Her past being the people in her life who’d ridden roughshod over her heart.
Her father.
Her sister.
Paul.
Then Dylan.
“I know, Mom. I’m my own worst enemy.”
“You should go out more. You spend too much time at home.”
“I know.” Her mother wasn’t telling her anything new. She’d been harping on the same subject over and over for years now, to no avail.
Jillian sighed. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it.”
“To what?” Sarah asked, grinning. “I wasn’t doing anything.”
“No, but I figure you’re looking for something to clean as we speak.”
Her mother knew her too well. “Okay, fine. I am looking for something to clean. You’re welcome to come over and help if you’d like.”
“There’d be nothing for me to do,” Jillian said with a giggle. “I’ve seen your house. Spotless. But you’re welcome to come over and have a go at mine.”
She couldn’t deny that. Her house was spotless, but Sarah knew there was always something to do. “I might take you up on that if I run outta stuff here.”
“Like that’ll ever happen.” Jillian chuckled again. “Well, kiddo, don’t work too hard. I’ll talk to you later. And, Sarah…?”
“Yeah?”
“Quit thinking so much. I know it’s hard, but you’ve got to keep putting one foot in front of the other.”
“I know, Mom. And I am. I promise,” she said reassuringly.
“Okay. If you need anything, just call.”
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
After the call disconnected, Sarah set her cell phone down on the table and stared around the room. She did need something to do. Which, as her mother had guessed, usually meant something to clean. Didn’t matter that it was after ten and she would do herself a favor if she simply went to bed. That never happened anymore. Sleep was overrated as far as she was concerned. With sleep came dreams, and those dreams always brought an uneasy feeling in the morning.
At least if she found something to occupy herself with, she might be able to rid herself of thoughts of Dylan. Namely thoughts of the way he had looked at her that night when he’d come by her house and ruthlessly (and beautifully) fucked her up against her living room wall. That night—probably the most memorable of her entire life—had happened all too quickly, hitting her like a boxer taking down his opponent. And she was the one who’d been KO’d.
Not that she’d been pining over the man all this time, because she certainly hadn’t. That would’ve been pure insanity.
Quite frankly, had it not been for the CISS party last weekend, Sarah might’ve believed she was over Dylan. However, the second she had walked out on the deck of the waterfront restaurant, her gaze straying to him, she’d felt it take root in her soul.
But that was done and over with. She had no reason to see Dylan again, so it would be in her best interest to move forward.
Too bad she couldn’t get him off her mind now.
DYLAN CLIMBED OUT OF HIS truck and nudged the door closed with his hip after snagging the flowers he’d purchased earlier that day from the passenger seat. He’d been putting this off for hours, but he’d finally relented, knowing that if he didn’t, he’d hate himself tomorrow.
Pulling his hood up over his head to stave off the bitterly cold wind, he made the grueling trek toward his destination. With every step he took, the constriction on his heart tightened. It had been three months since he’d been here, and yet it felt as though he’d made this same journey only yesterday.
Taking another deep breath, he willed his feet forward, clutching the flowers in his fingers. When he finally arrived at Meghan’s grave, he took another deep, cleansing breath, ignoring the cold drizzle that added to an already gloomy evening.
“Hey, honey,” he said aloud. He’d long ago stopped worrying whether or not people thought he was crazy for talking to his dead wife, but he knew at this time of night, it didn’t matter anyway. No one was out in the cemetery after dark. “I’m here.”
Not that she would ever answer him, but Dylan liked to pretend it was possible Meghan could hear him. He wanted her to anyway. It was the very reason he still came here three times a year to spend a little time with her, to tell her what was going on with his life. The same things he’d talked to her about when she’d been alive, only back then, his heart hadn’t been so heavy.
Glancing around, he confirmed the surrounding gravesites were absent any visitors, so he decided to take a seat. Lowering himself to the wet grass, he crossed his legs and rested his elbows on his knees after arranging the flowers in the vase set in the stone. The only light came from the randomly placed light posts, but it was enough for him to see.
