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by Shari J. Ryan

  And the tears, they pour down my cheeks.

  And the sobs, they gurgle up through my throat.

  I walk slowly over to my desk. I walk slowly over to the man sitting in my desk chair. My mouth is hanging open and I’ve forgotten how to speak.

  He stands up and moves toward me.

  “I’m here for a job,” he says with a jaunty grin.

  “I think I might have one for you,” I manage to say. I wrap my hands around my swollen belly. “How about being a dad?” I cry again.

  His smile grows twice the size and he rushes up to me, quickly closing the space between us. His hands cup around my cheeks and he presses his lips into mine with so much fierce exuberance, I almost forget about the last eight months. “The baby’s mine, right?” he asks, sounding worried.

  I slap him. “No one else could fill the empty shoes you left behind.”

  “Wait, weren’t you on the—pill?” These don’t seem like proper I haven’t seen you in eight months, lets catch up questions, but I’m sure just as many things are whirling through his head, as are in mine right now.

  “Turns out you’re not the only one who can be the exception to a rule,” I say, biting down on my bottom lip.

  “Marry me, Cali. I love you more than I have ever loved anyone in my entire life. I thought of you every single day for the past eight months. I prayed that you hadn’t moved on, and that you’d be waiting for me.

  “I love you. I’ve loved you and I will always love you. I would have waited for forever. And yes, I’ll marry you.” I strangle my arms around him, squeezing so tightly it releases some of the built up pressure in my chest.

  “Easy easy. I don’t want to hurt—“ He places his hands on my stomach. “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

  “A girl. I want to name her Tyler Krissy Wright. “ For the first time since I met Tango, he’s crying. He’s crying not because he’s dying. Not because he’s remembering a horrible memory from combat. Not because he had to say good-bye to me. I think he’s crying because he gets to experience a second chance at life—with me, with our daughter.

  When the emotions settle down, I can see different thoughts running through his eyes. “I have something for you,” he says.

  “What else could I possibly need beside you?” I ask, wiping my drippy eyes.

  He walks back around my desk and pulls out a large white canvas along with a bundle of cloth-wrapped paintbrushes and paints. “Here,” he says. “It’s a blank canvas. I want you—I want us to pour a bucket of white paint over this and start over. I want you to fill this canvas with what our lives should look like.”

  He remembered.

  TANGO

  I’ve seen my life flash before me too many times. But for the first time, I see my future flash before me. Beside the thirty-second heart attack I had when I watched Cali waddle through her office door, wondering if she had met someone else and was having his baby, I haven’t felt like anything was so right in all my life.

  The folks in China weren’t so bad. Their only goal was to successfully cure cancer with the new drug they had spent years developing. They treated me well. Treated me more like a friend than a test subject. The only thing they prevented me from doing was making outside contact. But being in the Marines and deployed a number of times, this wasn’t a lot to ask. Although, I would have done just about anything to tell Cali I was okay.

  I built an unbreakable bond with Alice. She’s an amazing woman, mother, and friend. I can see why Cali’s heart would never heal from her absence. I can also understand why she remained hidden for so long.

  I was notified that Eli turned himself in, and while we all thought he’d be convicted for international theft, he was able to prove to the world that this treatment did work with no side effects. For this he was released and forced to retire, taking up a new residence with Alice in the home she had built for her family all of the years he was busy working.

  My lungs are completely healed and I’m cancer free. So is Alice.

  The scientists are in the process of getting the drug put through trials. With their eight months of research and testing, they have all the information they need to prove to the world that a cure for one of the most deadly diseases is close to being approved and publicized.

  They let me go as they promised they would. They’ll come check on me periodically to make sure the cancer doesn’t return, but I’m okay with that.

  We walk into Sasha’s house and Cali leads me down to her bedroom. “So this is where you’ve been living for the past eight months?” It’s small, but I’m glad she was able to stay with Sasha.

  “It’s been fine. I’ve saved up enough money to rent my own place, but I haven’t found one yet.”

  I laugh a little knowing that we won’t have to worry about money ever. “Not only do I have the money Eli gave me for taking care of Cali, but the company in China gave me a large sum of money to pay for my time spent being their test subject.“ I think if I help out with a mortgage, we can buy a nice little house near your parents.” The smile on her face is so pure and real. I love making this girl smile and I will do whatever it takes to make her smile every day for the rest of my life. “I’m taking you to see your parents tomorrow and to show you the house that I sort of already picked out.” I wince, hoping she doesn’t mind. It was a long flight home, I had free Internet service, and they gave me a laptop and a phone in addition to the money. I spent the entire trip searching for houses and rings.”

  “Really? Wait, both of my parents are . . . home?” she asks.

  “Yes, your dad is now retired and your parents will finally have their happily ever after.”

  And more tears commence. “Jeez, Cali. You’re like a running hose. Have you been crying like this the whole pregnancy?”

  Her tears turn into giggles. “Yes, I can’t help it.” I wipe her tears away and place a kiss on her nose. She’s changed somehow—she’s happy and free.

  “Wait. What about your parents? Can you tell them you’re not really dead?” she asks.

  “Not really, but I have an idea . . .”

