Rush_Hector & Millie

by Marianne Knightly

  Today, though, Millie wondered if her mother’s brain was working. The way she stared at Hector, her eyes glassy but focused hard on him…something was different today.

  Millie wanted to try calling her ‘mother’, just to see if that got a response. The last time she’d tried, the reaction had not been good, so she hesitated now.

  “I’ll take care of her.”

  Millie startled at Hector’s declaration. “Hector, what are you talking about? She’s already in the nursing home.”

  “I was talking to Katie. I was just letting her know that I’d be taking care of you, so she didn’t need to worry.”

  “She doesn’t know who you are.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “She doesn’t know who I am.”

  Her mother’s eyes flicked to her, then back to him.

  “She might.”

  There was hope in his words. Millie’d had hope for years where her mother was concerned, but not so much recently. “I don’t think so.”

  “Amelia.”

  “Let’s just go, okay? I just want a moment to…say goodbye.”

  He squeezed her shoulder. “Take all the time you need, baby. I’ll wait outside.”

  He walked over to the bed and squeezed Katie’s hand. Still no reaction other than the staring. “I’ll take care of her. You can rest easy knowing that.”

  He walked back, gave Millie a kiss on the cheek, and headed out.

  Millie walked over and touched her mother’s hand. It was so frail. The skin was stretched over the bone, and wrinkles carried the evidence of a hard life. Millie knew that because her own hands were wrinkled the same way.

  She had a memory flash of baking something—cookies, maybe?—with her mother. In the old house, the first house she remembered living in. That house had a distinctive scent, and for years Millie tried to figure out what it was. Eventually, one day in a department store, she’d caught a whiff of something and realized it had been her mother’s perfume.

  Millie never wore perfume.

  Her mother was still staring, this time at the door.

  “Goodbye, Mother.”

  An erratic blip on her heart monitor.

  Millie let go of her hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just…wanted to say goodbye.”

  Her mother’s gaze landed on her. Not curious, just blank.

  This could be the last time she saw her mother. The last time she spoke to her. The last time she held her hand.

  Yet, this moment only meant something to Millie. Her mother was already gone. It meant nothing to her.

  Nothing.

  Millie’s heart broke all over again. “Goodbye. I hope you find some peace.”

  She turned and ran from the room.

  “Amelia!” Hector called.

  She ignored Annette calling after her, too, and ran to the car. With her back against it, she slid down and put her head against her bent knees while sobs racked her body. It wasn’t safe to stay that way in a parking lot but, at that moment, she didn’t care.

  Hector picked her up and carried her, eventually sitting down on a bench. She sobbed in his arms.

  “Baby.”

  She shook her head and burrowed into him. She couldn’t let go. “S-sorry.”

  “Why do you keep apologizing, baby?”

  “I’m c-crying all over your shirt.”

  “Am I complaining?”

  She shook her head. “My mother’s dying.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  Her crying slowed. “I might never see her again.”

  He rested his forehead against hers. “I know, baby. I’m sorry you’re going through this. I know what’s it like to lose a mother, but I’ve never lost a mother like you are.”

  “I hate her, you know. I love her, and I hate her, and I want her to recognize me, and I want her to apologize for throwing me away, and I want…I want…”

  He rocked her gently in his arms. “I know.”

  She wiped her nose. “I’ll never get any of those things.”

  “I know.”

  She inhaled a few staggered breaths to keep from crying again. “Oh, jeez. I can’t believe I said I hate her. I feel so guilty. I feel like I’ve been a shitty daughter.”

  “No, you haven’t, baby.”

  “You weren’t there.”

  “I’m here now.” He brushed the tears from her cheeks. “I’ll tell you what I see. I see a woman who’s gone into some serious debt to care for a woman who threw her away. I see a woman so desperate for family and love that she reached out to a half-sibling and even put up with his shit for years because she wanted a family. I see a woman who wants to forgive her mother so bad, but she doesn’t realize she’s already done it.”

  He kissed her tear-coated lips. “Mi alma, you can have all those feelings for the people you love. You love your mother. She was a shitty mother, but that doesn’t mean you don’t still want her love and acceptance. You’re upset now not only because she’s dying, but because she’ll never be able to give that to you before she goes.”

  She sighed. “I think you’re right. That doesn’t make it easier.”

  “I know. There’s one other thing I know.”

  “Oh?”

  “Neither of our lives have been easy, baby, but things have changed. We have each other.”

  She pursed her lips. “You called yourself my boyfriend.”

  “I thought lover would be inappropriate.”

  Her eyes widened. “We haven’t—we’re not—”

  He tucked her close to him. “There’s more than one definition of lover. One is sexual—”

  She was now seriously blushing.

  “—and the other means someone who loves you.”

  Oh. My. God.

  “I love you.”

  Oh my God!

  “Did…did you just say you loved me?”

