by Megan Green
I slid into our bedroom through the tiny opening in the door. I climbed into bed, not bothering to change or brush my teeth. If I was asleep when James came in, he might just go to bed. Maybe earlier had just been a temporary relapse. He’d calmed down as soon as he held our son.
Cade would be good for us. He’d help fix us. Heal us.
My eyes were closed for less than a minute when I heard the door shut. I didn’t open my eyes. I didn’t move. I breathed in deep, as if I’d been asleep for hours instead of lying here for only moments.
But I wasn’t fooling anyone.
His footsteps came to a stop on my side of the bed, the heat radiating off his body as he stood over me. I could feel the intensity of his stare burning into me as I squeezed my eyes tighter.
His fingers dug into my hair as he dragged me from the bed.
I didn’t even have time to cry out before his fist rained down on me.
A rattle at the door brings my thoughts back to the present. My head snaps up as the doorknob turns. I’m certain I locked it behind me, so there’s only one person it can be. Only one other person has a key to this house.
James.
The door swings wide, and I wish I had the energy to move. Run. Hide. Something other than just sit here and let whatever is going to happen, happen.
But then a whirlwind of arms and legs comes tumbling through the door, and my mood immediately shifts.
Cade races into my arms, throwing himself at me, before he even takes in my appearance. I wince slightly as he hits my broken hand and collides with my bruised ribs. As if picking up on my discomfort, he immediately tries to pull back, his emerald eyes seeking mine. But I hang on to him with everything I have, because, even as much as my hand is throbbing and my body is aching, nothing could ever dampen this feeling. The feeling of my little boy in my arms. So, fuck the pain. This little guy’s hugs are the best medicine I could ever ask for.
He finally gives up on trying to pull away, and instead, he buries his face in my neck.
“I missed you, Mommy,” he says, his voice sounding even younger than his seven years.
I press my lips to the side of his head, breathing in the smell of his unwashed hair and sun-kissed skin. It’s the best smell on earth. But it makes me wonder what he’s been doing with James all morning.
“I missed you, too, baby,” I murmur against his soft brown hair.
And, as if summoned by my brief thought of him, a dark shadow fills the doorway, the bright April sun illuminating him from behind.
“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” James asks, his voice deep and warm, filled with concern.
I squeeze my eyes shut, wanting to relish this moment with Cade for just a moment longer before reality rears her ugly head and forces me to face the man in front of me.
Cade’s arms loop around my neck as he climbs onto my lap, turning to look at his father. It gives me strength, having him there. Makes me feel grounded. Like I can take on anything life throws at me, so long as I have this little boy to keep me going.
I follow Cade’s eyes to James, finding him still lingering in the doorway. He’s watching the two of us so intently that, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was really concerned about my well-being.
Choosing to ignore his earlier question, I turn my focus back to Cade. “What did you and Daddy do this morning?”
Cade’s eyes brighten as he recounts his day, “Daddy said you needed to sleep after you got home from the hospital. So, after he picked me up from Mrs. Wilson’s house, we went to get pancakes, and then he took me to the park. Zach was there. We played on the monkey bars. I crossed them five times before I fell, Mom!”
I eat up every bit of his excitement. “You did? Wow! I bet that’s some sort of record.”
He nods emphatically. “I’m pretty sure it is. Zach was so mad. He used to be better than me, remember, Mom? But he only crossed three times. I beat him by two whole times!”
“He was amazing out there. Best monkey-bar crosser I’ve ever seen; that’s for sure,” James interjects, interrupting the moment between me and Cade.
We both turn to look at him again, and I finally register his appearance. He’s dressed nice—neatly pressed black slacks with a crisp white button-down, rolled up to his elbows. In his left hand, he’s holding a huge bouquet of red roses, arranged perfectly with sprigs of baby’s breath shooting up between them. They’re gorgeous. And I can’t stand the sight of them.
After every one of our episodes, I always get one of two versions of James. The first version is the James I’ve come to know. The James who blames me for everything. He shows up the next day, telling me he’s sorry, but if I’d just listen to him, obey him, like I vowed to do on our wedding day, then these things wouldn’t happen. It doesn’t matter that he might be angry because a judge ruled against him or that he might have had a particularly bad day at work. If he comes home and takes it out on me, it’s still somehow my fault.
And then there’s this James. I’ve only seen this James on a few occasions since the night we brought Cade home from the hospital. This James is charming. He brings flowers. He promises that things will be different from now on. That he’ll never hurt me again. That he’ll go back to therapy. He tells me how much he loves me and Cade and how he couldn’t survive without us. He apologizes for not only hurting me this time, but also for every other time before. He cries. He sobs. He tells me I’m the only woman on earth he’ll ever love. He makes me feel sorry for him.
I hate this version of James. As crazy as it sounds, I prefer the former. At least with that James, I know where I stand. I know that, no matter what I say or do, it’s never going to be right. And I’ve come to accept that things are not going to change. This is my life, so there’s no use in wishing for something different.