  CALI

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  My toes crunch into the white sand as I walk toward Tango, deliciously dressed in loose khakis and a white shirt. With baby Tyler in Tango’s arms, wearing a tiny little pink dress, they both smile at me as I make my way toward them with a large bouquet of white lilies clenched between my hands.

  I glance over at my parents sitting on the left, keeping one chair open for where Krissy would have sat. Mom and Dad are both crying happy tears, which makes me turn my head quickly to avoid my own tears. I look to the right and I see Tango’s parents and sister. While Tango couldn’t tell them he was still technically alive and that he had set up his own death, I asked them to meet me in Mexico—a place where it was safe for everyone to be together without getting Tango’s old Marine officer in a lot of trouble for forging a death. It was tough getting them to Mexico, especially with a plea coming from a complete stranger, but I told them there was something they should know about their son. Chelsea helped.

  Tango saw them for the first time in two years today. His mother was angry at first, but she understood what a snap decision after receiving a two-month death sentence could cause a person to do. They made a promise to meet in Mexico twice a year and they would keep in touch through me. Chelsea and I have become very close and we talk daily. Everything is as perfect as it could possibly be.

  With Sasha on one side and Landon on the other, one as a maid-of-honor and the other as the best man, I arrive in front of my two loves. Tango hands Tyler to Sasha and fills his empty hands with mine.

  “Do you, Carolina, take Tyler Wright to be your lawfully wedded husband? Will you promise to love and trust one another until you both shall part?” the priest asks.

  “Yes. I love you. And I trust you,” I smile, knowing how easy it feels to admit the feeling of trust. “You will always be my exception to the rule.”


  “He is the exception to my own rule,” my mother shouts to us through tears.

  “And do you, Tyler Wright, take Carolina to be your lawfully wedded wife? Will you promise to love and trust one another until you both shall part?”

  “I do,” he smiles.

  “By the power vested in me in the country of Mexico, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

  We kissed. We laughed. We kissed again. We took our little girl in our arms and became a family just like that.

  EPILOGUE

  HE WAS MY WEAKNESS and I was his strength. And we needed each other to survive.

  Tango’s hand slips inside mine. This type of pain never bothers me. I know it’s worth it, so I endure it. We found this little tattoo shop on a side street in Cancun. They’re our wedding gifts to each other. Our parents were all busy fawning over baby Tyler, so we took the opportunity to have a little us time.

  Our chairs sit side by side and he’s looking at me with a proud grin. “You are one cool chick, Carolina Wright.”

  “You should have that tattooed on your arm instead,” I laugh.

  “No.” He squeezes my hand a little tighter. “The only tattoo I will ever add to my body is this one, the one symbolizing life after death.”

  I smile at his words, knowing I feel the same way. “Me too.”

  Doves will now soar out of the old tattooed skulls on his back. And as for me, I won’t cover up or touch the tattoo that represents the death of Krissy, but I did promise her I would live for both of us. And that’s what I’ll do. Instead of a tattoo that represents life, I’ve chosen to add a man—Tango, to the lonely island on my arm. He is my life after death. He is the exception to the rule. And with my life-long vow: Know everyone. Trust no one.

  PREVIEW OF

  RED NIGHTS

  COMING EARLY 2015

  (CONTENT SUBJECT TO CHANGE DURING EDITING)

  PROLOGUE

  WHEN SOMETHING is your fault, you can do one of two things: deny it or accept it.

  I have done both.

  Acceptance has never been an issue for me. I accepted the truth from the moment I looked up into my second-floor bedroom window and watched a tidal wave of thrashing flames take away almost everything I had. Even though I was free from the blaze, it was all I could feel inside. I may not have been in the fire, but I was burning from the inside out. I’ve accepted that I’ll never forgive myself, and for that, I’ve accepted this undying pain—it will never go away. I don’t feel like I have the right to be breathing air and feeling life when I took it away from the closest person in my world.

  I should have been killed up in that room instead of him. I shouldn’t have had to watch the firestorm swallow him whole, leaving nothing but charred skin and burning bones.

  I watched as the firemen carried him out on a stretcher. I’ve never heard him or anyone scream like that before, his voice gurgling from fluid collecting in his lungs—his crying draining every last breath he had. I don’t know what happened once they put him in the ambulance. I don’t know if he died in pain or if he was unconscious. I only know he survived for two more hours. I remember the paramedics telling me they were sorry. Sorry? For what? For having to live with this blame, or for the loss of my brother? Sorry doesn’t fix things. Sorry digs the knife in deeper. And I would have said that to them if they hadn’t been rolling me away, too.

  After jumping out of my bedroom window and enduring a severely broken leg and a separated shoulder, the sustained agony was nothing compared to hearing the numbing words, “He didn’t make it.” Those four words made him disappear from my life quicker than I had time to realize it was all my fault. Strapped down to the gurney, staring up into the very same stars I’ve always looked to for comfort, I knew then it was all my fault. All I could do was wonder why those stars stopped providing for me that night.

  The social workers tell me this will eventually become easier, but I don’t see how. A moment of inattention, just a quick misdirected thought burned my brother to pieces.

