by Pam Godwin
The back door opens, and Cole walks in, yanking a beanie off his head, his leather jacket soaked from the rain. He glances up and spots us standing by the front entrance. Then his gaze zeroes in on the bag in Trace’s hand.
He freezes, mouth parting before he lurches forward, headed this way.
Trace opens the door and turns to leave. Then he stops, spins back, and closes the distance between us. With a heavy hand on my neck, he pulls me against him and rests his lips against my forehead. I hear the shallow sound of his breaths, feel the thunder of his heart, and watch the pain shake through the length of his body.
He’s not the first man I loved or the first love I lost. But his is the love that cuts the deepest and does the most damage. The loss is immeasurable. I’m bleeding internally and sobbing wretchedly, unable to silence the gasps.
Without a word, he releases me, strides out the door, and into the rain.
This is the moment, the one I dreaded since the day Cole returned. It hurts more than I could’ve ever imagined, like I’m hacking away vital parts of myself, breath by mangled breath.
Cole chases Trace outside and hovers behind him as he opens the door to the Maserati and tosses in the bag. Cole says something, his voice indiscernible in the pouring rain. Trace turns and faces him, expressionless, blinking away the heavy drops.
Cole’s mouth moves faster, and his hands swipe through his hair, sweeping off the rain. More words. More blank stares from Trace. Then Cole drops his arms, lowers his head, and stares at the ground.
There’s nothing he can say to alleviate the pain. I wish I could find comfort in knowing a broken heart can’t break again. But it does. It breaks and breaks, and no matter how much destruction is done, it puts itself back together so it can break some more.
Cole speaks again, and whatever he says causes Trace’s shoulders to hitch. Then Cole moves, wraps his arms around Trace and embraces him in a strong, heart-wrenching hug.
As Trace hugs him back, I fall apart. My legs buckle. My vision blurs, and a horrible keening sound rips from deep inside me. I stumble away from the door, doubling over and zigzagging toward the stairs.
My knees hit the first step, and I cry, gasping, shoulders shaking, nauseous, and inconsolable. Then I picture myself—my ugly, shattered reflection in the broken mirror at my old house. I can’t go there again.
I have to let him go.
And move on.
I’m not alone.
Flattening my hands on the stair, I breathe in, out, in, out. Then I rise to my feet and wipe the tear-soaked hair from my face.
The door closes behind me, and the squeak of Cole’s boots sounds his approach. He stops at my back, drops his jacket on the floor, and grasps my upper arms with cold, wet hands.
“Did he leave?” I whisper, staring down the dark hall.
“Yes.” He slides his touch along my arms and grips my hands. “How about a warm bath?”
I nod jerkily. “What did you say to him?”
“Danni…” He expels a breath. “You’re hurting. I know I can’t take that away, but I’m going to comfort you as much as I can.” He lifts me into his arms, cradling me against his chest. “Bath first.”
“Okay.” I rest my head on his shoulder, my mind broken into a thousand aching thoughts.
He carries me through the house and into the master bathroom. There, he draws the bath and strips our clothes. When we settle in the hot water, I curl up on his lap and absorb his warmth.
“I’m not questioning my decision.” I trace a finger across his collarbone. “But I’m going to need time.”
“I’d question your humanity if you didn’t grieve him, baby.”
I place a kiss on his jaw that asks for patience. He trails a caress along my spine that offers strength.
He won the war, but what if all I can give him is a body of broken parts? I’m not the woman he fell in love with five years ago. When he died, the life inside me burned so low it barely flickered. And now… I only see darkness.
It’s hard to be strong when I know Trace is out there, in the rain, driving away from me, hurting, and alone.
“What did you say to him?” I ask quietly.
“I told him to call me, to talk to me, that I would be whatever he needed me to be.”
“Friends?” Hope blooms in my chest.
“Yes. I reminded him of my promise to you. I’ll work on that friendship.”
