If I Had You

by Violet Haze

Wyatt and Landon are half-siblings.

  Wyatt is Zach’s son.

  Now, for the second time in a year, our lives have changed forever, and nothing will ever be the same.

  Part III

  What Will Be

  17

  Zach

  Not thinking about Darcy and wondering how she’s holding up is impossible.

  The thoughts of her are so pervasive they are distracting enough to prevent me getting any work done.

  God, the moment I spotted her in the store earlier today, I wanted to walk up and wrap her in my arms. Even in her noticeably depressed and exhausted state, she looked beautiful.

  I spotted her a few times over the years for brief moments; she’d always been alone. Never did anything more than nod in her direction as a greeting and I nearly passed her by earlier today without saying anything out of habit. A healthy dose of worry at approaching her after we shut the door on our past five years ago had me second guessing my decision as well.

  Hard to believe it has been that long. Hell, hard to wrap my head around Oliver dying in such a gruesome way. The shooting at his work had been all over the news, and although I hadn’t known the guy, Darcy loved him. Her grief earlier had been palpable, as if she’s barely holding it together, and there’s no doubt I would feel the same if it had happened to someone I love.

  Is it appropriate to want to ease her suffering in any way I can? I don’t know, and it hadn’t helped as she stood there stating that being near me caused her more pain.

  And her expression, when I asked her what was wrong, killed me. “Everything,” she had said, her whole face going white as if she’d looked into my face and felt sick, or suddenly saw a fucking ghost.

  I hadn’t followed when she rushed away, gutted at the way she couldn’t wait to get away from me, but now I regret it. Reaching out to her may backfire — if she hadn’t wanted to talk at the store, she might not want to speak to me at all — so I’m going to give it a bit more time before attempting to talk to her again.

  She’s never been one to ask for help and might need support. We may not be friends, and our past is a little ugly, but I’ve always cared about her. Hell, who am I kidding? I loved her and still feel more for her than I want to admit out loud. I can’t tell her that, but I do want her to know I’m here for her.

  In the meantime, however, I need to get some damn work done, so opening my calendar, I set a reminder a month from now to get in touch with her. Not because I’ll forget, but because writing it down helps me push thoughts about her aside for now.

  Then, hard as it is, I do just that and get back to the important paperwork stacked in a pile on my desk.

  “Daddy, I’m starving.”

  Glancing up from where I’m preparing food for us, my forever dramatic almost eight-year-old daughter stands in the open kitchen doorway wearing a sundress and tennis shoes with mismatched socks.

  Shoes she has on the wrong feet; something she gets right about fifty-percent of the time. It’s adorable and frustrating all at once, as we’ve discussed the way to ensure her shoes go on properly many times, but the information hasn’t stuck in her brain yet.

  “Lunch is almost ready,” I reply with a pointed look at her feet. “Fix your shoes, sweetheart.”

  Rose peeks at her feet and lets out a sigh, her whole face turning pink as she says, “Oh, I got it wrong again. I’m stupid.”

  “Hey, we don’t call ourselves names. You’re not stupid.”

  “Jessica said I was.” She stomps over to the table and takes a seat in the chair before pulling off her shoes. “She said only babies or stupid dummies don’t know how to put their shoes on right.”

  God, even if she’s only a second grader, this little Jessica girl pisses me off. It isn’t the first time she’s spouted bullshit at Rose, but my patience with the whole situation is running thin since it doesn’t seem her parents are taking care of the problem.

  “Jessica is wrong. Period.” Picking up the plates with our sandwiches, I carry them over to the table and then get us some water before sitting across from her as she finishes fixing her shoes. “I know it’s hard not to listen to her, but you aren’t any of those things. Everyone is different.”

  “Okay.”

  She mumbles the word, not believing me, and to make her feel better I scoot back my chair to kick off my shoes.

  Her eyes round as I lean over. “What are you doing, Daddy?”

  “I’m fixing my shoes. I think I have them on the wrong feet.” I slip my feet back into the shoes so they’re on wrong and lift them up toward her for inspection. “There. Much better.”

  She bites her lip, her eyes tearing up a little before she straightens her shoulders and giggles at me. “No, they’re wrong, Daddy. See?” She points to the toe area. “The big parts should be touching.”

  “Oh, damn, you’re right.” After fixing them again, I sit up in the chair only to find her wiping a tear from her cheek and her lower lip wobbling. “Why are you crying?”

  “It’s not fair.”

  “What isn’t?”

  She sits back on the chair and sticks her feet straight out. “I can’t see the bottom of my feet to tell my shoes are wrong like this.”

  We’re both silent for a moment and then, her sudden howls of laughter are followed by mine.

  Crisis averted for now.

  And later, I’ll send an email to my daughter’s principal to see what can be done about that little troublemaker Jessica.

  Rose’s pigtails fly behind her as she rushes into the living room, tosses her book bag on the chair, and declares with a huge smile, “Jessica wasn’t mean to me today!”

  “I’m glad, sweetheart.” And after my note to the principal, I doubt she ever will be again. “Hopefully she learned her lesson about being mean to others and will be nicer.”