“It’s not much,” he muttered as he straightened one of the drooping flowers. “Last minute and all.”
He could still remember the few times he’d brought Meghan flowers back when she’d been alive. It hadn’t taken but one time for him to realize that the simple gesture was the easiest way to put a sparkle in her eyes. He could admit that he hadn’t been the most romantic man on the planet, but he’d tried to show her how much he loved her. Sometimes he wondered if he’d done enough.
The pang he was all too familiar with feeling in his chest was less agonizing than it used to be, although there was still a slight ache. A longing that he couldn’t seem to outrun. Even after eleven years, Dylan still wished he could turn back time and save his beautiful wife from the vicious disease that had stolen her from him. But the cancer had been brutal, taking her away from him without giving them a choice.
Since going back in time wasn’t an option, he settled for thinking about her often, and for these visits, though they were becoming more infrequent as time passed. For years, he would come out to the cemetery multiple times. Meghan’s birthday, their anniversary, Stacey’s birthday, Nate’s birthday, even his own. He’d made it by for holidays, and sometimes just because. But with every passing year, those visits had lessened, and now, he forced himself to come on her birthday, their wedding anniversary, and the anniversary of her death because he didn’t want her to think he’d forgotten about her.
So, thinking about her was exactly what he did for the next half hour, sitting there alone. His feet finally went numb, and he had to reposition his legs to get the blood pumping again. Leaning back on his hands, his legs stretched out in front of him, Dylan stared up at the moon. The clouds parted enough he could see the ominous light shining through.
Glancing down at her headstone, then back up at the sky, he said, “I’m just curious, honey … am I supposed to be as fucked up as I am? I mean, it’s been more than a decade since you … died.” He swallowed hard. “I’ve heard the pain would fade, and yeah, I can see that it has. But, Meghan, tell me why I can’t move on. Damn, honey…” Dylan took a deep breath. “I’m so glad you don’t know the man I’ve been all these years. I can’t help but think you would’ve hated me. At the very least, you would’ve been disappointed. I wouldn’t blame you, either. I’ve let everyone down.”
He wiped away a tear with the back of his hand. He knew he was acting strangely, and surprisingly, he hadn’t had a single thing to drink for the past three years thanks to his single-minded determination and a shitload of support from the AA meetings he’d started to attend. It hadn’t been easy, but he was making a valiant effort to pay attention to the important things in his life. Work, kids, family. Himself. All the things he’d put off for so long while he’d drowned himself in booze and memories of the one woman he’d never imagined he would have to live without.
“Maybe you should just tell me to move on,” he muttered. “It would be so much easier to hear you say it. I can’t seem to let go, babe. I can’t and I know I need to. The kids look at me funny, on the rare occasion they even do that. Nate’s pissed off all the time. Stacey’s too busy with her own blossoming social life to notice me a
t all. And instead of embracing life, I’ve pushed everyone away because I don’t know which way is up anymore.”
Dylan knew that time would heal his wounds and it had. They weren’t as fresh, not nearly as painful, but sometimes he did wake up in a cold sweat, reliving the day that Meghan died all over again.
Eleven fucking years later.
He was torturing himself. No doubt about it.
“I’m still going to the AA meetings. Minimum of once a week, sometimes more. Not my favorite thing in the world to do, but I’m trying. I know it’s important. And they help.”
Several more minutes passed as he continued to stare up at the sky, the drizzle making it difficult. His thoughts drifted to other things he wanted to tell her about. And then he remembered the CISS party last weekend.
“I saw Sarah again,” he said, casting a quick look around. “Remember her? She was the girl I’d been dating before you and I started going out.” He smiled at the memory, but that quickly faded and he was brushing away another stray tear. “I know I’ve never talked about her since high school, but a few years ago…”
No. Dylan stopped himself before he could go on. The last thing he wanted to do was to rehash that night, to bring about the memories of Sarah and all that he’d denied himself. It had taken everything in him to stay away from her for these last few years. But he’d done it for her. Or so he told himself. Sarah deserved so much better than a fucked-up cowboy like him.
