Continuum (The South Beach Connection Trilogy Book 3)

by A. R. Hadley

  “Well … sit. Let’s talk." Michelle glanced at the table.

  “Not here." Slipping a hand into his pocket, he pulled out the tiny wonder, then opened his palm and held it near Michelle's face. He watched her expression change as she put a hand over her mouth. Her goofy smile showed through her fingers.

  "Are you really going to smoke that … in this house? Where the hell did you get that thing anyway?”

  Glaring at her, his insides doing the giddy-happy dance, his face a brick, Cal didn't flinch. "I'm going upstairs to hopefully get high. If you want to talk, it will have to be in my room. I found it in my book.”

  “This one?” She nodded at the old Hemingway novel.

  “Yes, Michelle."

  After putting the joint back in his pocket, he picked up Papa and exited the kitchen. The sounds of Michelle’s footfalls weren’t far behind.

  The novel hit the bed with a soft thud as Cal began to unbutton the cuffs on his long-sleeved shirt. Then the overhead light came on. Christ. Michelle was always turning on the damn things and leaving them on in every room of the fucking house.

  She made herself comfortable on the high-rise bed, lying on her side, resting an elbow against the comforter, her hand supporting her head. She flipped through the book, allowing the air from its pages to fan her face.

  Cal hung up his shirt then cut the light.

  “Hey.”

  The old switch made a sound like one from a breaker box. He wasn’t sure which had been more annoying…

  Michelle looked up at his silhouette and then at the dark ceiling. Sighing dramatically when he didn’t answer, she dropped the book and glared at Cal. "I would like to see your face when I talk to you."

  He’d flicked the Tiffany lamp on the second she’d spat out the word you. As usual, she’d opened her wise-cracking mouth too soon. He liked the soft, low light despite the fact that sometimes he could barely see at night to read. Maybe he needed stronger glasses. Right now, it was perfect. He wanted it dark. If Michelle hadn’t longed for company, he would’ve been content to sit in the gray room alone with his newly found friend — the joint.

  “When are you going to shave?” Michelle stared at his jaw as he caressed his beard. He hadn't bothered with it since he’d arrived. The color was a deep umber. A striking contrast to his dirty-blond locks.

  “You don’t like it?” He continued to stroke the whiskers as he closed the door to the bedroom.

  “I’m just not used to it … or your longer hair. It’s not causing any problems for your work?”

  “Fuck work.”

  He opened the window adjacent to the bed, then stood for a moment and inhaled the night air. Cool and crisp, it entered the room and his lungs, and he welcomed the breeze with his arms above his head, fingers gripping the top ledge of the sill.

  “What are you? Twenty? ‘Fuck work,’ grow your hair, and get stoned.” Michelle rolled her eyes.

  “Tonight, I am me. Do you even remember the last time you didn’t care about a million different things?”

  After taking the two items from his pocket, Cal sat in the old antique chair below him. It had a padded cushion embroidered with flowers. An ancient secretary was next to it. Everything in the room was old.

  Including him.

  “Do you even remember the last time you got high?" Michelle asked.

  Staring down at the paper, Cal rubbed the joint between his fingers while trying to remember, but he couldn’t recall exactly. It was in college … maybe. God. Had that been the last time? With her? With Jocelyn Ryan. In her bedroom. The wind. The music. What song had been playing on the radio the night she’d asked him to bring her pot?

  Now, he’d become her. What a reversal.

  He was the one in his forties ready to get stoned after years of being someone he thought he needed to be. Fuck. When had life happened to him? When had he become his forty-year-old lover, a woman who needed a release, a teacher who had wanted to teach him many other things…?

  When had he become Jocelyn?

  "I don't recall," he lied, then he put it between his lips.

  He struck the match on its pack, bringing the flame to its final destination, and then he inhaled and held his breath for a moment. Eyes narrowed, he looked outside, then stared at the cloud of smoke he exhaled. He began to cough a small fit for a few seconds, the sounds mixing with beautiful, carefree laughter.