  He grinned. “Yeah, mi alma, I did. I love you.”

  “I…you…what?” Information overload!

  “I know you can’t process it right now, but I do love you. Think about it, let it sink in. I know I probably could have picked a better time to do it, but I don’t want to hold back with you.”

  He loved her. He loved her!

  But—and wasn’t there always a but?—there were still things they didn’t know about each other.

  “What are you worried about?”

  Where did she begin?

  “Talk to me, Amelia.”

  Time to let out all the messed up stuff in her head and see if he still loved her afterward. “You can do better than me.”

  One of his hands went into her hair. “Baby. I know that’s not true. There’s no one better for me than you.”

  She sucked in a breath.

  His voice was so kind. “Why would you think that?”

  She let the breath out. “I have all this stuff to deal with.”

  He waited for her to continue.

  “My mother and my father and Piers and whatever other siblings might come out, and my apartment and my debts and my other debts and my injuries, and, and, and I’m just waiting for the moment it gets too much for you and you leave.”

  A pause. “Is that all?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  He brushed his hand over her head and spoke so even and soft and kind. “Oh, mi alma. I’ve been through a lot of shit in my life, but if it meant I found you, I’d go through it all again. I love you. You’re not used to love. I’d forgotten what love felt like. Together, we’ll figure it out. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “That’s really sweet, but there is a lot of shit in my life.”

  “Mi alma, life is always full of shit. It’s not about avoiding the shit. You can’t do that. It’s about finding someone to go through the shit with you. You don’t care about my legs.”

  She jerked back a little. “I do.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t mean you don’t care about them. I mean you don’t care that I hav
e prosthetics, that I’ll always need a new pair, that they’ll always need adjusting. Does it bother you to go through all of that with me, day-in and day-out?”

  She sat up a little straighter in his lap. “Of course not. It’s just part of who you are.”

  He cupped her face. “And this shit? This is just part of who you are right now. We’ll get through it. You’re giving me all this goodness right now, you deserve to get it back, too.”

  She’d never thought of it like that.

  “You’re sweet, you’re cute, you’re awkward, you’re sexy, you’re talented…the list goes on. Not only that, but you take a lot of shit from people, for a variety of reasons, and you still manage to stay sweet, to care for other people. You’re so strong. You’re a survivor. You’re a fighter. So am I. I think that’s why we found each other.”

  She was going to cry again. “Hector, I…I don’t know what to say.”

  “Don’t say anything until you’re ready. As much as I want to push you into saying it back because I want to hear it, this has to happen on your own time. I’m not going anywhere. My love’s not going anywhere. One thing you can always count on is me. Take your time.”

  Tears were pooling in her eyes. “Hector. I—”

  “I love you, Amelia. You. All of you. Inside and out. I’m saying it now because I mean it. I’m saying it because you deserve to know you’re loved. I love you. You are loved.”

  She was glad her lip was healing because he kissed her, slow and steady, long and wet. It was minutes before he drew back.

  She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. “Don’t let me go.”

  “Never, baby.”

  “No, Hector. If you meant what you just said, don’t let me go. No matter what. Do you get me?”

  “I promise, mi alma. I won’t give up on you, I won’t let you go.”

  “Will you tell me what means now? Mi alma?”

  “My soul.”

  Wow.

  “That’s sweet. Thank you.”

  “Not hard to love you, Amelia.”

  Tears threatened but she held them back. Barely. Her lips brushed his ear. “Thank you for loving me. No one ever has before.”

  His arms tightened around her. “Baby.”

  “Thank you.” She kissed just behind his ear. Then she cupped his face and kissed his lips gently. “Thank you.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  One week later…

  * * *

  “I’m nervous.”

  Hector turned towards his woman, who was currently pacing in her apartment.

  With so many of them working together, it had only taken them a day to clean everything. Most of her possessions had to be thrown away; only a few bags, boxes, and bins of things remained. She didn’t know it yet, but all of that was coming with him back to his, or really their, place.

  The cops had gotten a lead on Paul and bugged his phone, but it had taken nearly a week for Paul to make plans to visit Amelia, so they’d set up the sting for tonight. The day he and Amelia had planned—visiting her mother, who was declining but hadn’t passed away, followed by a quiet night in—was gone, and now they were waiting in Amelia’s apartment.

  It was time.

  Sully was with them, loitering in her kitchen, and the cops were across the hall.

  Hector was on her sofa bed/couch. It would need to be discarded, too, but that pickup wouldn’t happen until next week. Though it was torn and the bed frame was broken, it was still usable for sitting.

  “Babe, sit down. Pacing won’t make them come sooner.”

  “They could be here at any moment.”

  “Or they could flake out on their plans and not come at all. These are not men known for their intelligence or consistency. You know they could change their minds and come another day.”