But then this James…this James confuses me. This James reminds me of the way things were before we were married and while I was pregnant. This James reminds me that things weren’t always so bad, and it gives me hope that things can go back. That we can be happy again. That Cade might finally have two loving parents, like he deserves.
This James is a liar. I know that. After falling for it several times before, I know nothing is going to change. Not in the long run. We might have a few good weeks following his plea where he dotes on me and Cade, making us believe we’re the most important things in his world.
But, inevitably, things go back to the way they were. All it takes is one bad day, and we fall back into the same pattern as before—James coming home angry, James coming after me, Cade running next door to stay with Mrs. Wilson until I come to get him. That’s something we established after he was old enough to understand what was going on.
“When Daddy is mad, you go next door until Mommy comes and gets you.”
These are the things I taught my toddler. While other mothers are teaching their kids the ABCs and 123s, I’ve been teaching mine what to do while his father beats the shit out of his mother.
James steps into the living room, closing the distance between us, as he smiles at Cade. When he reaches us, he lifts his hand and ruffles Cade’s shaggy hair. I absently make a note that I need to take him for a haircut soon.
“Hey, buddy, how about you let Mommy and I talk privately for a minute, okay?”
Cade’s eyes dart between the two of us, and loud and clear, I can read his reluctance to leave me.
I give him a gentle nudge. “Go on, baby. We’ll just be a minute. I’ll come get you when we’re done, and then you and I can go out back. I’ll push you on the swing.”
Cade nods hesitantly, but he climbs down from my lap. Before he’s even completely out of the room, James has taken residence next to me on the sofa, so close that his entire right side is pressed against my left.
“Nic, you have to know how sorry I am,” he says with so much sincerity as he places the flowers in my lap. “Never again, baby. I promise. Things are going to be different from now on. Please believe me.”
<
br /> He wraps his arms around me, pulling me tight against his chest. His cologne floods my senses, and for a moment, I’m able to lose myself in the feeling of comfort. I close my eyes, relishing the contact, pretending anyone’s arms but James’s are circling me.
But his gruff voice shatters my illusion. “You forgive me, right, baby?”
I swallow hard, my eyes opening as I bite back the tears that threaten. As much as I’d love to tell him to go to hell, I know I can’t.
“Of course. I’ll try to be better from now on, too. Try to make things easier for you.”
The words taste like acid on my tongue. But they pacify James. He laughs buoyantly, burying his face in my neck.
“I love you so much, Nichole. So, so much. You’re my whole world.”
“I love you, too, James,” I whisper as I slowly circle my arms around his back. As I close my eyes again, a single tear escapes and streaks down my cheek.
A soft creak sounds from the hallway. My eyes flash open, and I catch a glimpse of Cade just before he darts into his bedroom.
But it was long enough to recognize the look on his face.
Fear.
Sadness.
Defeat.
And it’s then that I know I can’t stay.
I thought I was protecting Cade by staying here. Giving him everything I never had. Everything I couldn’t provide for him on my own.
But that brief glimpse I got of him tells me how wrong I’ve been.
I’m not protecting him. I’m not giving him anything. Nothing except for a poor role model of how a man should treat his wife.
For the last seven years, I thought I was shielding my son from the harshness of the world.
But I was kidding myself. I’ve only been shielding myself. Shielding myself from the fear of the unknown. The uncertainty of our future without James to provide for us.
I still have no clue how we’ll make it on our own.
But I know I have to try.
For my son.
Four Weeks Later
Wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, I straighten from where I’m hunched over a flower bed.
Or I guess I should say, what’s supposed to be a flower bed. Right now, it’s more of a weed bed—and not the good kind, if you know what I mean. But, hopefully, after a few more hours of this, it’ll start looking like its twin on the other side of the patio, the one I spent about three hours clearing this morning.
It’s an unseasonably warm day for early May in Colorado. But then Mother Nature is generally temperamental this time of year. For all I know, next week, all this could be sitting under a couple inches of snow. When I woke up this morning with light streaming in through the slats of my bedroom blinds, I decided to take advantage of the warm spring sun and get to work on the disaster I call a backyard.
I closed on this place two weeks ago. And, since the second I moved in, it’s been nonstop repairs. I have no idea what I was thinking, buying a house in such dire need of TLC. Sure, my best friend, Emma, and I had brought Keen Komrades—the service-dog training center we ran together back in North Carolina—back from the brink of what would have surely been a slow, painful death. But the work went much faster and was much easier with Emma around. Four hands are better than two. And Emma’s quirky personality always just seemed to make everything more…enjoyable.
Here, it’s just me. My dad tries to stop by every once in a while, but since his accident last year, he can’t get around as well as he used to. The old man had been up on his roof, cleaning out his gutters, when he stepped wrong and fell, busting his leg. He’d been in a cast for weeks, but somehow, the thing never set right. I know just walking up and down the stairs causes him a shit-ton of pain. So, though he tries to help when he’s here, I never let him do much. Someone’s got to look out for the old man now that Mom’s gone.
I climb to my feet, deciding noon is close enough to five, and I grab a beer from the cooler on the patio. There are a couple bottles of water in it, too, of course, and a few sodas. But, after spending all damn morning on my hands and knees in the dirt, a beer sounds fucking heavenly right now.
