I draw in a deep breath, and let a wave of realization wash over me. How the hell did we manage to screw this up so badly? I rub my eyes and take another drink of my beer.
“Have I ever told you about my dog, Foster?” Breaking into my thoughts, I realize that Jamie has just spoken.
I turn to him, my brain still making the transition from my revelation to his out-of-the-blue question.
“No. What are you talking about?”
“My dog, Foster. I had him when I was seven,” he says, just before taking the shot.
“I’ve known you for 25 years, Jamie. How have I never heard of this mystery dog?”
He just shrugs and continues his story. “Foster was a mutt. He was absolute shite. The worst bloody dog of all time. Barked constantly, dug in the yard, got on the furniture. Untrainable. The worst. But he was big and sweet and he did some tricks. My da thought he was the stupidest dog on the planet, but I always thought he might have been really smart.”
“Okay.” I mentally groan, resigning myself to another Jamie Callahan story.
“So, this one day, my brothers were carrying in some groceries and left the front door open. You know what Foster did?”
I have no clue.
“He ran away,” Jamie tells me. “He was gone for hours before we knew he’d left. We rode our bikes all over the neighborhood looking for that damn dog. Couldn’t find him. Figured maybe he was in a ditch somewhere.” Then he pauses, takes a drink of his beer, and resumes fiddling with the coaster.
“And?” These stories drive me insane.
“And, finally, we get this call from someone who lives like fifteen blocks away. The dog ran all over the neighborhood, and got tired. He found an open garage door and went in. The door to this bloke’s kitchen was open, so he went in the house. Then up the stairs to a bedroom, and that dog just decided to take a nap on some stranger’s bed.”
I stare at him, incredulously. “Jamie, what is the point of this story? Is this some roundabout metaphor of Sarah and me? Are you suggesting she’s wandering off to some strange guy’s bedroom?”
I’m suddenly gutted with the idea of Sarah being with someone else. Oh Christ, I hadn’t let myself go there until this very moment.
“No, you stubborn arse,” he says, leaning in to meet my gaze directly. “My point is this: What are you doing here when you actually have someone to go home to?”
We just stare at each other, silently. And then, finally, he turns his attention back to his beer.
Go home to.
Not so long ago, my home was her. That thought is like a knife in my gut. With her is where I found everything I wanted: love, joy, laughter, acceptance, forgiveness.
The truth that I haven’t allowed myself to admit is that, despite everything that’s happened, with her is still where I want to be.
I’m staring absentmindedly at Jamie when he looks up from his beer, nodding his chin to someone. I follow his line of sight and I stop short at what I see.
Sarah is standing in the doorway. A kaleidoscope of emotion erupts through my body at once. I’m absolutely stunned that she’s here, given the way I so purposely closed down her attempt to make amends a few nights ago. That night I drank her in like it was the last time I might see her, but it wasn’t enough. I don’t think I could ever get enough.
In her white jeans and white sweater, with her hair long and wavy, she looks like an angel.
“You called her?” I ask him, almost breathless, my heart pounding against my sternum.
Without answering, he gets up, pats me on the shoulder, and throws a $20 on the bar. “Time to go home.”
I think he leaves, though I barely notice. I’m still staring at Sarah. She’s like a vision; I can’t tear my eyes away. And I can’t remember, even for a second, why I ever thought I was better off without her.
She makes her way to me, sitting down on the seat Jamie vacated. Her presence takes my breath away. I wonder briefly if I’m dreaming. I want to reach out and touch her, to know for certain that she’s here.
“So, do I have to pull you out of here by your collar?” Her tone is light, but her eyes scream vulnerability.
So many things are racing through my head. Just the sight of her here beside me is comforting beyond anything I could imagine. But I realize that, just as I’m taking comfort in her, she’s becoming increasingly uneasy by my silence.
“Sarah,” I start, preparing to tell her how happy I am that she’s come. But she seems to misread my tone. I’m sure, given our last conversation, she thinks I’m getting ready to send her away. As if I could ever do that again.
“No,” she says, shaking her head obstinately. And I recognize that stubborn look in her eyes. It’s the same one that has driven me crazy a thousand times before. The one we argued over, the one I criticized her for. But right now, it’s the best look on earth. It’s the look that tells me she’s fighting for me. For us.
“I wont let you go,” she barrels on. “And it’s not just because I love you desperately–it’s because you changed me. I can’t be the person I have been since my dad died. I can’t live that way anymore.
“This last month has showed me that we aren’t meant to be alone. I think that’s why you reached out to me six years ago by telling me about your parents, and that’s why I reached back in understanding. Our connection isn’t that we’re both solitary people, it’s that we understand better than most that life is precious and fragile, and love, where you can find it, isn’t something to ever be taken for granted. We may have stumbled over our own shortcomings, but our connection is still there. It’s still strong. You’re the other half of me, Danny. I need you. I always will.”
I just stare at her, her earnest words apparently turning me into a mute. For all of the times she has told me she loved me, for all of the ways she has demonstrated it through her actions and her thoughtfulness, she has never once said she needed me. And that one thing has been the missing piece for me in our relationship. But sitting here today, I can see in her face how much she wants me to know that what she’s telling me is true.