“Thank you.” I kiss his shoulder, his neck, and cup his whiskered face. “What did you say right before you hugged him?”
“You little voyeur.” His soft exhale whispers across my lips. “I told him my biggest issue with him is that I care. I care about what happens to him.”
My chest feels a little lighter. He’ll be there for Trace. And I know, without question, he’ll do the same for me.
His arms will hold me until the fractures heal.
His dimpled smile will breathe new life in me.
His love will toughen the pain into scar tissue.
It won’t happen overnight, over a week, or even a month. But for the first time in a long time, we have forever.
Two weeks later, I lift my face to the sun and stretch out my legs along the bench seat in Cole’s boat. Sitting in the V of his thighs with my back against his chest, I absently play with the hem of his baggy swim shorts. The sadness hasn’t waned. It feels duller, maybe, but it takes up just as much space inside me as the day Trace left.
When Cole died, I only had to deal with my own loss. Somehow that was easier than…this. I like to tell myself Trace is moving on just fine. He’s stronger than me, after all. But I know better. He’s alone in St. Louis, stuck with our memories and no shoulder to lean on.
I need to stop this. Channeling any kind of energy, time, or thought into Trace feels like I’m emotionally cheating on Cole. So I push away images of blue eyes and blond hair.
Cole anchored the boat in a quiet cove, out of view of the active part of the lake. It’s just him and me and the sounds of lapping water.
I’m wearing bikini bottoms and a long sleeve shirt. It’s a warm April day, but when I dipped a toe in the water earlier, the chill went straight to my bones.
In lieu of swimming, we decided to sunbathe. Not that he needs more color. He spends so much time outside his golden skin glows as bright as the sun.
“Tell me eleven things I don’t already know.” I twist around on his lap, facing him with my bent knees bracketing his sides. “Eleven things about anything.”
“Eleven?”
“No more. No less.” It’s the same response I gave him the morning we met. If I can recreate that feeling, that playfulness that connected us so quickly, maybe it won’t hurt so much to breathe.
“Your eyes remind me of storm clouds. Deep and gray. Always swirling. Threatening. Like thunder and lightning. Torrential downpours and puddles. I hated the rain. Until I met you.”
My chest heaves with a hicupping inhale. “Cole…”
“I speak seven languages with excellent fluency. I once strangled a long-haired man with his ponytail. I won’t drink from a straw while driving because I’m afraid it’ll stab my throat on a sudden stop.”
I gape at him. “Can we go back to the man with the—?”
“Trace called me this morning.”
My heart crashes against my ribs, but I repress my excitement and keep my tone casual. “He did?”
“This isn’t how we’re going to do this.” A muscle flexes in his jaw. “You will not hide your feelings from me.”
He nudges me off his lap and stands. I straighten my spine, holding my breath. The tension is his posture tells me he’s gearing up for a conversation, and I owe it to him to listen.
Bent over the steering wheel, he messes with the stereo. A moment later, the gentle texture of guitar chords stream through the speakers, the melody unfamiliar. Definitely not his usual punk rock noise.
“Do you know this song?” He moves to stand before me.
I shake my head. “What is it?”
“Where’s My Love by SYML. I heard it the other day. Made me think of you.”
It’s hauntingly beautiful, full of longing. A plea for love gone astray.
He kneels between my legs, wedging his muscled frame in the small walkway. His hand lifts, cradling my face. “Trace called to see how you’re doing.”
“How is he?” I search his warm brown eyes.
“He’s Trace. Cold and barren as ever. It’s like having a conversation with Antarctica.”
“What did you tell him?” My neck tenses. “About me?”
“Told him you turned into a nympho.” His cheeks dent with dimples. “Can’t get you off my dick.”
I sigh. Cole and I haven’t had sex since the night the three of us were together. Guilt has kept me away. It doesn’t make sense, because I’m with Cole now…exclusively. Maybe I’m punishing myself, pushing away all means of enjoyment while Trace tries to start over alone.
