Driven Collection

by K. Bromberg

  But if it’s true, what does that mean? To him as a person and us as a couple and to me as the woman who can’t ever give him that? And especially given to him by her? My stomach revolts at the thought again, and all I can do is drop my forehead on the lid of the toilet, squeeze my eyes close, and shut out images of an adorable little boy with inky hair, emerald eyes, and a mischievous smile. A little boy I’ll never be able to give him.

  But she can. And if that’s the case, how in the fuck am I going to be able to handle it? Love the man but not the baby that’s his because I’m not the mother—simply because he’s part Tawny—now what kind of horrible person would that make me? And I know that’s not true, know I could never not love a child because of circumstances he has no control over, but at the same time, there would be that constant devastating reminder of what someone else can give him that I can’t.

  The ultimate gift.

  Unconditional love and innocence.

  I wipe away the tears I didn’t even realize were falling when I hear the distant bark of Baxter and make my way out onto the deck. The harmless beast of a dog clears the top of the stairs coming up from the beach and plops down exhausted on the deck with a groan. I take a deep breath and prepare myself for Colton’s arrival, unsure which version of him I will be facing.

  Within moments he appears, hair dripping with sweat, cheeks red, and chest heaving from the exertion. I want to ask how he’s feeling, where his head is, but I think better of it. I’ll let him set the tone of this conversation.

  He looks up and I see the shock flicker across his features when he sees me. He stands, hands propped on his hips, and just stares at me for a beat. “Why the fuck are you still here?”

  So that’s how this is going to be.

  I thought I had calmed down, hoped that he had with his run, but obviously we’re both still bound with a barbed wire ball of hurt. We’re both still hell-bent on proving our points. The question is how is he going to handle what I have to say? Is he going to lash out again? Rip me apart for a second time? Or is he going to realize that despite Tawny’s bombshell, our figurative race doesn’t stop? That we can withstand the collateral damage?

  “You don’t get to run anymore, Colton.” I hope my words—words he’d used with me before—will hit their target and sink in.

  He stops mid-stride beside my chair but keeps his head angled down to avoid looking at me. “You don’t fucking own me, Ry. You don’t get to tell me what I can or can’t do any more than Tawny can.” His voice is a whisper but his words sucker punch me.

  “Non-negotiable, remember?” I warn him with challenge I don’t feel reflected in my eyes. He just stands there impatiently, muscles tense, and I feel compelled to continue. To either stop or start the fight brewing between us. “You’re right.” I shake my head. “I don’t own you … nor do I want to. But when you’re in a relationship, you don’t get to hurt someone because you’re hurting and then bail. There are consequences, there are—”

  “I told you, Rylee …” He turns to face me now, his eyes still averted, but the tone of his voice—one of pure disgust—has me rising to my feet. “I do as I damn well please. It’s best you remember that.”

  “Colton …” It’s all I can manage, feeling like I’ve been knocked back a few steps by his sudden assertion, his sudden need to grab his life that he feels is spiraling out of control. But he doesn’t get it. It’s not just his life anymore. It’s my life too! This is about the man I love and the possibilities I feel. This is killing me just as much as it is him, but he’s too wrapped up in his own head to see differently. I force a swallow as I try to find the words to tell him this, to show him we’re both hurting, not just him. But I’m too slow. He beats me to the punch.

  “You tell me we’re in a relationship, Rylee … Are you sure it’s what you want because this is how my life goes,” he shouts, his body moving restlessly with all of his negative energy. “The charmed life of Colton fuckin’ Donavan. For every up there’s a motherfucking free fall down. For every good there’s a goddamn bad.” He takes a step toward me, trying to antagonize me and push my buttons. I dig my nails in my palms to remind myself to let him get it off of his chest. To let him blame everyone in the world if need be, so he can calm down, realize this is not the end of his world, despite it feeling like it is for me. “Are you ready for that kind of spin on the track of my life?” He finishes, the sarcasm dripping from his words as he steps within a few feet of me. I can feel the anger vibrate off of him, can sense his desperation at which straw to grab and hold onto to get me to react. I force a swallow and shake my head.