  He extended his hand toward his cousin, offering her a hit, but she politely refused. Stretching his legs out and crossing them at his ankles, Cal sank into the chair while resting his other hand comfortably on his bare chest. He leaned his head back and peered up at the ceiling.

  Still on the bed, Michelle assumed the lotus position and swatted her hands through the air, trying to push away the smell. Cal picked up his head and laughed, smiling as if he didn't have a care in the world … until his cheeks ached again.

  "I think this is the first time I've seen you laugh since you got here." She returned his grin. "In fact, come to think of it, I haven't even seen you smile all that much either."

  They looked at each other, exchanging a knowing glance. A pact.

  She’d taken care of his mom.

  Still did.

  She’d wanted to.

  She was happy to.

  He loved Michelle like a sister.

  He’d left her.

  He was here now.

  She reciprocated his love.

  A pact.

  Cal sat forward, his elbows on the wooden arms, waiting for Michelle to talk. She’d said she needed to, but he knew getting her to spill her guts meant prying her open, especially when she was on the spot and rusty.

  "What's on your mind, Mishy?" He patted the arm of the chair a few times in succession, like he was inviting a dog to sit. "Come on. Talk to me."

  Michelle sighed, paused, and then opened her mouth. She talked and talked and talked, telling Cal in infinite detail stories of her grown children's lives, goings-on throughout the last year, complaining heartily about her ex-husband, the father of her children. She gestured uncontrollably and spoke practically without stopping for a breath of air.

  Cal knew better than to interject. He listened patiently and quietly and followed the story bursting from her lips and bleeding from her eyes.

  None of it mattered, though.

  Michelle did, but the bullshit — none of it mattered. Safety mattered. Cal felt protected. Every muscle in his body had relaxed. Time must've become suspended … dandelion seeds blowing in the wind. Everything Michelle said floated over his head like a beautiful butterfly, several of them, all flapping their wings, coming at him in 3-D.

  He only had to nod and smile.

  Standing, he leaned close to the screen and blew out the last bit of smoke from his lungs. He’d taken a few more hits as Michelle rambled and felt placated beyond measure. He snuffed the joint out on the outer ledge — on the part of the sill the pane of glass would conceal — and stood motionless looking out into the darkness. The cool, crisp outside air filled his lungs again while the tip of his nose touched the screen.

  He genuinely tuned out Michelle's chatter now. He wasn’t even pretending to listen. He finally felt freedom. No morbid thoughts. He could think of Annie.

  Finally. Freely.

  He had thought of Annie often, constantly, but now he was free.

  He didn’t feel the tug or the war. The duel. He didn’t feel the dull ache, the push or the pull. Just her. On the beach with her camera. A flower in her hair. The softness of her hands. The texture of her skin. The sound of her voice.

  He allowed himself to feel something other than sadness.

  He blew the exhaustion of death out the window. He gave himself permission to feel the one emotion he so desperately needed to cling to — the one he usually avoided and refused to acknowledge.

  Love.

  Love had made the baby. Jesus. The baby. Annie had a child inside her body. Growing. His. What a rush. It hit him hard and fast,
wrapping him up in a blanket securely.

  He put his fingers through his hair and slid them to the back of his neck, worried for a moment — yeah, right, he’d worried since she’d told him — he couldn’t be the father the baby deserved. When would he come to terms with it?

  He would be a father. A father. A father!

  It was inevitable. A baby. A dad. Who the fuck was he to take care of a child? What did he know? He needed to get a book or two or three. He needed to gain control. He needed Annie. He needed home.

  Home was wherever Annie Rebekah Baxter happened to be. Home was balls deep inside her body. Home was holding her hand and waiting for her to fall asleep. Home was listening to her breathe.

  "What is it, Cal?"

  When had Michelle stopped talking? Had she noticed his tears? He could no longer keep up his staunch display of what he thought was the definition of masculinity. Not in front of her anyway. Not high. The ball of yarn he’d swept under the rug unfurled.