  She continued pacing but started waving her hands, as if they were wet and she was shaking off the water. “That means I’ll have to come back tomorrow and the day after and the day after that, until they finally put an end to this. And I’ll have to sleep here, and I don’t really want to sleep here, not only because my bed is trashed but—”

  He stood, walked over to her, grabbed her, and kissed her hard. When she ranted like that, he’d found kissing her was a good way to stop it. Usually he didn’t mind her rants going on for a while—it was cute, and it was her—but right now, she needed to be calm. If those assholes did come, being this wound up could put her in an even more dangerous situation.

  “Better, mi alma?”

  She nodded, and he was pleased to find her a little dazed.

  He took her hand and led her to the couch and they sat down. “We’ll handle it. Whenever they come—tonight, tomorrow, whenever—we’ll handle it. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Focus on something else for a while. What do you usually do to wind down?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing really. I mean, I liked to read, but they trashed all my books.”

  She sounded so fucking sad. He’d build her a fucking library when this shit was all over.

  “Though, even if I had a book, I don’t think I could focus on it right now.”

  He spied some of her jewelry supplies. “How do you design your jewelry?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean how do you pick your designs? Do you draw them out first, wing it, what?”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “You want to hear how I design my jewelry?”

  He nodded.

  “Oh, okay.” She didn’t sound like she believed him, but she went with it. “I don’t always draw the designs out first. I’m not the best drawer. Plus, I have to be really choosy with the supplies I buy, because they’re expensive for the good quality stuff. I tried selling the cheaper stuff, but it didn’t look all that great and I didn’t think people were coming back for more. So, I started saving and investing in better quality beads and things. I usually just look and see what I have and wing it from there.”

  She looked dejectedly at the bins semi-filled with errant jewelry-making supplies. “It’s going to take me forever to earn enough to replace everything. That’s why I can’t wait to go back to work.”

  “You’re not going back to work yet. You’re not recovered enough.”

  “Besides the jewelry stuff, I have bills to pay. Even the sick leave I have won’t last forever. I need money coming in.”

  She was right about that. Sick leave was expensive, but she—and his other employees—were worth it. However, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep a section of the pub closed. Maybe, after they settled this shit with her family, he’d go back to work at least, so they could reopen that section and bring in more cash.

  In the meantime, he had money saved he could give her, if it came to that. “I’ll give you the money.”

  “No.”

  “Amelia—”

  She stood and started pacing again. “No. I want to do this myself. This isn’t about me not accepting help, or something like that. It’s about me wanting to prove I can make it on my own, and that I can pay my debts off on my own. I don’t want your help with that.”

  He stared at her for a full five seconds before responding. “I get that, babe. I really do.”

  Her shoulders sagged in apparent relief.

  “But that’s bullshit.”

  Her shoulders tensed as she sucked in a breath. “Hector—”

  “I was in a similar place over a year ago. You think I didn’t want to prove I could make it on my own? Prove everyone wrong, and make the pub a success even though I had two prosthetics?”

  She frowned.

  “There is no way—and I mean no way—I could have achieved anything without help. And I don’t just mean the money Low lent me. I mean the emotional support he gave, the help my therapists gave me, the support of you and the rest of the staff. Babe, no one succeeds on their own. Anyone who tells you that is a fucking liar.”

  His head jerked back as the realization of his own w
ords hit him.

  He hadn’t got to this point on his own. He hadn’t been alone through any of it, and he’d still gotten here. Maybe he didn’t need to prove he could do everything and succeed on his own. Maybe he didn’t need to prove anything to himself at all.

  He’d already succeeded.

  Success wasn’t just achieving one goal, like making the pub viable. Success was achieving one goal, only to reach for the next.

  Learn how to take a step, then learn how to take two, then learn how to run.

  He’d done that with his prosthetics. He’d succeeded in making one step, then two, then he’d learned to drive in them, to move in them, and how to run in them.

  With his pub, he renovated it and reopened it. He’d hired staff—and the right staff at that—to help him run it. It would make more money, and he would pay Low back. He’d already succeeded and achieved some goals; he just had to keep going to succeed at the next.

  With his Amelia…he’d finally learned what it meant to love. He’d had love growing up, had the example of a good ma who taught him how a woman should be treated. He’d make mistakes, so would she, but they’d already succeeded and made it through so much together.

  They’d get through this, too.

  He held out his hand and she took it without hesitation.

  Progress.

  He pulled her down next to him—as in right next to him—and held her tight in his arms. “I know you’ve been dealing with this debt and these issues for a long time. You’ve worked hard to try and overcome them, and that’s why you’re pushing back on help now. You want to see it through. But seeing it through alone is not an option for you anymore.”

  She nodded, then rested her forehead against his chest. “I see your point. I just don’t like being told what to do.”

  “Nobody does. But you’re different. It’s not just that you don’t like being told what to do.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “It’s also the fact you’ve been independent for so long. You had no one to depend on. You can depend on me.”