  “Okay,” I say, drawing the word out, buying time as I try to think of what to say. “What is the good and the bad then?”

  “The good?” he asks, his eyes widening as sweat drips down his torso. “The good is I’m alive, Rylee. I’m fucking alive!” He shouts, thumping his chest with his fist. I cringe as his voice rings in my ears. He mistakes my reaction and feeds off of it. “What? Did you think I was actually going to say you?” I tell myself not to cry, tell myself that’s not the answer I was hoping for, but who am I kidding? Did I really think that in the midst of all of this he’d hold onto me as his strength? His reason? I can hope, but for a man so used to relying on himself, I shouldn’t be surprised.

  “You think you can waltz in here and play house, nurse me back to health, and all my troubles—all my fucking demons—are going to disappear? I guess Tawny just proved that theory wrong, huh?” He laughs a patronizing chuckle that eats tiny holes in what resolve I still have left. “The perfect fucking world you think exists, sure as fuck doesn’t. You can’t make lemonade with a lemon that’s rotting from the inside out.”

  And I’m not sure which hurts more, the acid eating at my stomach, his anger hitting my ears, or the ache squeezing my heart. The aftershock left by Tawny turns into a full-blown earthquake of disbelief and pain as my thoughts spin out of control and slam headfirst into the wall just like Colton did. But this time the collateral damage is too much to handle as it all comes crashing down around me. My stomach heaves again as I try to grasp on to something, anything, to give me an iota of hope.

  I need air.

  I can’t breathe.

  I need to get away from all of this.

  I take a few steps backwards, needing to escape, and stumble against the railing. I fight the need to throw up again, my hands squeezing the wood beneath my fingers as I try to steady myself.

  “You don’t get to run anymore, Rylee, we’re in a relationship. Aren’t those your rules?” His mocking voice is closer than I expect and something about the way he says them, the intimacy laced with sarcasm, sets me off.

  I whirl around. “I’m not running, Colton! I’m hurting! Fucking falling apart because I don’t know what to say or how to respond to you!” I scream. “I’m fucking pissed that I’m angry at you for being so goddamn callous because you’re right! I would give anything to have a baby. Anything! But I can’t and the thought that someone can give you the one fucking thing that I can’t is tearing me apart.”

  I bring my hands up to my head and just hold them there for a moment as I try to stop crying, as I try to collect the thoughts I need to say. I lift my head and meet his eyes again. “But you know what? Even if I could, I would never use or manipulate you to get one. I am not fucking Tawny, and I am not the poor excuse of life your mother was.” Tears stream down my face and I look at him, standing there stunned by my outburst through my blurred vision.

  He starts to say something, and I raise a hand to stop him, needing to finish what I have to say. “No, Colton, I’m not running and I’m not leaving you, but I don’t know what to do. I have no fucking clue! Do I stay here and let you rip me apart more? I’m dying inside, Colton. Can’t you see that?” I wipe the tears from my eyes and shake my head, needing some kind of reaction from him. “Or do I just leave? Give us a couple of days to fix the shit that’s fucked up in our own heads? So I don’t resent you for getting
a choice when I don’t. So you realize I’m not like every other woman who’s ever used you.”

  I take a step toward him, the man I love, and I wish I could do something—anything—to ease the turmoil inside of him, but know that I can’t. I can sense he’s at a breaking point just like I am, that being faced with the possibility of a child is more than even he—a man who has survived so much—can bear, but I’m at a loss how to help when I’m filled with turmoil too.

  The muscle in his jaw pulses as I watch him struggle to remain in control over his emotions, his anger, his need for release and wish I could do something more for him because if my heart is breaking, then I can’t imagine what his is doing. And the only thing I think I can do is give us some space … let us calm down … figure ourselves out so we can be good again.

  Find us again.