“I know you miss him, and I don’t like it.” Cole trails his thumb across my cheekbone. “But you chose me. You chose me to be the one to pick up the pieces, to be the ear for your sadness, to be the arms to hold you up. Don’t bury your pain, Danni. Give it to me.”
My face falls, and I lean toward him, touching my lips to the corner of his. “I love you.”
“I love you.” He fits his hand inside of mine and presses something small and round against my palm.
I pull back and uncurl my fingers to see what he gave me.
My engagement ring.
I don’t have to angle it to see the inscription. The words are written in the cracks of my heart.
One Promise ~ One Forever
My pulse accelerates, and my mouth dries. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I wasn’t sure I’d ever see this ring again.
He takes it from me and slides it on my finger. The wrong finger. “When you’re ready, move it to your left hand. Then I’ll know.”
My brow furrows. I don’t want to make any more decisions about love. I want him to put the ring on my finger and not give me a choice. I don’t want to control this. I want to surrender to it.
“What?” His voice snaps, sharp and deep. “Why do you look pissed?”
“Are you unsure about us?” I lift my eyes to his. “Is that why you’re not demanding I marry you immediately?”
His nostrils flare, and his jaw turns rock-hard as he climbs to his feet. Then he scoops me up and tosses me into the lake.
I land with a shriek and plunge deep, swept under by the shocking cold. With wild kicks toward the surface, I come up with a gasp.
“Fuck!” I angrily punch the water. “You fucking prick!”
Oh my tits, it’s cold. My joints freeze up as I paddle, swimming in a circle until I face the boat.
He stands on the edge, staring down at me, arms folded across his bare chest with a gleam in his eyes.
“I can’t believe you did that.” My teeth chatter.
He grins. “You need a man who will dunk your head in cold water and shut you the fuck up.”
I pin my lips together, properly shut up. Because he’s so very right.
“Come on.” He crouches, extending his hand.
I kick my legs, reaching for him, and he pulls me out of the water like I weigh nothing. As I climb into the boat, the air chills my skin, prickling my body with goosebumps.
“We have to work at this relationship.” He grips the hem of my wet shirt and yanks it over my head.
“Yeah.” I shiver, soaked to the bone and frozen in the skimpy bikini.
“It’s going to be hard.” He unties the string on my back and removes my top.
I hug my nude chest, shoulders curled forward, and scan the isolated cove. My brain doesn’t register his comment until I look down at the swollen bulge in his shorts. My breaths quicken as I trail my gaze over the cut indentions of his hips, the ripple of honed abs and pecs, and the sexiest lopsided grin I’ve ever seen.
“Those puns are only funny if you’re a boy.” I try not to smile. “A twelve-year-old boy.”
“Ask me how hard it’s going to be.”
We’re definitely not talking about our relationship anymore. Not with that heated look in his eyes.
“How hard?” A shifting feeling stirs near my heart, trickling warmth through my body.
He grabs my hand and presses my palm against the steely length of his cock, trapped by his shorts.
A delicious shudder raises the hair on my arms and nape, and I clamp my fingers around him. He grunts a heavy breath and hooks his arms around my back, lifting, then lowering me to my back on the bench seat.
He kneels beside me, crowding in, a hand beneath my thigh, fingers feathering against the crotch of my bikini bottoms. His other arm slides behind my shoulders. Then he’s kissing me, licking inside my mouth, and panting hungrily. The hand between my legs grows bolder, presses harder, anchoring me to the man I chose, the one I was always meant to marry.
I grind against his touch, melt into his kiss, and thaw from the inside out. My legs fall open. My nipples harden, exposed and needy. “I need you.”
He smiles against my mouth and pulls the crotch of my bikini to the side, baring me. “Say it again.”
“I need you, Cole.” I moan as a finger enters me slowly, deeply.
His mouth doesn’t leave mine as he pumps his hand and strokes me to orgasm. Then he removes the last of my clothes and kisses every inch of my body, caressing, teasing, worshiping—all while holding my gaze.