Every relationship requires a leap of faith. And I know that if I want to be with Sarah, I have to be prepared to take one. After all, I’m asking for no less from her. Love is messy and perilous at times, but it’s also profoundly life changing. This I can now say from experience.
“So that’s how I feel,” she says defiantly, bemused by my continued silence.
We’ve definitely put each other through the ringer these last weeks. I can’t remember the last time I saw her smile.
And maybe because I need to see that smile again to know that we can, indeed, find our way back, I break the silence by saying the very first stupid thing that comes into my befuddled, lovesick brain.
“So, a pirate walks into a bar with a ship’s steering wheel attached to the front of his pants. The bartender says, ‘You know you got a ship’s steering wheel stuck to the front of your pants?’ The pirate says, ‘Arrr, it’s drivin’ me nuts.’”
I guarantee this is not what she is expecting me to say. Hell, I don’t know where that came from. I watch her shift uncomfortably in her seat. She just stares at me for a moment, her mouth hanging open a little, and her eyebrows pulling together.
But then I see it–a tiny bit of mirth in her eyes. That’s when I know for sure we’re going to be okay.
“That is the worst joke I’ve ever heard,” she says with a straight face, but with a little glint in her expression.
“But you want to laugh, anyway,” I tell her, feeling irrationally cocky all of the sudden.
“You are such an ass!” She’s biting the inside of her mouth to keep from cracking up, and her eyes are now full of humor.
“You’re an old soul, and I’m hopelessly immature. That’s what makes us perfect for each other.”
I smile at her–a huge, relieved, happy-to-the-depths-of-my-soul kind of smile.
“That’s what makes us perfect for each other?” she
says sarcastically and now smiling, too. That smile takes my breath away. “And you know this from your experience as a teacher? Or a doctoral candidate?”
I throw my head back, and laugh whole-heartedly. God, I’ve missed her busting my balls.
“No, smart ass,” I reply, the humor beginning to fade. “I know this because never in my life have I loved anyone like I love you. And never in my life has that love felt so necessary that I can’t breathe without it. So I guess, whatever risk I have to take, whatever protected part of myself I have to expose, whatever I need to do to make sure that you know without question that you are the most precious thing in my life, that’s what I’ll do. And however scary it is, I’ll trust that there’s enough between us that you’ll stay, and that you’ll let me play more than just a superficial role in your life. I’ll trust that you’ll always fight for us like you fought for us today.”
I reach out and take her hand, running my thumb across her fingers. I relish the warmth that seems to begin with that simple touch, and quickly spreads to every corner of my body and soul.
“I haven’t been fair to you, Sarah. I realize that now. When it came to my feelings for you, I just assumed you understood instinctively all of the things I wasn’t able to say. And you’re right that by not opening up, I was taking no risk, and yet reaping all of the reward of what we had. I never meant for you to have to question the most basic truths about my commitment to us. I’m so sorry for that.”
I lift her hand to my lips, and place a soft kiss on her fingertips.
“I promise you this: I will never let it happen again. You and I live each day knowing life can be taken from us. But that’s actually a gift, because it makes us realize that every day is too important to waste. I don’t ever want to lose you. I can’t imagine a life that you’re not in.”
I meet her eyes again, and tears are streaming down her pink cheeks. I wipe one away.
“You’re how I know,” I tell her.
“How you know what?” she asks with a little sniffle.
“You’re how I know that I’m staying true to the man I want to be for you. When there’s conflict between us, I know I’ve drifted from that ideal.”
“Danny, you’re the best man I know. You’ve always been that man for me.”
I take in her sweet face with a gratefulness I cannot describe. And not caring where we are or who might object, I lean forward and kiss her, tasting the tears on her lips. I’m overwhelmed by how good it feels to touch her again–her warm skin, the softness of her mouth. My kiss is gentle at first, but I can’t contain the reaction of my body to her taste, her touch.
I quickly deepen it, relishing her breath and her tiny moans of pleasure. And she melts into me, raising her hand up behind my neck and into my hair, sending a flood of chills down my spine. She’s soft and yielding. I nip at her luscious lips, and let my tongue explore her mouth like it’s the first time. She responds eagerly, with long, drugging strokes, as though she knows just how much I’ve missed her. My hands wind into her thick blond hair, holding her close, and I pour every bit of love and lust and adoration into that kiss.
“Come home with me.” With only a look, I implore her to feel the certitude of my words. “Stay with me and never leave.”
She studies my face carefully, touching my lips for just a moment with her fingertips. Then she smiles the most heart-stopping smile that seems to light her body from within. I feel the world shift on its axis, and joy begins to pour back into my life. I’m alive again.
Finally, she offers me the one solitary word that truly needs no other.
“Yes.”
Epilogue
Danny
THE PHYSICS OF WAVE THEORY are both simple and complex. A drop of water falling into a larger body creates a ripple, a wave of energy that travels outwardly from the source. The wave propagates through the medium of water, and the substance of the medium is changed indefinitely. Newton’s First Law of Motion suggests that a wave in motion will stay in motion, unless a restoring force such as gravity, surface tension, or the Coriolis effect acts upon it.