That didn’t mean he didn’t want her. He simply knew it would never work out between them, even if the sex had been fucking phenomenal. And it had been that. But the thoughts that had run through his head that night… Sweet Sarah Davis couldn’t handle what he would want from her. And since Meghan died, Dylan had promised himself that he wouldn’t hold back, wouldn’t cut that part of himself off anymore.
He barked a laugh. He was pathetic. He had made that promise to himself, yet he’d spent the past eleven years grieving. Drunk and focused on no one but himself. Okay, so maybe he hadn’t been drunk for eleven years, but sometimes it felt like it. In fact, the drinking hadn’t started until Nate’s senior year of high school. At that point, Dylan’s hopelessness had taken over. Without kids at home to take care of, he felt the loneliness creep in, and he found that drowning himself in a bottle had helped.
“Meghan,” he said with a heavy sigh. “Tell me to go away. Tell me to stop buggin’ you and I will. But if you don’t, I’m only gonna keep comin’ back. I’m lost without you, babe, and I know that’s crazy. Pops and Ashleigh are worried about my mental state. Still. After all this time.” A small smile tipped the corner of his mouth. “Ashleigh told me she’d go to AA with me if I wanted her to. I think she still has her doubts. Not that I blame her. She’s dealt with me at my worst, and I was pretty good at pretending there for a while.”
When his sister had first suggested it, Dylan had told her she was fucking crazy. He hadn’t had any intention of spilling his guts to a stranger, much less a room full of them, but he certainly wasn’t going to do it with his family present. Truthfully, Dylan needed those meetings, needed to be able to voice the issues he was facing, know there were others going through the same thing. After years of denial, Dylan accepted that he had a serious problem.
His nostrils burned with unshed tears as he stared at the engraved letters on the stone in front of him. Meghan Ann Thomas. January 13, 1975 – November 9, 2004. His beautiful wife had died less than three months before her thirtieth birthday.
God, he needed a drink. Something to settle his thoughts, to numb the ache in his chest. Whenever he allowed himself to drift back into the past, he felt the little pieces he’d worked so hard to restructure just fall apart again. He wasn’t whole; hell, he wasn’t sure he ever would be again. But yes, time was dulling the pain. Except for days like this. The horrible fucking days when the memories would invade, taking over his world, reiterating the fact that he would never get to celebrate anything else with the woman he’d loved more than life itself. It was cruel that he did it to himself, but as he’d told Meghan, he didn’t think he could move forward.
No matter how desperately he now wanted to.
His throat burned and a sob racked his chest, but he refused to cry anymore. He’d done more than his fair share over the years.
“Honey,” he whispered, “I need you to tell me it’s okay to let you go. I need you to tell me that it’s okay to be me again. I can’t keep hiding from everyone. I need something … someone. I know Sarah doesn’t deserve the hell I’ll likely inflict on her, but … I want her in my life. There. I said it. It’s true. I want to feel alive again and … God, Meg … she makes me feel that way. I didn’t think it was even possible.”
The next thing Dylan knew, despite the effort he put forth to avoid them, the tears were coming, but so was the rain. The sky had opened up, and fat, cold raindrops began falling on him until he could hardly see more than a few feet around him. But rather than run back to his truck to try and escape, he remained right where he was and used the rain as another excuse to let the emotions go.
One day, he was sure he wouldn’t be able to cry anymore, and maybe then he’d figure out a way to move on. But until then, Dylan feared this was his destiny.
chapter FIVE
ONCE SHE’D HUNG UP THE phone with her mother, Sarah had immersed herself in housework. She’d pulled out the vacuum and run it over every inch of her two-thousand-square-foot house. Not only on the floors but the corners of every room, the ceiling fans, the couch, and the baseboards. Did she have a problem because she did this at least three times a week? Perhaps. Then again, Sarah knew that having two cats made vacuuming a requirement, so she wasn’t going to apologize for it.
