“You can’t be serious.” I laugh. “I’m perfectly fine on my own, and—”
“You’re fine on your own, huh?” Stone says, raising his voice as he slowly shifts and stands up, swaying slightly on his feet. “That’s how you managed to nearly break your fucking leg.”
“I nearly broke my leg,” I seethe in a low voice through gritted teeth, “because I found out you were married with a kid. So why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” Now I’m yelling.
“I thought we already went through this!” Stone shouts back. “I didn’t know I had a damn kid until yesterday! You think I wanted any of this?”
“Guys!” Ruth yells, and we both look over at her in surprise. I’d forgotten she was even there. My eyes drift slowly toward the person next to her and my heart sinks as I look at his tear-stained face.
“Zeke,” I say, choking on tears as I try to move the crutches around to go to him.
“Don’t,” Ruth snaps at me as I watch Zeke rush outside, slamming the screen door behind him. “You two have some serious shit to work out, and this poor kid doesn’t need to hear it. I’ll take him to my house for the night. You need to work things out, pronto.”
Stone rubs a hand over his head and looks a little dazed. “Fine,” he mutters, turning on his heels and walking into the kitchen. I hear the fridge door open, the rattle of the glass bottles as he grabs another beer.
“I can’t stay here,” I plead to Ruth, but she’s in no mood to listen to my complaining.
“I don’t frankly care,” she spits. “You guys need to sort your shit. Like it or not, there’s a kid to think about now. Clearly, the both of you need to grow up.”
I hate knowing she’s right.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she says in a softer voice. “I know it’s hard to believe, Shan, but he needs you.”
I watch her leave with Zeke in her car, sighing as I rake a hand through my hair. My legs are burning from the effort it takes to stand, and my headache is back and worse than ever.
I lean my head against the cool windowpane, staring out at the darkening sky. Ruth is right, of course. Stone and I have a lot of crap to work through. I feel terrible that Zeke overheard the cruel words his own father said, but I also know Stone didn’t mean any of it. He’s drunk, stressed and probably feels very alone. I have to find a way to help them both, starting with Stone.
I just don’t know how I’m going to get through to him.
I slam the fridge door closed and walk out the door onto the back porch. There’s still a steady drizzle of rain left over from last night, and the air has a slight chill. I feel goose bumps rise on my forearms as I open my beer and lift it to my lips, the fight leaving my body as the cool alcohol runs down my throat. I move to sit on the two-seater couch, swallowing another mouthful of beer before placing the open bottle on the small table in front of the couch. The table has various books and magazines scattered across it, a habit I picked up from Grandma. “Always make sure you have something to read when you need to relax,” she’d taught me. I’m still fuming from my fight with Shannon. I can’t believe she said those things in front of my son. What business is it of hers how much I drink?
I’m angry, but is it at Shannon or myself? Was she right? Do I drink too much? I know I’ve had a hard time coping since getting back home, but surely I can’t be that bad, can I? If you have to ask, you already know the answer, my mind taunts.
I groan as I sit back on the couch, picking up my beer and taking another swig. Just as the bottle touches my lips, a loud crack of thunder shakes the porch and I jump, dropping my bottle as I drop to the ground behind the table and cower with my head buried in my hands, fearing the bullets as they kick up the dirt around me. I sit there shaking for a few minutes until I can slow my breathing. I gradually lift my head as the tightness in my chest eases and my hazy vision starts to clear. I hate these flashbacks. I never know when they’ll occur, and they always seem so real.
I lean down and pick up the bottle, cursing under my breath as I see it’s now empty. I briefly contemplate getting another one. It would be so damn easy to have another, to lose myself once more in the amber liquid that seems to give me all my courage as of late.
But I can’t bring myself to do it.
