by Cecy Robson
“Can I ask you something?”
He nods, but he already knows where I’m headed. “Was that your mother who came by today?”
“It was.” His hand pauses over where it’s slid to my lower back, the motion is brief, but I notice anyway. “Hilliard is her fourth husband’s name.” He shrugs. “If she’s still with him.”
“She’s been married four times?” He nods. “What makes me think she stopped being your mother long before that?”
“Probably because she never was,” he admits.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I inch closer, causing my breast to tilt against his chest. “I’m not one to push.” I smirk when he raises his brows. “Okay. I am. But only when it matters, and this seems to matter, even though you don’t want it to.”
I free my hand to stroke his face. Does he have any idea I would do anything for him? I want to tell him, but words, those that mean anything, have always been tough for me to share. I’ve told him as much, but I can’t be sure how much he really understands.
“You haven’t been the same since you saw her,” I remind him.
“I don’t mean to act differently,” he says. “Especially around you, and I don’t want my issues with her to affect us. But if I’m being honest, I’m more concerned about you.”
“I know. That doesn’t mean we should ignore everything else.” I scan his features as my brain hooks onto something he said. “What makes you think she’ll come between us?”
“Because as much as I’ve wanted to let go of my past, the bitterness I feel toward her remains.”
“I think I know what you mean,” I say. I smile softly, not that there’s anything to smile about after such a shitty day. “I’ll tell you what. You tell me about your mommy issues, and I’ll tell you about my daddy ones. But if you don’t want to, that’s okay, too.”
I’m trying to lighten the mood, but he sees right through me. “It was bad for you, wasn’t it?”
“It was,” I answer truthfully. “But I get the feeling it wasn’t a good time for you either.”
I shudder, but it’s not from the cold. The thought of anyone hurting Evan makes me want to come out swinging and scares the daylights out of me. That doesn’t stop me from wanting to know.
He reaches for the blanket at our feet, and tucks it around us. That’s what Evan does, seals me with his warmth and his heart, even when I try and pretend I don’t need it.
“I’ve never spoken to anyone about this,” he says, almost like he’s thinking out loud.
“Why?” I place my head on his chest when he rolls onto his back, seeking comfort from our closeness.
“There’s been no one to tell,” he explains. His voice fades. “Until now.”
“Same here,” I admit. He tilts his head as if unsure whether to believe me. He knows I have a minimum of ten people on speed dial I could pour my heart out to. But I wouldn’t because it’s not something I do. But if I did, they’d be here.
Evan doesn’t have a long list of people. He has me. And the way I feel, he always will.
“I didn’t go to boarding school by choice,” he begins. “My mother sent me away when my father fell ill.”
It feels like someone just slapped me in the face. “Jesus, why?”
“Because she finally could, and he was too ill to stop her.” He rests his temple over my head when I scoot up, his voice casual despite the pain.
“My father was twenty years my mother’s senior and was never in optimal health,” he says, keeping his voice quiet. “When he was eight, he was diagnosed with leukemia. The aggressive treatment left him weak and his body never fully recovered as you can imagine.”
“I can’t even imagine,” I answer him truthfully. “That must have been hell.”
“I’m certain it was. He often joked about always being the last one picked on a team and how he was the smallest among his peers. But he was brilliant and used his strengths and talents to build an empire.”
He’s smiling fondly. There’s not even a hint of anger or sadness. That doesn’t mean I’m not feeling enough for the both of us. “You loved your father,” I say.
“I still do,” he admits.
“Then why would your mother send you away? You and your dad, needed each other.”
“My mother never wanted children,” he says. “A fact she kept from my father until several years into their marriage.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Why didn’t she want them, or why didn’t she tell him sooner?”
This is all sorts of fucked up, but I’m trying not to show it. FYI, I’m doing a shitty job. “Both. That’s not something you keep from someone you’re marrying.”
“My family comes from money. My father’s side invested well and thrived for years, while my mother’s family came close to losing everything.” He takes a small breath. “Until she met my father. His family’s fortune saved what remained of hers.”
“I see,” I say, my voice clipped.
“I didn’t have a mother who demonstrated affection or one who was willing to spend time with me. But I had a father who committed to being the best father and role model he could be.” The affection in his voice shows me what his father meant to him, but it doesn’t last. “I knew from a very young age to keep my distance from her, and not ask for anything. That didn’t stop me from wanting to be close to her.”
“What would happen if you approached her?” I sit up slightly when he doesn’t answer, my heartbeat slowing like it does when I know I’m going to hear something awful. “Was she abusive?”
“Not in the way you’re thinking,” he says, his voice dropping. “She’d ignore me, or leave. Often for days, claiming she needed to take a holiday. Children . . . they know when they’re not wanted or loved. So they learn not to ask for or expect more than they’re used to.”
“Why did she send you away?” I ask. He frowns as if unsure what I mean. “If she’d up and leave, why didn’t she stay away permanently? It didn’t have to be you she sent packing.”