  I take another step toward him and he finally raises his eyes to meet mine so I can read what he’s feeling. And maybe it’s the fact that we really know each other now, have broken down each other’s walls, because regardless of how hard he’s trying to mask his emotions I can read every single one of them flickering through his eyes. Fear, anger, confusion, shame, concern, uncertainty. The truth is there—what I knew would be—he’s pushing me, daring me to run to prove to him I am in fact what he perceives all other women to be. And at the same time, I see remorse swimming there, and a small part of me sighs at the sight, gives me something to hold on to.

  He takes a step toward me so we stand close but don’t touch. I can see the emotion flickering across his face, how his muscles tense as he tries to contain everything I see in his eyes. I fear if I touch him, we’ll both break and right now one of us needs to be strong.

  It has to be me.

  “Look at me, Colton,” I tell him, waiting for his eyes to find mine again. “It’s me, the one who races you. The one who’ll fight tooth and nail for you. The one who will do anything—anything—to make that hurt in your eyes and the pain in your soul disappear … make Tawny’s accusation go away … but I can’t. I can’t be anything to you until you stop pushing me away.” I step closer, wanting to reach out and touch him and erase the pain in his eyes. “Because all I want to do is help. I can handle you being an asshole. I can handle you taking your shit out on me … but it’s not going to fix things. It’s not going to make Tawny or the baby or anything else go away.” I choke on the tears that fill my throat. “I just don’t know what to do.”

  “Rylee …” It’s the first time he’s spoken and the desperation in the way he says my name with such anguish sends chills up my spine. “My head’s pretty fucked up right now.” I force a swallow down my throat and nod my head so he knows I hear him. He closes his eyes for a beat and sighs aloud. “Look I—I … I need some time to get it straight … so I don’t push you farther away … I just …”

  I bite my lower lip, not sure if I’m upset that he’s telling me to go or relieved, and nod my head. He reaches out to touch me and I step back, afraid if he does, I won’t be able to walk away. “Okay,” I tell him, my voice barely audible as I take a step backwards. “I’ll talk to you in a couple of days.”

  And I can’t look at him again, both our pain right now is so palpable for different reasons, so I turn and head toward the house.

  “Rylee,” he says my name again—no one can say it like he does—and my body stops instantly. I know he feels like I do—uncertain, unresolved, wanting me to stay and wanting me to go—so I just keep my back to him and nod my head.

  “I know.” I know he’s sorry—for hurting me, for loving me and that I’m being put through this, for Tawny, for the uncertainty, for my own insecurities when it comes to what I can’t give him … so many things I know he’s sorry for … and the biggest one is that he’s sorry for letting me walk away right now because he can’t find it in him to ask me to stay.

  “I’M SO PROUD OF YOU, buddy.” I look into Zander’s eyes and fight my own tears. I want him to see the depth of feelings I have for him and for what he just did. For giving the district attorney all they needed to press formal charges against a man that’s disappeared like the wind. To sit at a table full of scary grown-ups and explain, in a voice you just found again, how your father murdered your mother—how he attacked her from behind, stabbed her repeatedly and then waited for her to die while you hid behind the couch because you were supposed to be in bed. Now that, is a courageous kid. I squeeze him tight in my arms, more for me than for him, and wish I could take away the memory from him.

  “How’d you get so brave?” I ask him.

  I don’t expect an answer, but when he responds it stops me in my tracks.

  “The superheroes helped me,” he says with a shrug. I force a swallow down my throat burning with so much emotion I can’t speak. I look into the eyes of a little boy that I love with all my heart, and I can’t help but see pieces of the grown man who owns it too. My heart twists for both, and even though I am filled with such an incredible sense of pride, it’s tinged with a bit of sadness because I know Colton would want to know what Zander did today. The imaginary barriers he vaulted over that most adults could never fathom.

  But I can’t tell him.

  It’s been four days since I left his house.

  Four days without speaking.

  Four days for him, for us to get our individual shit together.