I sit back with a small growl of disgust as I run a hand over my head. This is ridiculous. I can’t even have a beer now without feeling fucking guilty for it. This is my house, dammit, my rules. If Shannon and Zeke can’t respect that, then I’m not forcing them to stay. But you are, the rational part of my brain reminds me. You won’t let Shannon leave until her leg’s better. I close my eyes and rub my temple with my index and middle fingers, a headache coming on. Why did all this crap have to happen now? I’m not ready for a kid or a woman. A fire starts low in my belly, slowly licking upwards as it burns, consuming all coherent thought and igniting an anger in my heart. Who the fuck does Grace think she is? She can’t just leave me hanging for fourteen years then waltz back in like nothing happened with a fucking kid.
I stand up so suddenly I flip the small table in front of me, scattering books and magazines everywhere. Another clap of thunder passes overhead but I hardly notice, and I don’t care. I run my hands over my face as I pace back and forth in front of the couch. Why the fuck didn’t she tell me? So many years have passed, and she couldn’t be bothered writing a letter? Making a phone call? She’s nothing more than a selfish bitch who wants to play with my head, punish me for what I did fourteen years ago. I fucking hate her.
I walk down the stairs and into the rain, the biting cold doing nothing to dissuade the fire burning hotly inside me. What the hell did I do to deserve this? Did our time together, however short, mean absolutely nothing to her? I loved her.
I loved her as much as any real man loves his wife. What I did, I did for her. I did for the family we might have one day . . . for our son.
Our son.
All at once, the fight leaves my body. I collapse to my knees in the rain, ignoring the familiar twinge of pain in my injured leg. Tears spring to my eyes and I don’t try to stop them as they pour down my cheeks. It’s a relief to finally unburden myself this way. I can feel the top layer of fourteen years wash away, mixed with the rain and my tears. My chest heaves with exertion and my lungs seem as though they might burst.
I can’t do this. I’m not ready. How am I meant to look after a kid when I clearly can’t even look after myself? I need help. Oh, God, won’t someone help me? I’m drowning in so much emotion, my mind is screaming and no amount of closing my eyes will stop the voices. Am I going mad? Have I finally completely lost my mind?
I lie back against the cold ground, the smell of wet grass filling my senses as the rain continues to fall around me. Water goes into my eyes, but I just blink it away. I’m past caring, beyond physical pain. I’m numb.
Overhead, the storm intensifies, but it’s nothing compared to the storm that’s raging inside of me. The wind howls through the trees, swaying the branches dangerously close to the ground. The rain hits me mercilessly, sending rivulets of water running down my face, my abs, my arms. I welcome the cold. It mirrors the emptiness inside me.
Night falls, yet I stay right where I am. My clothes are soaked through, plastered to my skin as it continues to rain, but it doesn’t convince me to move indoors. A bolt of lightning streaks across the night sky, lighting the entire area around me. I turn my head against the sudden light, blinking away the rain drops from my eyelashes. I blink again as a figure in white appears on the porch. I’ve never believed in angels, but right now I’m pretty sure I’m looking at one. She’s dressed in a long, white gown, her golden curls cascading around her tiny waist. Through my drunken haze, I can see she’s struggling to walk with a crutch. Anger washes over me at the thought that she might be injured. Who would harm such a delicate and beautiful creature?
She steps out into the rain, leaning heavily on a wooden crutch. I want to call out, tell her to get out of the rain, but my tongue sticks
to the roof of my mouth, making words impossible. I can do nothing but stare at her helplessly as she approaches. She doesn’t look like an ordinary angel. Her lips are formed into a tight, thin line, and her brow is creased as she frowns at me. She’s saying something, but I can feel myself slipping away as the alcohol takes its toll on my body. I can see her lips moving, but I can’t make out the words. Her hand stings as it connects with my cheek and I open my eyes fully to see her standing directly above me, her hand raised to strike again.
She’s clearly pissed off . . . at me.
What the hell is he doing out here, and how the fuck am I meant to get him inside?
I brace the crutch under my arm and lean down, grabbing his hand. “Come on,” I mutter to myself, uselessly trying to pull him up without slipping over. The bandage on my leg is making things increasingly difficult. I’m just glad I had the foresight to wrap it in plastic wrap to stop it from getting wet. I finally manage to get Stone to sit up, and I put his arm around my shoulder to help him to his feet. He’s so heavy, it takes an almost inhuman strength to move. I grit my teeth against the pain in my leg as I contemplate dropping him back to the wet ground and going to bed . . . it’d be so easy.