  He put his fingers into the corners of his eyes and dropped his head.

  Michelle stood and went to his side. As she rubbed her hand over his bare back, he turned and embraced her. She held him like a mother, and he sank into her body like a son. He knew she’d never seen him as he was tonight. He’d known asking her upstairs would be an invitation to watch his downfall.

  Cal lifted his head, looked at Michelle with a blurry-eyed gaze, and smiled.

  She put her left hand on his cheek and returned an understanding grin. “I’ve been talking so much. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be." He cleared his throat, stepped away, and leaned his elbow on the windowsill. The air gave him goosebumps. “You needed to talk.” He cleared his throat again. “I’m sorry I haven’t been here for you.”

  Michelle pressed her cheek against his shoulder. It felt cold. He waited until she let go and backed up before speaking.

  "I met someone."

  Michelle gaped at him, her blue eyes lighting up. "Damn it, Cal! You waited all this time to tell me?"

  "I didn't want to overwhelm you."

  “Overwhelm me? You’ve been away too long if you think you can’t talk to me.”

  As Cal shifted his eyes, he could feel remorse pool there.

  “I didn’t mean it like that." She bumped his arm. "You had every reason to go to Miami when you did. You had to. It took me a while to realize it. Don’t regret it. And you met someone. So, it must’ve been a good decision. Right?"

  Cal smiled, remembering Annie on the porch and in the sand the first night they’d met, remembering her face with the single pink rose in the picture he’d kept on his phone.

  “Well. What’s her name? How did you meet?”

  “Her name is Annie." He tried to gauge what his cousin's response would be. He paused. "She’s twenty-five."

  Michelle laughed. "You always cut right to the chase." She waited, but he stayed silent. "I don't care how old she is. Tell me something else."

  Cal shook his head, then looked Michelle square in the eye. “I’m in love with her." He spoke with certainty — without fear and with plenty of pride. He contemplated whether to give up the earth-shattering news.

  "Oh," Michelle said.

  “What? Is that so surprising?”

  “Yes. Actually."

  “So, I can date someone who is twenty-five, but I can’t fall in love?”

  “You’ve never been serious with someone so young, and after what you went through with Sam, I guess I didn’t think—”

  “Michelle, don’t.”

  “Is she ... is Annie in love with you?”

  “Yes." The tightness in his throat pricked him like the spines of a cactus.

  "Are you sure you're not confusing love with just really great sex?" Michelle grinned.

  "Do you really want to have that conversation? You want to talk about sex? With me?"

  “No." Michelle sliced her hand through the air and laughed a little.

  Cal made his decision. "You should sit down." He had to tell her right now. He couldn't wait.

  Michelle did as he said, sitting in the chair he’d formerly occupied.

  "Annie is pregnant.”

  It had been the first time Cal had said those words out loud to anyone, and the anyone he’d just told wasn't responding.

  He turned his head and gazed out the window. He was strong enough to accept the inevitable. He had to be. He chose to be. His concern and worry were for Annie. He had to protect her, take care of her. He’d changed her life at such a young age. He’d been careless. Her youth would be spent taking care of a child she hadn’t asked for or planned. He felt responsible for her in a way he’d never felt about anyone.

  But most of all, at that very moment, he felt … high, and he’d forgotten what that did to his psyche. Cal wanted nothing more now than to sleep.

  "I need to go to bed." His words stretched with his yawn. He looked down at Michelle in the chair.

  She said nothing.

  After taking one last long look outside, Cal closed the window, locked it, then scratched his fingers on his chest as he arched his back.

  Eyeballing him, Michelle stood with effort.

  "Ahhh … see, I did overwhelm you. I've never seen you speechless before." He laughed.

  "We can talk about this in the morning." She couldn't hide the rebuke from her tone as she started to walk toward the door.

