you are stubborn enough to do whatever you want.”

  I laughed again. “I don’t know what I want or if I can have what I want.”

  Her eyes looked into mine and my heart melted as she read the message I sent her. I want you, I said wordlessly. I want you so much. I cannot have you because if I do I might break you and then I would never forgive myself.

  “Oh, Carson,” she sighed. “I…” She shook her head, swallowing hard, and she reached for me. I rested my hand on her shoulder as she took my wrist between her fingers, sliding her hand on mine.

  “I can’t,” I whispered sadly. “You know me…And I think you know how I feel.”

  She laughed, a sweet, sad, hiccuping laugh. “Is it how I feel?”

  “I don’t know.”

  We looked at each other, not sure what to say. We were on boundless waters now, both of us cautious as to how to proceed. My body was shouting at me, every nerve screaming for release. I needed to bend forward and thrust my tongue between the petal-soft lips and hold her crushingly to my chest, my cock leaping as it felt her body near me. But my heart was hesitant; not wishing pain. I loved her and I didn’t want to hurt her. Nor did I wish pain on myself—the pain of having to say goodbye again.

  “I…” she licked her lips and I looked abruptly away, feeli
ng my body shudder. “I care for you,” she said.

  It was a neutral statement compared to the words I would have liked to use myself, but it was a safe one, a wise one. I nodded.

  “I care for you.”

  My voice was harsh and I cleared my throat, making myself move my hand. I walked to the window and looked down out of it onto the sleeping garden below. As I looked out, fighting for calm, all the words I would have liked to say clamored in my mind. I love you. I want you.

  “Carson?” she asked. She was standing just beside me, a melting hesitance in her voice.

  “I care for you,” I resumed, my voice still harsh in my throat. “And that’s why I can’t. Can’t you see, Amelia?” I turned and she must have read the desperate gleam in my eyes, for she stepped away. “I can’t do this. Can’t go here, no matter how much I want to.”

  She faced me, warily. Her eyes level. “I understand,” she said in a very tiny voice.

  “You must know how much…how I want you?” I said.

  She looked at me. Stared at me. It seemed, awfully, as if that was a surprise to her.

  I laughed. “Amelia, you torture me!”

  She smiled, a sweet, watery expression. “I do?”

  “Have you no idea of how much I want you?” I asked. “Amelia, sweetheart. I dream about you every night. But I can’t!” My voice was urgent again and I saw her gaze open at the harshness of my words, instantly regretted.

  “Carson…”

  “Listen,” I said quietly. I had managed to get a grip on myself now and I decided to press ahead, get it all out of my system while I could. “I’m not good for anyone. I couldn’t risk a full-time job because of my unpredictability. Why would you want to end up with me?”

  Amelia sighed. She turned away and looked out of the window. Her back was straight in the darkness, the pale sweater she wore gleaming in the dark shadow by the end of the room. I went to join her and she tensed, so I walked away.

  “You say so,” Amelia said, her back still toward me. “But yet you are kind. Thoughtful. Capable of much.” She turned to face me as I cleared my throat, about to argue that.