He stumbles against me but thankfully doesn’t fall as he leans heavily against me and we move inside. I get him into his bedroom, but it’s a slow process because of my leg. He sits on the edge of the bed as I hobble around, gathering a towel from the bathroom and turning on the heat. I return to the bed and maneuver myself to sit in the wheelchair opposite him. He’s sitting there silently, his head downcast. The earlier anger I felt begins to dissipate. He looks so helpless, so lost.
My hands move to the bottom of his black tank top, and I suck in a breath as my fingertips connect with rock-hard muscle. For an alcoholic, he sure has an amazing body. I silently remove his tank top, my heart breaking all over again as I see the scars that mar his upper torso. My fingers stretch out and lightly trace one, pulling back when he flinches. What horrors has he faced to receive those scars? I wrestle off the remainder of his clothes and lay him back against the pillows with the quilt pulled up to his waist. It’s kind of ironic; I’ve just stripped off the clothes of an incredibly sexy man, yet I feel no desire churning in my gut. Instead, it’s a nurturing, almost motherly sensation. I want to protect him, take care of him.
I grip the edge of the bed for support and carefully stand up, keeping the pressure off my injured leg. I grab one of the crutches and brace it under my arm. But instead of leaving right away, I pause, staring down at Stone. He’s fallen asleep, the stain of hours’ worth of tears still evident on his cheeks. It breaks my heart. I can’t stand to see him this way.
I turn to leave when he grabs my free hand, almost toppling me over. I glance over my shoulder, and my heart skips a beat at the intense stare he’s giving me. He says just one word.
“Stay.”
Swallowing past the sudden lump in my throat, I mutely nod in agreement. Carefully moving around to the other side of the bed, I sit on the edge and strip off my own wet clothes, pulling on one of his long t-shirts I find on the ground. My hair is soaked, sticking to the back of my neck, and I quickly pull it up into a bun, securing it with the tie I always keep around my wrist. I can feel his eyes watching me, but I can’t bring myself to turn around. Propping the crutch against the nightstand, I slide carefully beneath the quilt with my back to him. It’s a little difficult with my injured leg, but I manage to position myself somewhat comfortably on the bed.
Just as I’m drifting off to sleep Stone rolls over, draping his large arm heavily across my waist, pulling my back into his chest. I freeze, holding my breath as he mumbles something unintelligent in his sleep. I expect him to wake up any second, but he doesn’t and I slowly relax into his arms. I don’t sleep. Even though I’m exhausted, my eyes remain wide open, staring into the dark of the bedroom. The rain continues to fall outside, the howl of the wind echoing the cries in my heart. Everything is screaming at me to leave, get out now. He’s too broken, too damaged. He can never care for me the way I . . .
The way I do for him.
I jerk at the realization and Stone turns over in his sleep, his back now to me. I immediately miss the warmth of his chest against my back. I care for him. I almost hate to admit it, but it’s true. When did it happen? How? We barely know one another, and yet he’s managed to completely turn my life upside-down.
And poor Zeke. I can only imagine what he must be going through right now. Torn from the arms of his mother, placed with a father who never knew he existed until recently. Who’s so fucked-up that he can barely look after himself, let alone a kid. Tears form in my eyes and I quickly brush them away as I take a deep, shuddering breath. Stone can never know how I feel. He needs help, not a woman.
I sit up straight in bed, a thought occurring to me. Stone mumbles again, but stays asleep. Glancing down at him as a flash of lightning lights up the room, I flinch when I see the long, jagged scars across his back. Grabbing the crutch next to the bed, I carefully maneuver my way around the dark room, exiting into the living room where I left my bag. I flip on the lamp as I sit on the couch and rummage through my handbag, searching for my purse. I pull it out and sort through the numerous cards until I find the one I’m looking for.