  “Yeah.” She gets on the couch and takes a seat next to me, her expression brightening even more as she says, “At recess, she said sorry, and I told her it was okay. Then I shared with her at snack time; she didn’t have one today.”

  “That was kind of you.”

  Her entire expression is serious as she nods at me before leaning into my side. “I think she needs a friend, Daddy, so I told her we can be friends if she wants ‘cause I need friends.”

  God, she’s so good-natured. Sometimes I wonder where she gets it from, then realize she’s never experienced the less kind side of me, and I don’t plan on ever letting her see it. Wrapping my arm around her shoulder, I hug her to my side and smile. “Did she accept?”

  “Yep! And I asked her if she wanted to come to my house and play one day and she said yes. Can she?”

  “If you want.” I’m not certain I want a kid who tortured mine for the first two months of school in my house but if my daughter’s giving the girl a chance, then so will I. “On Monday, you can give her our number and tell her to ask her parents to call me.”

  “Thank you, Daddy!” Moving fast, she wraps her arms around my neck and kisses my cheek, drawing away before I can reciprocate to slide off the couch. “I’m going outside to play.”

  “No homework?”

  She nods and crosses her arm over her chest with a cute pout. “I don’t want to do it right now.”

  This is most when she’s like me. I did well in school, but hated homework, finding many ways to avoid doing it. And although she has to do it just as I had to, I don’t feel like giving her the homework is important speech tonight, even though I don’t think that’s true at all.

  Ah, parenthood — telling your child fibs to get them to do things you don’t even want to do yourself to prepare them for adulthood.

  Having just gotten home from school, however, I’m more than happy to give her a break and have a little fun.

  “One hour,” I tell her in my serious tone so she knows there will be no arguments about this. “Then, come inside and do your homework before dinner.”

  “Okay!” She beams at me and skips off toward with
the back door.

  Easy.

  Too easy.

  I know in a few years, I’ll be looking back at her this age and wish for her back. She’s sweet now but has moments where her mood shifts from happy to downright petulant in a matter of seconds, especially when she doesn’t get her way.

  Never have given into her fits, yet it doesn’t stop her from trying repeatedly. I can’t imagine what it will be like when she’s a teenager, as my experience with teenage girls is limited to my teen years, and going by that…well, it makes me want to lock her up in her room as a pre-emptive measure.

  Rose’s voice carries through the open windows while she sings at the top of her lungs from where she plays in the backyard, distracting me from my thoughts just as my phone dings.

  Call Darcy.

  I stare at the banner on the locked screen, swipe my finger across it, and tap on her name in my contacts. Hoping the number is the correct one — I only found one in my search, under her husband’s name — I press the phone icon and put the phone up to my ear while holding my breath.

  When the automated message announces the number is no longer in order, there’s nothing I can do except go see her in person if I want to see how she’s doing.

  And that’s exactly what I’m going to do as soon as possible because I’m done waiting.

  18

  Darcy

  “I’m jumping! Look, I’m jumping!”

  As much as Wyatt attempts to get me to turn around, I don’t and simply say, “I know you’re not jumping on the couch, because you’re not supposed to, and you don’t want to go in time out, do you?”

  Bingo. He doesn’t answer me and the occasional squeaking suddenly stops.

  A second later, he comes up to the computer and rubs my arm, his eyes bright as he gives me a cheeky smile and begins jumping again when I look at him.

  Sighing, I shut off the monitor and move my chair back gently, turning the seat to face him as he stops jumping and continues to grin at me.

  Of course, he does. He got what he wanted — my undivided attention since his brother is sleeping.

  Then, he climbs into my lap and snuggles against my chest. Wrapping my arms around his little body, I rest my chin on the top of his head and sigh as he relaxes into me. “Okay, buddy, what do you want to do?”

  “Jump,” he mumbles, sounding more like he needs a nap than anything else.

  Standing up, I grab the baby monitor, carry him to my bedroom and place him on the bed before placing the monitor on the nightstand and crawling in next to him because I’m tired, too.

  I haven’t slept well since learning the little boy cuddling against me and sighing with contentment is Zach’s, a revelation that changes everything and leaves me with nothing to do except tell Zach.

  Pretty much the only thing I’ve thought about for two weeks now and still haven’t done what I should do because standing close to him in the store had been difficult enough. How will I handle having him in my life and my boys’ life after our history together and losing Oliver, who was Daddy to Wyatt and is the one he misses and cries for?

  I wonder how I can introduce a new man into my son’s life so soon, and yet, how can I avoid it under the circumstances? The longer I put off telling him, the worse Zach’s reaction might be since their similarities are obvious.

  As for my parents, I don’t look forward to making them aware of what’s going on when they return in two weeks and have considered not telling Zach until I talk to them.

  But, like all things lately, I don’t know what to do or how to do it. I’m lost, tired, and frustrated with this whole situation making my life a little harder than it already has been since Oliver died.

  And I’m not even going to get some rest even though Wyatt’s fast asleep in my arms as Landon’s soft cries beg for my attention the moment I shut my eyes.