  And four days of absolute chaos for me in more ways than one: The House, my emotions, the media frenzy over a possible baby, missing Colton.

  I tell Zander I’ll put his beloved stuffed dog in his bedroom and tell him to go play tag with the rest of the boys. Go be a kid, play, laugh, and forget the images that haunt him—if that’s even possible.

  I go through the motions of getting dinner together, while the familiar and comforting sounds of the boys outside help me cope.

  I miss Colton. We’ve been together every day for over a month and I’m used to his presence, his smile, the sound of his voice. I’m hurt he hasn’t called but at the same time I don’t expect him to. Other than texting to make sure I’d gotten home okay and the song I Am Human, I haven’t heard from him. He has a lot to figure out, a lot to come to terms with. And God yes, I want to be there by his side, helping him figure it all out, but it’s not my situation to figure out. Plain and simple.

  I can’t count how many times I’ve picked up the phone to call him—to hear his voice, to see how he’s doing, to just say hi—but I can’t. I know better than anyone that until Colton lets me back in to his barricaded heart, a call won’t do any good.

  I frost the cake I’d made earlier as a little reward for Zander’s bravery today, when my phone rings. I look over at the screen and push ignore. It’s an unknown number and most likely a journalist wanting to pay me handsomely for my side of Tawny’s story. She’s told the press that I am the mistress who broke up her, the pregnant victim, and the love of her life … Colton.

  The only blessing is that the paparazzi have not discovered The House yet. But I know it’s not long until they do, and I’m still trying to figure out what do I do then?

  And for some reason, the story Tawny’s painted makes me laugh. I don’t believe the inside scoop on Page Six that says she and Colton have rekindled their love affair. I was in Colton’s house. I know how much he despises her and everything she represents. That’s not why I’m sad.

  I just miss him. Everything about him.

  The funny thing is, this time around, I’m not worried he’s going to turn to another. We’ve passed that hurdle and quite frankly adding another woman to the mix would just complicate his life further. No, it’s not him turning to another woman I worry about, it’s him not turning to me.

  Voices break through my thoughts as I cut the potatoes up for dinner. I catch Connor saying, “The douche bag’s here again.”

  “We could always egg him.” That one was Shane.

  What in the heck are they talking about?

  “Hey, guys?” I call out to them as I wipe my hands off
and head out to the living room. “Who’s here again?”

  Shane tilts his head toward our front window. “That guy,” he says, pointing. “He thinks he’s so incognito parked over there.”

  “Like we can’t see him,” Connor interjects. “And don’t know he’s a photographer. Camera’s a dead giveaway, dude.”

  I’m immediately pulling the curtains back, looking down the street. Before I even spot the car, I know what I’m going to see. The dark blue sedan is parked a couple of houses down partially hidden by another car. I had completely forgotten about it.

  At least this lone paparazzo is greedy and keeping my whereabouts quiet so he can get all the monetary gain for himself. For that I can be grateful. But it also means that if he’s figured it out, others will soon follow wanting to get the scoop from the home-wrecker I am purported to be.

  Fuck! I knew The House’s anonymity was too good to be true.

  “C’mon guys. Time to—”

  “That’s so cool that you’re gonna be famous!” Connor says as he starts walking down the hall.

  I start to correct him when Shane does it for me, with a playful shove to his shoulder. “No she’s not, dickweed! Colton’s the one who’s famous. Don’t you know anything?”

  “Hey! Clean it up!” I shout after them.

  “Thanks for picking me up.”

  “Not a problem,” Haddie says as she guns the motor when the light turns green. “It was kind of fun teasing the photographers, although I don’t think any of them believed me when I said you were hiding away inside the house.”

  I groan. It’s taken a while to get used to photographers milling about the house, but now I fear that the few I’m used to will turn into a whole yard full. “Dare I ask?”

  Haddie looks over at me and just flashes her devil-may-care grin. “Nope, you may not because we’re not thinking about it … or Colton … or me … absofuckinglutely nothing of any significance.”