Dr. Evelyn James
Psychologist of alcoholism and treatment
I check the time on the small digital clock next to the lamp: 8 p.m. It may not be too late yet.
I had first met Dr. James when I dated Troy. I’d been in one of the local homeless shelters, escaping his fists, when she’d found me crying into a bowl of vegetable soup. She’d been the first person to listen to me in such a long time that I found myself unburdening ten years’ worth of despair right there at the table. She’d never judged me, simply gave me her card and told me to call if I ever needed her.
Well, I need her.
Grabbing the cordless phone next to the clock, I punch in the number and wait as it rings. I’m just about to give up when she answers. “Hello?” a polite, yet tired woman answers. Hope blooms inside me as I recognize her voice.
“Dr. James?” I say breathlessly. “I don’t know if you’ll remember me, but my name is Shannon Harper. We met a few years ago at a soup kitchen.”
“Shannon,” Dr. James says, sounding surprised. “It’s such a pleasure to hear from you again. Of course I remember you.”
Tears immediately well up in my eyes as I hear her friendly voice. It’s not likely that she really does remember me, but the fact that she’s pretending warms my heart. It’s not long before I find myself pouring my heart out once again. Only this time, there’s no vegetable soup.
“Dear me,” Dr. James says gently once I’m finished speaking and the tears have dried up. “It sounds like you’ve got yourself in quite a situation.”
“I know.” I sigh, raking a hand through my hair. “But what can I do about it?”
“This Stone,” Dr. James says. “Do you think he wants to be helped?”
“I don’t know if he wants help,” I admit, shaking my head even though she can’t actually see me. “But I know he needs it.”
“Then you need to help him,” Dr. James says matter-of-factly.
“How?” I ask. How do you even begin to help a man as damaged as Ethan Stone? I stay on the phone with Dr. James for another hour as she helps me understand a little more about what Stone might be going through.
By the time I hang up, I know what I have to do.
I groan as Shannon opens the curtains, throwing a hand over my eyes to block the sudden light.
“Good morning, sunshine,” she sings as she moves around the room, albeit a little slowly in the wheelchair.
“What time is it?” I ask, cracking open my eyes as I lower my arm to watch her. She’s wearing one of my long shirts with no pants. Her hair is thrown up in a messy bun, but there’s a twinkle in her eye. I have the feeling that twinkle will be trouble.
“It’s almost noon.�
� She smiles brightly, and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. She’s so damn beautiful. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and sit up. My head is pounding and as beautiful as Shannon is, her happy mood is starting to grate on my nerves just a little bit.
“What are you doing?” I ask, watching as she wheels around the room, grabbing my clothes off the floor. I glance down and feel my face flush. “Did you undress me?”
“Of course,” she replies, glancing at me in surprise. “You couldn’t expect me to let you sleep in wet clothes, could you?”
“Of course not,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief.
“Great.” She smiles, her arms full of dirty clothes. “Where’s your washing machine?”
“Um, it’s out the back on the porch,” I answer, wiping the sleep from my eyes. “But leave it; I’ll get it later.”
“It’s fine,” Shannon says, turning the wheelchair around. “I’ll be right back.”
She leaves the room, and I pull on a pair of black shorts and walk out into the living room, but I stop dead when I see it. The whole room is spotless. All the beer bottles have been cleared away, the empty takeaway containers thrown out. She’s even cleaned the couch and scrubbed the coffee table. The whole room smells like a combination of flowers and bleach. It hasn’t looked this way in months.
I shake my head and walk out onto the back porch. Shannon is humming a country tune as she dumps the clothes into the front loader and turns it on. I watch as she carefully spins the chair around and wheels over to the upturned table. The wheel bumps into it and I hurry to help her. “Let me,” I offer, picking the table up effortlessly and standing it upright. She beams at me, and it’s like a ray of fucking sunshine straight to my heart.
“Thank you,” she says as she straightens the books and magazines. “Why don’t you head in and put some coffee on? I’ll be along in a minute.”
Imperfect Page 11