“It did have to be me,” he says. “You’re forgetting, I wasn’t necessary. My father’s money was. It’s the only reason she agreed to have me. He’d begun to pull away, and she wanted to hang onto him, or rather, hang onto his wealth.”
I’m not naive. I know people like that exist. I just never expected one of them to be Evan’s mom.
“Wealth is something she feels entitled to,” he explains. “It’s all she knows.”
But what she needed to know was love. Not for herself. For Evan who needed it most.
I embrace him. As strong as he is, I want to shield him, not because he can’t handle anything that comes, but because he’s already handled enough on his own.
His arms sweep along my back as he murmurs against my hair. “I knew my father was dying. No one had to tell me. I was furious God would take away the only person who loved me.”
“Evan . . .” I say. It’s the only word that comes. He’d told me it was too hard to talk about his parents. But I had no idea how bad things were.
“Dad had such a tremendous heart,” he tells me, his features gathering that look people get when they’re remembering the pain they’ve felt. “And more money than any one person could ever need, but neither was enough and it enraged me.
I began to act out. My mother used it as an excuse to send me away, insisting to those close to Dad that my presence would only kill him sooner.” He huffs. “As it was, in my absence his condition deteriorated quicker and she had plenty of space to do as she wished.”
The resentment in his features morphs into an anger that seems almost foreign to a man as kind as Evan. I can already guess what happened, and he knows as much. He tells me anyway. By now, Pandora’s Box is already open, the evil he’s seen is flying out.
“My father admitted to a close friend that he never intended to marry someone so young. However my mother pursued him, enticing him and convincing him she was the woman he’d dreamed of, and would give h
im the children he feared he’d never have.”
His demeanor steels and he quiets. “She used him,” I finish for him.
“And many more following his death.” The muscles along his broad chest tense. “My mother never had the drive to work, but she possessed the charm and beauty to seduce any man of her choosing. She took many lovers. Some married, some older. It didn’t matter, they all gave her what she wanted. But that was then. Now that she’s older, neither men nor money come as easily.”
“Is that why she came to see you today? She wants more money?”
“It’s the only reason she ever comes,” he responds.
His voice isn’t angry. In a way, I wish it was. It’s better than the hurt.
I give him a moment to gather his thoughts. His attention lowers, as if analyzing the way our bare skin touches, and how close we are at this moment.
Except when he looks up, it’s not to talk about us, it’s to share another piece of himself. “My father realized, too late in life, that he’d been used. He knew he was dying. But what killed him was recognizing that he’d never have the love he’d sought, or the mother he knew I’d needed.”
If his mother was here, I’d knock her lights out.
“But as sick as he was, he didn’t fail me,” he assures me. “Aside from a trust awarded to my mother, he left me everything. It enraged her when the lawyers disclosed the terms of his will. She lashed out, telling me everything she never dared to admit while he was alive.”
I brace myself for the worst. “What did she say to you?”
“That she never wanted me or my father. But, although I already knew, I needed to hear her say it.”
“Why? You were just a kid. It was such a shit thing to do to you.”
He seems to still, but answers me anyway. “It helped me finally let go of the mother she never intended to be, the caregiver she never was, and as the protector who only defended her own needs, wants, and desires.” He looks at me. “Aside from watching my father’s casket lowered into the ground, it was hardest thing I ever endured. In letting her go, I let go of the mother I longed for, the one I wished she could have been.”
If my soul was made of glass, it would creak and crack down the middle. But it’s what he says next that makes pieces fall.
“This was a woman who gave me life and ruined me, simultaneously.”
“You’re not ruined, Evan,” I say, my fingertips skimming the soft hairs along his temple.
“I’m not,” he agrees. “But for a long time, I believed that I was.”
“And how do you feel now?”
Oh . . . I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to see those two dimples. “Do you want the truth, something you may not be ready to hear? Or would you prefer I continue to hide what I feel?”
He’s challenging me to step it up. And as much as I’ve tried to hold back, I don’t. Not this time. “Let it rip,” I say, meeting him square in the face.
“The truth is, despite the challenges I face, nothing can stop me.” The beast within him flares, intensifying the specks of gold in his eyes. “And with you by side, my success will be that much sweeter.”
I grin. “You’re right. Because you’re the baddest motherfucker in business, a god in bed, and an animal when it comes to getting what you want.”
The joy he greets me with almost doesn’t seem real. But it is, everything about Evan is real.
“What about you?” he asks, his sudden seriousness suppressing the moment between us.
He’s not asking how I feel. “You want to know about my father, don’t you?”
“I told you a great deal, and while it wasn’t easy, I’m glad that I did.” He angles his chin, examining me closely. “But if you’re not ready, I won’t press.”
“I know you won’t.” And it’s because he doesn’t, that I do.
“I was the sixth kid born, the girl my daddy and mommy wanted, and their little miracle and joy,” I reply, not meaning a word of the latter. “My father, hmmm. I’d say he was about as good as your mother. He’d take his little princess around and parade her all over the neighborhood. At least that’s what he let my mom think. The truth was, he’d take me to one neighbor’s house in particular, the one he’d spent close to a decade cheating on my mother with.”
