by Nicole Helm
“You…you do what?”
“I love you.”
“Gabe.” His name whooshed out of her, and she moved for him, but he held out a hand, and that bubble of hope burst. Quick and painful.
“But I don’t want this. You or love or a life with your kid. I don’t want it. I don’t want to love you, and I really don’t want you to love me. I want nothing to do with your future. I won’t be that little boy again, and love would make me.”
“No, it—”
“Yes, it would.” He was so calm. So sure. Any mixed emotions had disappeared, and there was only this aura of…leadership, almost. Like a man who’d given an order to blow up a village and simply knew it was the right thing to do. “You asked me what I want. I don’t want this.”
She reached out for something solid and found the door behind her. Somehow, she was still standing even though he’d ripped the floor out from under her. She tried to breathe past the shock of pain, the horrible realization that he’d found a way to undermine everything she’d thought, been sure of.
She could fight his refusals. She could even fight his insistence she didn’t love him or he didn’t love her. She knew the truth. He’d never convince her otherwise.
But him admitting he loved her and saying he didn’t want it? She had no words for that. No way to fight the crushing blow it was. She couldn’t make him want anything. He had to make that choice on his own, with absolutely no help from her.
“Goodbye, Monica,” he muttered.
Then, he finally got what he’d wanted this whole time. She moved out of the way of the door, and he walked out of it.
Chapter 23
Gabe hadn’t allowed himself to think of Jenna in years. That night had haunted him for so long. As big of a betrayal as any, but then war had suddenly made that old life seem trivial, and his mother and Evan had made it very clear no one in the family wanted anything to do with him.
Who cared if the sister he’d once protected had been used against him and his family wanted to cut him off forever? There were worse horrors in the world.
He shouldn’t have told Monica. Shouldn’t have brought it all back up. But he’d thought… In the heat of the moment, he’d thought he’d say it in a way that would disgust her, but he should have known better. Should have known she’d see right through him.
Still, no regrets, because it had brought him to the realization of what he had to do. He couldn’t manipulate or blank-face stubborn Monica into understanding. He had to use the truth.
He pulled the truck to a stop in front of the bunkhouse, almost marveling that he’d gotten here. He didn’t remember the drive. He’d been in a numb fog that felt suspiciously like shock.
What a joke. Shock was for grenade blasts and dying men.
Not some weird fantasy world that had come to life for a brief, brief period of time and had come to its rightful, necessary end.
He stared at the bunkhouse through his windshield. The night was dark, but Becca’s Christmas lights glowed against the huge drifts of snow. He could make out paths to and from the house and the stables and barn, clearly plowed by one of the ranch vehicles. But no one had attempted to dig out the bunkhouse. It stood nearly covered halfway up, some places higher where the wind had blown the snow against the building.
He would have to dig himself in. That was fine. Good even. No use fooling about with a snowplow attachment to the UTV. He’d dig himself in the old-fashioned way.
He turned off the truck and followed the first path from the shoveled-out drive to the barn. He hunted for a shovel and then got to work.
He counted each shovel strike against the snow, each toss of the snow off the shovel. One, two, three. One hundred and one, two, three. Count, count, count, so his mind couldn’t dwell, think, bargain, argue.
One hundred and fifty.
“Gabe.”
Gabe jumped a foot, immediately disgusted with himself for the complete lack of awareness. But it had taken all of his focus and attention to keep his mind on the numbers, not the thoughts or feelings.
“What?” he muttered, not even bothering to look back at Alex. He focused on the fact he was almost to the door.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Okay that wasn’t the right question. Why are you digging into the bunkhouse when you know you can stay in the house? Better than trying to warm the bunkhouse up after it’s been shut up. Come on.”
“No.” Gabe didn’t have to look at Alex to know his expression would be all confusion. Both at the fact his order was being refused and at the whole situation.
“Don’t be stupid. If you’re all worked up about PDA, Becca and I will stand on opposite sides of the room.”
Some dim corner of Gabe’s brain acknowledged that was supposed to be a joke, but he couldn’t find it in him to smile or joke back.
“Go away.”
There was a heavy silence, and if Gabe could have thought straight, he’d have played this differently. Acting like a surly, injured animal was only going to make Alex start poking. But the best he could do was count. Count and move forward.
“So I guess the question is: Are you pissed with yourself because you slept with her, or because you didn’t?”
Gabe stopped midtoss, the snow dribbling off the shovel and back to the little square he’d just cleared. Slowly, he turned to face Alex. Red and green lights danced across the brim of his hat and Gabe couldn’t see his expression.
“What are you talking about?”
“You and Monica. Being trapped in a cabin with her for a few days… Full disclosure, we have a bet.”
“A bet.”
“Me, Bec, Jack, and Rose.”
“On whether or not Monica and I slept together.”
“Yes.”
“You, Alex McGuire, bet on someone else’s sex life?” The most un-Alex action was almost enough to penetrate the numbing fog pushing him down.