In my life, the drop of water was more like a boulder, flung upon me by my parents’ deaths. And the ripple effect from that event was lasting and profound. It changed the way I viewed every relationship, and limited what I was willing to give–what I was willing to risk.
And that effect would have probably gone on indefinitely had it not been for my restoring force.
My Sarah.
She was the one who finally calmed the waters; she was the one who brought me back to equilibrium. She was my reformation. And in truth, I was probably hers.
When we left the bar that night, I couldn’t stop touching her. As much as I wanted her physically, it was much more than that. I just couldn’t stop reassuring myself that she was here. Mine again.
We didn’t say a lot on the ride back to my place; we just touched, held hands, drank in every priceless moment. It was a peaceful quiet–not an awkward one. There was so much to say, but the urgency was gone, replaced by the silent mutual commitment to spend a lifetime saying everything that needed to be said.
When we got back to my place, I helped her out of my car. She looked towards my house like she hadn’t seen it in years, or maybe like she didn’t think she would ever see it again. The expression on her beautiful face wrecked me, so I grabbed her up in my arms and held her tightly, feeling her tremble with emotion.
Every protective instinct I had kicked in in that instant, and I had this weird urge to feed her excessively, and care for her in every possible basic way.
We went back inside; I sat her on a barstool in my kitchen, and I cooked enough food to feed about forty people. She laughed at me for that, suggesting that, once again, we were trying to eat our way out of trouble. In truth, neither of us ate much of anything. We just sat together on my living room floor in front of the fire, and talked about the time we spent apart.
She told me that the one positive to come out of all of this was that she had begun to reconcile with her mom. And I could see in her eyes that a burden had lifted.
I told her that I no longer wanted to punch Marcus in the face, and we both laughed about how much progress that truly was.
Finally, she laid her head on my shoulder and the world felt right again, as though my missing piece had been restored. The body’s memory is different from the mind’s in that way. The body doesn’t forget.
I did make love to her that night, and it was an experience of unparalleled joy. Paradoxical as it was, I wanted to both worship and defile her. I wanted to push myself hard into her, to pull her hair, and mark her as mine with my teeth. And at the same time, I wanted to gently touch every single beautiful curve and hollow of her body. I wanted to memorize any changes I could see, and make it all familiar again. She had a tiny new scar forming on her right index finger, and there were a few scrapes on her knee from a recent hike. They were the only outward evidence of the time I’d missed, and they would heal completely and in short order.
As for us, our scars and stories might last a bit longer, but they would serve as a reminder of everything that is more precious than pride, more precious than fear, or self-doubt. Our scars would tell the story of love–the kind of love that leaves ripples that go on forever.
§§§
Acknowledgements
Okay, so, I first want to say to all of the writers out there, holy crap! Well done, you! This book was such a labor of love for me, but I never appreciated just how difficult it would be at times to actually write the damn thing. I certainly had plenty of days (and nights) when I wanted to throw my manuscript on the ground, stomp on it with feeling, and then light it on fire in a brilliant blaze of glory. Thankfully, I never wanted to do that precisely at the time I had ready access to a match. The process has given me a renewed respect for writers in every genre who struggle to create works that move, and entertain, and teach us something about ourselves. It’s not an easy thing to do.
S
econd, and this is a big one, I need to say a huge thank you to my husband, who was my cheerleader, my sounding board and my harshest critic. I thank you most for the last one. Asking for honesty is the writer’s equivalent of “Does my butt look big?” And I admit without reservation that your sometimes-painful observations made my story infinitely better. While I did, in fact, discover some very real differences in our opinions of what “chicks love,” I truly respected and valued every hard-to-hear comment.
Romance, in general, is an underappreciated genre and one that deserves far more respect than it generally receives. We, both readers and writers, are not who they say we are. So I want to extend special thanks to the romance blogs for the critical role that you play in giving opportunity to people like me. By your efforts, we can reach an audience that is far more accepting of indie authors than the publishing industry at large. It is because of your passion that voices like mine can be added to the mix. I thank you, sincerely, for everything that you do.
I would be completely remiss if I didn’t credit Joshua Jaden for his masterful cover art–who nailed “sexy, but not cheesy,” and didn’t even blink when I asked for a bigger Adam’s apple. To Ashley at TCB editing, and this is a big one, you gutted me for about 24 hours, and then you made both my book and me so very much better for your involvement. Thank you for caring enough to stick your neck out…and of course for catching all of the little things that a thousand read-throughs on my part could never catch. And finally to Polgarus Studio for its expertise in making my book look like a real book. How cool is that??
And finally, my most humble and enormous thanks to every single romance reader who has or will open her home to my story, who takes these characters to heart, and who generously gives purpose and meaning to something I absolutely love to do. You’ll never know how grateful I am to you; your positive comments and support mean more than I could possibly express. These words are wholly inadequate, but I’ll say them anyway for want of something better… thank you. Truly.
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