“Shit,” Evan says, sitting up.
“Yeah, it was,” I admit. “I’m not sure how old I was when I figured it out. But I was old enough to know that he shouldn’t be going into a bedroom with a woman who wasn’t my mother and locking the door. I hated this woman for it.” I quiet. “But I hated my father more.”
He waits, listening and understanding in a way no one else can. “I’m the one who told my mother. I’m the one who made her cry. I think she suspected, but it took me telling her to believe it.” My head falls forward as I bear the weight of my confession. “To this day, the people from my old neighborhood think I was my father’s pride and joy. But I was just another female he used. He used my mom to give him a stable family, this woman to give him what he felt was missing in the bedroom, and me as a way to see her. Well, until he didn’t need me anymore.”
Disgust and anger tense the wall of muscle along Evan’s chest. I recognize the emotions because every time I think back to how my father treated my mother, I feel them, too.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“I am, too,” I admit. “Mostly, I’m sorry for how mad I was at my mother. My mother, Evan—the woman who was tough enough to support and raise seven kids on her own, but too weak to let the man who treated her like she was nothing, go.” I throw my hand up. “It pissed me off that she put up with what she did.”
Until the same damn thing happened to me, and I realized how hard it is to let even the bad things in your life go.
I don’t tell Evan this. I can’t. Bryant doesn’t belong here with us, especially not in bed.
“I can’t imagine how much that hurt you,” Evan says, his fingers threading along my scalp. “I would never betray you.”
He thinks we’re only talking about my father, so I take a breath and leave all traces of Bryant behind, focusing on the root of my pain. Daddy issues are real, and they can really screw a gal up. I’m living proof.
“It didn’t hurt,” I admit, causing him to frown. “At least not in the way that you think. I hurt for my mother, and brothers. Like with your mother, they needed him to be more than he was. God, they needed it so bad, it tore them apart when he died.” I push up on my elbow. “But I knew who he was. So when he died, I didn’t cry. That man who just left the earth had left us a long time ago, long before he had a heart attack in his mistress’s bed.”
“Jesus, Wren.”
“Yeah. That’s how he went. And everyone in the old neighborhood knew it.” It didn’t matter that my father left my mother his military and post office pensions, and every last dime he had in his will. No amount of money could erase the humiliation he caused her and us, which is why I say what I do. “I was glad he was gone. I could handle hearing my mother crying in her bedroom at night for the man she believed she loved. It sucked, but I could handle it. What I couldn’t handle was her crying over the man she needed him to be, but who couldn’t be bothered to try.”
“I can relate,” he says.
“I know you can,” I tell him. It’s such a shit topic. That doesn’t stop me from smiling when I realize how much he understands, and how good it feels to have him beside me.
“My brothers never had a real father,” I say, well aware how soft my voice becomes. “But I was lucky. As much as they make me crazy, I had six boys who grew into men I can count on. And because of my mother’s love, they became better than anything my father ever was.”
“They did,” he agrees. “And better husbands because of it.”
“Yeah,” I say, realizing how true that is.
In the quiet that flows between us, I think we’re done. But when something shifts in Evan’s gaze, I know there’s more he needs to share.
&n
bsp; “My father, like your mother, always stood by me. Instead of teaching me to throw a ball, he taught me chess and helped me build my first robot. He’d play old movies in his den when he was too weak to take me to the cinema, and read to me every night.” His voice trails as his mind appears to wander. “He was a gifted storyteller, captivating me with books like The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and To Kill a Mockingbird.” He adjusts his hold, to better see me. “I didn’t have siblings to lean on or guide me. And as you know, I didn’t have a mother I could depend on. Yet my father looked after me and protected me. In spite of his ill health and age, he was always there for me.”
“He sounds like a sweetie,” I say, reaching out to stroke his face. “What was his name?”
A small smile lifts the corners of his mouth. “Alfred.”
My hand hovers over his skin, the pure love in his tone freezing me in place. “Alfred,” I whisper, a lump building in my throat.
I didn’t cry when I told him about my father and how badly he hurt my mother and brothers. Crying . . . it’s not something I let myself do. It takes too much out me, exposing every stitch of vulnerability I try to hide.
But I want to now. Around Evan, I am vulnerable. I’m that woman who lets everything out rather than tuck it away where it’s safe. I’m the person who falls into his arms, worried he’ll one day let go. And I’m that innocent little girl who once believed men can be loving, good, and honorable, regardless of all the wrong she sees them doing around her.
Evan could have been “ruined” like he claimed. He could have spent years fucking over women instead of creating technology that can save them. He could have sailed through life living off his inheritance, rather than depleting it to save his father’s legacy. And he could have run for the hills when my family found him half-naked in my kitchen. But he didn’t. All because his father loved him like a real daddy should, and made him into the man beside me.
“I love you,” I say before I can stop myself.
Evan doesn’t move. Hell, neither do I. I’ve been naked with him more times than I can count, and have given him more than I thought that I could ever give, but I’ve never felt as naked as I do now.