“Well, truth be told, I wasn’t going to, but the losers have to clean up Christmas dinner. I was told by not participating, I would be considered a loser. I really don’t want to do dishes.”
Gabe just grunted, focusing back on his work. He was almost there, and then he could do two very important things. First, get rid of Alex. Second, drink himself into oblivion.
“It’s freezing out here, Gabe. Come on. Let’s go.”
“Almost done.”
“You can’t stay out here.”
“Sure I can.”
“Gabe. I’m going to be pissed if Becca gets bundled up and comes out here just because you’re being stubborn. Drop the shovel. We’ll dig out the bunkhouse and get it warmed up tomorrow. Now is not the time.”
“Sorry, Dad, last time I checked, I get to make my own choices.”
“Come inside,” Alex said in that commander’s voice that had all of Gabe’s temper snapping against that cold fog of numbness.
He slammed the shovel hard into the snow, turning to face Alex fully. “I’m not going in that house. You’ll have to knock me out and drag me. Either figure out a way to do that, or fuck off.”
Alex crossed his arms over his chest, and though Gabe couldn’t see his face due to the darkness, he could perfectly picture Alex raising his eyebrows.
“I see. So you did sleep with her.”
“W-what?”
“You’d be pissed if you didn’t, but not shut-down pissed.”
“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Gabe muttered, yanking the shovel out of the snow and going back to work.
“The only thing that ever pisses you off is something you can’t control or shrug off as being one of life’s great cruelties. The only thing that ever truly pisses you off is feeling something you don’t want to feel.”
“I didn’t realize you wer
e itching for a fight, Alex. I guess I could knock you on your ass again, if you wanted me to.”
“You could. But maybe you could try to listen instead. You make very sure everyone knows you’ve got a chip on your shoulder, but not why. And why would anyone push? You’re fun-loving Gabe. Quick with a grin and a joke and a sidestep should it get a little too real.”
“Been there for plenty of your real moments.”
“You have. So why don’t I be there for yours?”
One, two, three. Gabe counted, breathing with it. Shove, scoop, lift, throw. Four, five, six.
“You have forty-eight hours.”
Seven, eight… He turned to look at Alex. “What?”
“Forty-eight hours to get yourself out of this little snit on your own, and then Jack and I interfere.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Alex smiled, turning into the Christmas lights glowing from the house. The smile was one Gabe had nearly forgotten. The kind Alex used to flash at a guy who tried to challenge him.
“Doubt you want to find out, brother.”
* * *
Monica had promised herself, over and over, on the plane ride to Denver that she wasn’t going to cry when she saw Colin. After all, she’d spent days crying at this point. Crying and trying to figure out a solution to this horrible, horrible heartbreak.
There didn’t seem to be one. Maybe she’d find a Christmas miracle, but before she could, she needed to pick up her son. She needed to have Christmas with her family and enjoy that. Really, really enjoy it.
Heartbreak happened. Loss definitely happened. In those breaks and losses, leaning on and loving her family had always given her the strength to keep on moving.
So, yes, when she saw her parents drive up to the airport’s pickup curb, Colin’s dark head visible in the back window, she started to cry. Not a particularly pretty cry either, but she hefted her carry-on bag into the trunk of her parents’ car and then slid into the back seat next to Colin.
She pulled him to her, rough and tight. “I missed you so much.” Teardrops dripped into his hair, and she felt a kind of relaxation take over her body. Whatever had happened or would happen back at the ranch, she had this amazing boy.
He’d grow up and go on his own someday, but he’d always be hers.
“Ugh, Mom. Really.” But Colin didn’t squirm or push her away. His displeasure was all verbal, while he snuggled a little closer inside her tight embrace.
She held on to him the whole way back to her parents’ house. Mom had a roast in the slow cooker and the house smelled like Monica’s childhood Christmases—meat and baking with the faintest hint of evergreen.
It made her joyful and sad all at the same time. She’d celebrated her son’s first Christmas in this house, but her childhood Christmases had been spent anywhere and everywhere. Still, the smell tied all those years together. The smell and her parents and…
She didn’t want to cry again. So, at dinner, she incited her father into an argument over presidents. She guessed gifts with Colin under the tree. She put Colin to bed in his old room, and when she went downstairs afterward, her mother handed her a drink.
“Alcoholic,” Mom assured her.
Monica lifted the boozy hot chocolate to her mouth and took a sip. “You’re the best mom.”
Mom laughed, then patted the couch cushion next to her. “Have a sit, my girl.”
“Why does this feel like every teenage inquisition I was ever treated to?”
“It’s different.”
“How?”
Mom pointed at the mug. “The alcohol.”
Monica laughed, the weird, nostalgic relaxation washing over her all over again. “I miss you.”
“We miss you too. I’d point out you can move back, but I suppose you already know that.”
“I love you both, and I miss you both, but I love it there. More than even I had hoped I would.”
“So why are you sad?”
Monica looked at the prettily decorated tree. She could tell where Mom had let Colin help decorate because a bunch of Broncos-related ornaments hung in a clump at the center. She’d once done the same with her favorite ornaments, but Mom had always spread them out after Monica had gone to bed.