  Sighing, I move slow and easy away from Wyatt to avoid waking him before heading to Landon’s room just down the hall, and put all my attention on him instead of the major encounter ahead of me I don’t get to avoid no matter my preference.

  Another week has passed by without me telling Zach.

  I think it’s worse because this is something that I have to tell him in person and the idea of seeing him brings up all these feelings I want to flat out ignore.

  Pushed aside not once, but twice, those same emotions and the attraction between us won’t be shoved away again. I hadn’t wanted to admit it to myself at the time, yet it’s why standing there with him had been so difficult.

  Everything is still there between us, and the anger I had directed at him should’ve been directed at myself because I’m the one with a problem.

  Oliver’s been dead less than a year; how can I possibly want anyone else or even think about another man in that way? We may not have started off being the most passionate couple, but by the end, our entire relationship had changed.

  We had been like the us from the dream I’m not positive was a dream even to this day. After it, though, I became the best wife and mother I could be and loved my husband with everything I had.

  In the store, Zach touched me, and I had wanted his comfort with a need I can’t consider anything other than inappropriate at this time in my life.

  What will happen if I see him? He’s always been able to read me. The day in the bookstore, I gave him what he wanted because I had wanted it too. Seeing him after all that time, there had been no avoiding it, no matter the lies I told myself before then.

  I won’t lie now, however. Whatever is between us, though, we shouldn’t open the door on it, not when we were able to finally shut it peacefully that day in the hospital.

  But there is a little boy who is half of each of us, and I have to do the right thing, even if I have to find a way for us to have as little contact as possible while ensuring Zach knows his son.

  Sighing, because this is giving me a headache, I pour a glass of wine and head to the living room to spend another Friday night alone watching shows on Netflix like I used to with Oliver. Not every Friday, but a lot of them.

  Just as I’m about to settle in to watch a comedy show in hopes a little laughter will cheer me up when the doorbell rings.

  Unsure of who the hell I know that would be here at eight-thirty on a Friday night, I set down the wine and place it on the table before going to answer.

  The last thing I expect to see is Zach’s face through the peephole and immediately want not to answer it. He’ll go away eventually, right? But if he keeps ringing the doorbell, he might wake up the boys, and that will ruin my plan on going to bed early to get some rest.

  Taking a deep breath, I let it out slowly and then paste a smile on my face before opening the door. “Zach, what are you doing here?”

  “Not wasting any time on pleasantries, huh?” He grins as my face flushes in uncontrollable embarrassment when I realize how rude I’m being and nods at the foyer behind me. “Mind if I come in for a few minutes? Unless this isn't a good time.”

  I step back before thinking about why he would want to come inside, and he walks past me, whistling. After I shut the door, he turns to face me and crosses his arms over his chest. “I tried to call to see how you are doing, but the only number I could find was disconnected.”

  “So you decided a Friday night was the perfect time to come over.”

  “Yes. Well, no, not exactly.”

  Thinking he’ll elaborate, I wait, only he doesn’t. Instead, he turns away and strides further inside the house, leaving me to trail after him with any protest stuck in my throat. This isn’t how I wanted him to find out about Wyatt, and if he catches sight of the photos, it will be impossible to deny.

  He leads us into the living room and sits down in the recliner — Oliver’s favorite chair. Nobody except Wyatt has sat in it, and without even thinking about how seeing him sitting there makes me feel, I shove his arm from where I’ve stopped beside him.

  “Get out of there. You can’t sit there.” He lifts a brow a
t me while resting his arms at his sides and I point back toward the front door. “You have to leave. I’ll… I’ll call you.”

  He studies my face, lifting a hand to rub his jaw before glancing around the room and then back at me while ignoring my demand that he leaves. “Why can’t I sit here? Oliver sat in more than this chair, didn’t he?”

  Yes, he did, but the way Zach is acting ticks me off. “Get up,” I hiss at him, slapping at his arm and not caring this is probably a pretty childish way to respond to whatever the hell he’s doing. “I don’t want you in that chair or this house!”

  “Ouch.” He snatches the hand hitting him and holds it tight while rising from the seat, tugging on it until our bodies are touching while my breathing hangs harsh between us. “No need for this, Darcy. I just want to talk.”

  I refuse to look at him and avert my gaze toward the fireplace, hoping he cares more about getting me to focus on him than checking out the pictures on the mantle. “About what? You can see I’m fine. Me and the boys, we’re good. And you need to go.”

  “I see that. And you’re beautiful.” His compliment is hushed as he leans in to press a kiss to my temple, making my body tremble despite itself, deprived too long of affection from anyone except the boys. “Always knew motherhood would look good on you.”

  And in this exact moment where I can feel the effect us being this close is having on him, the one thing I haven’t been ready to tell him about arrives in the room with a softly spoken, “Mommy?”

  Zach freezes, his whole body going rigid as his grip tightens on my hand to the point of painful as he sees exactly what I didn’t want him to yet; what I knew he would see the instant he caught sight of Wyatt.

  He releases me gently after hissing, “What the hell, Darcy?”

  Unable to meet his gaze, knowing it will be filled with fury and questions, I take a step back and whisper, “Give me a few minutes and I’ll…I’ll be right back.”