I pop the top and take a huge gulp. Taking the can with me, I saunter out to the massive tree in the backyard—the number one reason I bought this house in the first place. The large branches stretch high over almost the entire span of grass below, shading most of the yard with its full leaves. It reminds me of the tree in the Hadley’s backyard, the one with the wooden swing hanging from its lowest bough.
Nichole and I spent many, many hours out there on that swing. Seeing this tree, with the perfect spot to build a swing, and well, I knew the house had to be mine.
I sit down on the grass in its shadow, leaning my back against the sturdy trunk. I take another sip of my beer, closing my eyes, as the cool liquid runs down my throat.
If I’m honest, seeing Nichole rattled me a hell of a lot more than I care to admit. Ever since that day in the hospital, I haven’t been able to get her out of my head. And, after hearing Troy talk about her asshole of a husband, it’s only further deepened my concern for her well-being.
Right, Roberts. The only thing you’re concerned about is her well-being. That’s it. Not the fact that, even after twelve years of not seeing her, she still has the power to knock you flat on your ass with only one look. It definitely isn’t that.
I silence that obnoxious little voice in the back of my head even though I know it’s true. Nichole, even battered and bruised, is every bit as gorgeous as I remembered. And the knowledge that I might be responsible for any sort of pain or turmoil for her, however indirectly, causes my stomach to turn.
We might have parted on less than friendly terms, but Nichole was the most important person in my life for almost half of the years I’ve been on this earth. That wasn’t something you could just turn off, no matter how badly that person might have hurt you.
Deciding I’ve had enough time for reflection, I drain the rest of my beer and climb back up to my feet. That’s one good thing about all these damn repairs. Between the house and my job, at least I’m able to keep my mind occupied some of the time with something other than Nichole.
“All right, you little bitches, prepare to meet your maker,” I say to the plethora of weeds before me.
Falling back to my knees, I dig into the yard work with renewed determination. This is going to be the best fucking flower bed on the block.
Six hours later, I pull into the parking lot of Moretti’s—a small Italian joint Alex and I try to hit up at least a couple times a month. It’s a tiny little restaurant with only about ten tables total, and even those are crammed in, so there’s almost no elbow room. But they have the best fucking meatballs this side of Italy, so it’s worth the extra wait and lack of personal space.
The door swings wide as I open it, and the bells on the handle clang wildly behind me as it shuts. I spot Alex already seated at a table near the back. Even though it’s a Tuesday night, every table in the room is filled. Considering there are only a handful of tables, that isn’t hard to do. But, still, it makes me happy to see I don’t have to worry about this place going out of business anytime soon. I might die if I didn’t get my Moretti’s meatballs on the regular. I’d have to hire the guy as my own personal cook. And, Lord knows, I can’t afford that on a cop’s salary. So, really, I’d have to resort to kidnapping, something I’m sure my chief wouldn’t look too kindly on.
I laugh silently to myself as I realize how off track that train of thought got.
I squeeze my way through the tables until I reach Alex, telling myself to stop contemplating kidnapping someone for their meatballs. That’s some Annie Wilkes shit right there. Just replace books with meatballs, and Annie and I would have a lot more in common than I’d like to think about. Next thing I know, Moretti would be tied to my bed, and I’d be breaking his legs with a sledgehammer as I demanded his secret recipe.
“You okay, man?” Alex’s voice interrupts my macabre t
houghts.
I slightly shake my head, trying to clear it. “Yeah. Too much sun today, I think. My brain is fried.”
Yep, that’s my excuse, and I’m sticking to it. I’m not crazy, crazy. Just sunstroke crazy.
I slide into the chair across from Alex and grab a breadstick from the basket in the center of the table.
“So, how goes it on the home front?” Alex asks as I bite off a chunk of the baked goodness.
I repress a sigh. That tastes so damn good after spending the day working my ass off in the heat.
“Going good. Got those damn flower beds cleaned up. Just a few more improvements to the backyard, and I’ll finally be able to get my damn dog.”
Alex nods, knowing my history with dogs.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve always been a dog lover. When Emma and I opened Keen Komrades, I felt like I’d found my life’s calling. I’d loved my time in the military, despite the horrendous way it’d ended. But, being there with her and those dogs, well, I’d never been so happy. Leaving to come home and help out my dad was one of the hardest decisions I’d ever made. But family always comes first. And I know I left it in good hands. If there’s anyone capable of filling my shoes, it’s Isaiah Wright, Emma’s fiancé.
A pang of sadness hits me when I think of them. And Maggie. Mags pulled Emma and me out of a deep depression after everything that had gone down in Afghanistan on that fateful day. Emma had lost her fiancé, Chris, and I had lost several of my best friends—not to mention, my damn leg. Let’s just say neither of us was doing well.
Maggie and her goofy dog smile and constant companionship saved us. And, in return, we helped save others from the terrors of PTSD and everything else that accompanied returning from war. It was an amazing few years. And, even though I’m technically home, in the town where I grew up, I can’t help the homesickness I feel whenever I think of my old place.