  The doctors and nurses say I won’t feel this type of pain forever, but I can’t see that happening. I’m alive, living with my thoughts and memories. My nightmares and flashbacks. There isn’t a day that feels better than another. The pain doesn’t go away or even subside. Maybe numbness will eventually take its place, but as of now: every day since that day, I’ve woken up feeling worse than the day before.

  When I tell those doctors and nurses the pain keeps growing, they tell me I need to heal before the pain will lessen. But I’m smart enough to know that when a piece of your heart has been taken away, it doesn’t grow back. It leaves a hole. And the hole has grown. It’s taken over, changing who I am and who I’ve been, ultimately creating a person I might never know again.

  CHAPTER ONE

  EVERY MORNING is the same: when the red glow fades into daylight, I know I’ve made it through another starless night. I relish in the minutes before I open my eyes—trying to convince myself I’m waking up from a nightmare rather than real life.

  I used to lie in the cool grass, staring up into the darkness above, wondering who was looking back at me. Someone up there had to be granting wishes, and I believed whoever it was could hear me, because my wishes were always answered. The serenity of feeling alone under heaven’s vault allowed my mind to wander and think clearly. It’s the perfect spot for meditation and contemplation, but I never could wrap my head around the simplicity of the night’s sky being able to hold so many answers to life. Maybe it’s just the comfort of believing in something larger than anything else in existence. After all, the sky does hold the world together. But as of a couple of weeks ago, I feel like I might have slipped through the cracks.

  The sky has all but forgotten me—it’s left me without the stars, granted wishes, and answers I so desperately need.

  I force my eyes open, confirming everything is real, not a nightmare. I’m still in rehab with no end in sight. The pain never kicks in until my eyes are open, which is when I see the damage left behind. I push myself up on the bed, careful not twist the wrong way. It’s been three weeks, and I think my body is developing a tolerance to the pain meds since they don’t seem to be working as well as they were in the beginning.

  The beginning, meaning, really . . . the end.

  It could be the rods holding my left leg together or the plate they had to surgically fix to my ankle bone. It’s an all-over type of pain. My leg feels heavy, as if I may never be able to lift it again. And this scares me. Not a day goes by where I don’t wonder if I’ll be left immobilized forever. But if I am left that way, don’t I sort of deserve this type of suffering? If Blake had the option of burning to his death or losing the use of his left leg, I think he’d choose the latter.

  I look over the other marks on my body, observing the healing process, determining which scars I’ll be left with in the end. Everything is scabbing, except for the contusion on my arm where a rock broke my fall. Because they had to use a skin graft to close it up, it will take the longest to heal. I feel weak and tired, bored and stiff. Every other part of my body beside my left leg wants to get up and run away from this life I’m now confined to.

  I reach to the side table and grab my phone and ear buds. I need the music to drown out the silence. Silence creates memories and images in my head, and I have to do what I can to avoid it. With the ear buds in place, I lean my head back against the pillow and lie in a daze, focusing on the darkness behind my eyelids, while imagining the swirls and blurs growing and shrinking along with the beat, like the audio visualizer I used to watch on my laptop. My imagination hypnotizes me until I feel lips on my forehead. I peel open my heavy eyelids and find Mom standing in front of me with two cups of coffee. I remove the buds from my ears and let them fall to my lap.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, keeping my voice soft to avoid scaring her away again. I’ve only seen her twice in the past three weeks: once the night of the fire and…now. I’m not angry, and I don’t blame her, espe
cially seeing the pain behind her eyes, showing the struggle she must have overcome to be here today. Her eyes scan my body, stopping at my left leg. It makes her cringe and clutch her stomach. The look in her eyes turns to guilt. I give her the time she needs to find the right answer. I doubt she’ll say it’s because she missed me.

  “It was wrong of me to say what I said to you that night. I’ve come to apologize and see how you’re doing.” She expels a quiet sigh and presses her finger into the center of her forehead. “I’ve gotten daily updates from your doctor, but I needed to see for myself.” Her words come out so cold and very unlike her. Coming from the woman who always acted like nothing bad would ever happen to us, it sounds as if the rug was ripped out from beneath her—which it was. Neither Blake nor I could do anything wrong by her before this.

  But that’s different now.

  “You weren’t wrong about anything you said, Mom.” I try to push myself up to a better leaning position so I can take the coffee cup she’s trying to hand me. It takes a minute to reposition myself, but she’s patient and watches me intently. Once upright, I curl my fingers around the hot Styrofoam, feeling the heaviness within my weakened hand. “Thank you.”

  “I was wrong, Felicity,” she says again.

  She isn’t wrong; I did kill Blake—not intentionally, maybe, but he died because of me anyway. I took away our house, our memories, and a piece of our future. “Mom, it was all my fault. Everything. Honestly, I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to see me again. Death and destruction change everything. They change love. I know this because I don’t love me anymore.”

  She sits down on the guest chair beside my bed and places her purse down on the table. “Sweetheart, let me make one thing very clear: I will always love you, no matter what you do. However, it doesn’t diminish my anger or resentment at the moment . . . your dad’s, either.”