“Monica.”
She blew out a breath. “Well, I made the mistake of falling in love.”
Mom tsked. “Not with another military man.”
“Afraid so.”
“Irresistible, aren’t they? Let me guess, the dark-haired one who made eyes at you the whole time we were there.”
“Made eyes at me,” Monica scoffed.
“Couldn’t take them off you. The minute your father and I were alone, I told him that man was in love with our daughter.”
“What did Daddy say to that?”
“If I remember correctly, he grunted and changed the subject.” Mom sipped from her mug thoughtfully. “Love shouldn’t make you sad, sweetheart.”
“No, it shouldn’t. And it doesn’t. Loving him doesn’t make me sad at all, but…” Monica studied her mother. This woman had made a marriage with a difficult man in a difficult situation. She’d stayed with him through war and PTSD, and Monica had never once doubted her mother’s love or devotion to her father, even when she’d doubted her own.
But Mom was also a force. She let her opinion be known, and Monica had made it a habit to never ask for advice or help. Mom usually gave it whether Monica wanted it or not, but with some hindsight and some rough patches in her own life, Monica realized she’d been remiss, because her mother was one of the strongest, most self-reliant women Monica had ever known.
“When Dad… After he came back and he wasn’t… When he…”
Mom raised an eyebrow. “You’ve become a therapist for men with PTSD and you’re afraid to say the words to me?”
“I think I’m afraid to utter the words under his roof.”
Mom smiled a little at that. “When your father came back from Desert Storm suffering from severe PTSD… Go on.”
“How did you keep believing? How did you stick by him even when it was so bleak?” And it had been bleak. Monica remembered the fear. The bursts of temper. At her. At Mom. At himself. It had been sad and scary, and Mom had never once acted it. Not in front of Monica.
Mom looked at her mug. “I made vows,” she said carefully. “I wasn’t going to break them.”
“Is that all that got you through?”
“Some days.” She lifted her gaze, her lips twisting wryly. “I’m not going to lie to you.”
“You never have.”
Mom chuckled a little at that, then sighed. “I know my practicality can be harsh sometimes, but I always thought that was best, and it got me through a lot of days, too. The reality was your father wasn’t the man I loved, but I believed the man I loved was still there. Or if not, that someone was there I could love. Love…” Mom smiled. “That was what got me through. Oh, I worried. I was deeply afraid whatever love he had was dead, but mine wasn’t. I don’t believe in a lot of intangible things, Monica, as you well know, but I believe in love.”
Mom reached out, cupped Monica’s cheek. “I believe in it because I’ve been surrounded by it. Your grandparents, your father—before war and then after his own—you, my baby girl. Oh, the love I’ve felt for you. Honestly, that was what got me through. Love. My mother, you. It all gave me the strength to keep loving him, even when he wasn’t him at all.” Mom dropped her hand. “So, your man has PTSD?”
Monica shook her head. “No. Actually, he doesn’t. But he had a horrible childhood with very little love, and I don’t think… He doesn’t seem to believe in it.”
“So he doesn’t love you back.”
“That’s the worst part. He said he did. He said he loved me, but he doesn’t want to. He says he doesn’t want it. Love. Us. A rel
ationship. I spent two days trying to…understand that. But I can’t. And I can’t fight it. If he doesn’t want love, to love me or me to love him, how can I fight that?”
“I wish I had a very practical answer for that. A map or steps you could follow.”
“But you don’t. Because it’s impossible. I can’t fight it.”
“If you love him, you can fight anything. Trite advice, but the truth.” Mom shrugged. “Even when you don’t know how, even when you think it’s useless, even when it would be easier to turn around and walk away. That’s what I did with your father. I guess I was too stubborn to give up even when it felt hopeless. For you. For me. For the man I loved. I just kept fighting, and you know, the damnedest thing happened.”
“What?” Monica croaked through her tight, scratchy throat.
Mom smiled, but a tear dropped over her cheek. “One day, we were sitting down, eating breakfast. It was a day like any other. He looked up at me across the table, and he said, ‘Lorraine, I’m going to see that therapist.’ No warning. No inciting incident. Just suddenly, after years, long, painful years of ups and downs, he finally agreed. Love isn’t a thunderstorm. It’s the way a river cuts through rock over time.” She reached out and squeezed Monica’s arm. “I’m sorry you didn’t have that chance with Dex, but if you have a chance now…”
“How long do I fight though? Just…forever?”
“As long as you love, you fight. Unless it’s hurting you or Colin in a damaging way. Love hurts, but it should never damage.”
“My, you got wise,” Monica managed, though her throat felt too tight and everything hurt and ached.
“Lord, what I’ve had to go through to find that wisdom. I don’t wish it on anyone.” But Mom said it with a grin.
Monica didn’t know that she felt sure or settled or even brave enough to follow all that advice, but here, curled up on the couch with her mother, talking as both mother and daughter and two adults, with Christmas lights shining, she felt something a lot closer to hope than she had the past few days.