After that, she got the broom and the mop and took care of the tiled floors, then ran the Swiffer duster over all the shelves throughout the house.
But now, as she looked around, she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do. Truth was, she was trying to outrun her thoughts by cleaning, but for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t working. Her mind continued to drift back to the one person she shouldn’t have been thinking about in the first place. No matter what she tried to tell herself, Elaine was right. Sarah was still searching for a way to help others even when her help wasn’t needed. Dylan had made it this far without her interference, so she needed to figure out a way to move on.
Still, she had to wonder if he was still broken. It seemed possible. She didn’t know him anymore, wasn’t even close to his family or friends to really know the truth. Was that what he wanted from her? A friend? Someone who could help him?
Damn it. Sarah hated that she wanted nothing more than to help him, to fix him.
Yep, that was something she’d come to accept thanks to years of talking through her problems—she was a fixer. That might be somewhat true, but Sarah knew what her real problem was. By focusing on everyone else’s issues, she didn’t have to focus on herself. Plus, she didn’t want anyone to suffer the way Paul had. Sarah didn’t want anyone in the world to have to come home after work to find the person they loved most dead because they’d overdosed on pills in an effort to extinguish the pain completely. And although Sarah now understood Paul’s illness, and she’d reached a point where she could accept that it had happened, she knew she would never forget. Granted, forgiving him wasn’t entirely possible.
Was she still angry? Sure. At times irrationally so. But she knew deep down that it had been the disease that killed Paul, and she fought tooth and nail to believe that he wouldn’t have left her if he could’ve helped it.
Her therapist had told her time and time again that she needed to work on herself and not everyone else, but Sarah had a hard time accepting that. It was a wonder Elaine hadn’t thrown up her hands already. Then again, the therapy Sarah had been undergoing for the last five years—that and the once-a-month grief-support group she still met with—had been a way for her to deal with the painful loss of her husband.
Only the sessi
ons had unearthed a shitload of issues she hadn’t realized she had in the first place. She had a deep-rooted anger toward her father and her sister, which had festered inside her for most of her life. Not that she wanted to, but deep down, she still blamed Paul for the many years she’d lost to grief and overwhelming heartache even though she knew it wasn’t his fault.
He’d suffered from an illness that no one had seen. A disease that he’d hidden so well Sarah hadn’t known about it. Not entirely anyway. Sure, she’d been aware of his drastic mood swings, thought perhaps he’d been depressed a few times, but who wasn’t? Never had she suspected he had bipolar disorder, or that he would find himself feeling so hopeless that he would end his life, demolishing Sarah’s in the process.
So, in a sense, the years of therapy she’d forced on herself had worked. In the beginning, she’d spent months trying to learn more about Paul’s disease, wanting to help, desperate to find a way to get others to recognize what she’d found out too late. There for a while, she’d even felt worthwhile, content with focusing her energy on others. However, devoting herself entirely to the cause had repercussions of its own. With the help of her therapist, Sarah had realized—three years after Paul’s death—that she had been neglecting herself, her own well-being.
“And then Dylan walked into my life,” she mumbled. “Again.”
And that had been a turning point for her. The straw that broke the camel’s back.
Before he’d reappeared in her life, Sarah had attempted to get back on the horse, so to speak. That year, she’d been focused on living and not merely existing. She’d been proud of the progress she’d made, too. It had been a turning point for her. Or so she wanted to believe.
Then she’d started getting closer to Dylan. As friends.
Without meaning to, Sarah had unearthed a wealth of feelings that she’d had for the man back in high school. In a short period of time, at that. Months of casual conversation and she’d been hooked on him, causing her to do things that weren’t in her heart’s best interest, leaving her right back where she’d started. Alone. Heartbroken.
Distraction (Club Destiny Book 8) Page 6