  "I don't need a lecture, Michelle." His voice was stern. She turned to face him. "It's done. She wants the baby, and I want her. It's done. I don't need you passing judgment on me in the morning. I've got enough shit going on around here without you ready to scold me."

  “I’m not scolding you.”

  “That’s bullshit." Cal pulled the blankets down to the middle of the bed. “Let’s finish this now, or I won’t even be able to sleep.”

  “I’ve always supported you. With everything.”

  “With everything? Your tone right now says otherwise.”

  “Okay, fine. It’s because I’m shocked. Okay? You’ve never wanted children. Am I not supposed to be a little bit surprised you absentmindedly impregnated a twenty-five-year-old woman? What the hell happened? It’s not like you to be so … so..."

  “Arbitrary?” The tension crumbled into little pieces with his unusual word choice.

  Michelle smiled. His funny was always entangled with seriousness, going for a laugh without even trying.

  “I don’t know what happened.”

  “See! That’s not even like you. ‘I don’t know what happened’?” she mimicked.

  “I’m stoned, Mishy. Give me a fucking break.”

  “Well, stoned or not, you know what happened.”

  “I do. But when it happened … it was…” he trailed off, at a loss for words as he was seized with the taste of Annie’s skin, concretely remembering the way he’d held her against the wall that night in the alley, remembering the way he’d wanted and needed her, knowing he hadn’t had protection but drowning out the voice telling him it was wrong, subconsciously knowing she was the one. The memory was heightened knowing the urgency and love they’d expressed had made a baby.

  She was the one.

  It was over him now. It was what he’d always felt but couldn’t bring to fruition.

  “Nothing like that has ever happened to me before.”

  “I know,” Michelle replied.

  “Everything about her has pushed me off the rails. I think about her, and I can’t think. I’ve always been able to think. No woman’s pussy has ever made me not be able to think.”

  “Cal..."

  “You wanted to have this conversation.”

  “Not that conversation. I thought it wasn’t just about great sex.”

  “It’s not, Michelle. That’s my point. It’s more than physical. I want all of her. I want to take care of her. I would give her anything. I just want to hear her breathe.”

  “Did you ask her to come to California with you?”

  “No." He
rubbed his palm across the sheets, smoothing out nonexistent lumps. “She supported my decision. Annie understands me.”

  “God, I hope so. Because sometimes I don’t even understand you. I still can’t believe you waited all this time to tell me news like this.”

  “You’re the first person I’ve told." He glanced back at her, his eyes glossing over, and it wasn’t because he was high.

  “Holy shit,” she said tenderly, joining him by the edge of the bed. “You’re going to be a father, Calvin.”

  Smiling, he let out a nervous breath he hadn't realized he’d been holding.

  Michelle stared into his glassy eyes. “When is Annie due?”

  “May.”

  The two of them stared at each other in silence for a moment.

  "It is different this time," Michelle said, like she was reading his palm.

  “What?”

  “I can see it in you." She looked deeper into his eyes. “I never saw it in you with Samantha. I’ve never seen it in you with anybody." She kept glaring at him like he was the most fascinating thing she'd ever seen. "I’ll be damned.”

  “Rosa said something similar." He swallowed past the gigantic lump in his throat … the damn thing always swelling.

  “Bring Annie out here, Cal.”

  “I can’t. Not with Mom dying.”

  He looked at the floor, away from Michelle’s maternal/sisterly gaze, sucking air deep into his lungs as he pushed his hands into his pockets.

  “I love you," she said, tugging at his elbow. “I’m here for you in every way. You know that.”

  "Thank you … for everything. Always.” His heart had leapt into his throat as well.

  “I wanted to be here and live with your mom. You know that.”

  “I know. But thank you."

  “Thank you." She beamed.

  “For what?” He grinned, the beard unable to hide the adorable dimples on his cheeks.

  “I’m going to be an aunt.”

  “You’re going to be a second cousin."

  “No, no, no, I’m going to be an aunt!”