When he finally climbs between my legs, I bury my hands in his hair and stare into his hooded eyes. We make love like that. Pressed hard against each other. Hips moving languorously together. Connected on every level. Never looking away.
He has beautiful eyes. Wild and passionate. I see my future in them. Him and me.
As we peak together in groaning ecstasy, I wonder what he sees in my mine.
As the months pass and the seasons change, I remain fully committed to Cole and our future together. It isn’t easy. Love isn’t easy. We fight. We fuck. We argue about petty shit and slam doors. But we always make up.
I won’t allow myself to long for Trace. Not even for a tiny tempting moment. It’s been four months. He’s running his empire in St. Louis and no doubt enthralling the panties off gorgeous women everywhere. Meanwhile, I’m slowly settling into the tranquility of lake life with a man whose patience amazes me endlessly. Cole has grown up so much in the past few months. Maybe I have, too.
It’s a blissfully hot August night. The deafening buzz of cicadas sings from the surrounding woodland. The baked sky chars to a deep shade of black, and the wind whips my hair as Cole veers the motorcycle along the winding road toward home.
Home.
He talks about moving back to St. Louis, and I talk about opening a dance studio next to the Walmart near our little piece of lakefront heaven. My sister is the only reason I’d go back to the city. Trace is the reason I won’t. If I ran into him, if I saw a hint of sadness creasing his handsome face… I can’t. Maybe someday. But not yet.
I know Cole keeps in touch with him regularly. Though I’ve never overheard a phone conversation between them. I never ask. I can’t flirt with the past. Happiness is forward, and that’s where I’m headed.
My sister, on the other hand, loves to mention Trace during our weekly phone calls. Bree hasn’t nosed around in his life, but she wants to. I threaten to disown her if she steps a foot into his casino. It’s a hollow threat. I miss her terribly, even though I just saw her last month when she and her family spent a week with us.
Cole swerves into the driveway and parks the motorcycle in the garage.
I flatten my palms against his shoulder blades, rubbing circles across the sculpted terrain, his t-shirt damp from the humidity. I love to ride with him in the summer. Without the leather jacket, he’s all muscle, flesh, and body heat.
We climb off the bike and remove our helmets, grinning at each other.
>
“What?” I smile wider.
“I’m still thinking about the man and the melons.”
I roll my eyes. At the beginning of summer, I started volunteering at the local food pantry. Cole decided to go with me tonight to check it out. An hour after we arrived, a scruffy middle-aged man ambled in to collect his ration of donated groceries. When I handed him two small watermelons, he refused them and pointed at my breasts, saying, “I’d rather have the tiny ones. I bet they’re sweeter.”
To Cole’s credit, he didn’t lose his temper or swing a fist. He simply leaned toward the man and said calmly, “Take the watermelons and walk out the door.”
The man grabbed his box of food and left without a backward glance.
“Are you tired?” Cole follows me into the kitchen.
“Nope.”
“How about a naked swim in the lake?”
A grin pulls at my lips. Skinny-dipping with Cole has become one of my favorite activities.
“I’ll get the beer.” I turn toward the fridge.
As I pull out a six-pack, his phone buzzes. He removes it from his pocket and stares at the screen. And continues to stare.
“Who is it?” I approach him, craning my neck to see the caller ID.
Trace.
The enormous crack inside me stirs to life, quaking and bleeding with a vengeance. The strongest, steadiest hand can’t sew it back together. The loss is too big, the ache too strong.
But I try. I stand terribly still and will my deepest longings back into the fissure.
Cole watches me closely, and the phone buzzes again.
“Don’t ignore him,” I whisper.
I tremble between what used to be and what needs to be. If distress shows on my face, it’s because I’m not masking it. I refuse to hide from Cole.
He studies me through another burst of buzzes before lifting the phone to his ear.
“Hey.” He listens, eyes fixed on mine. “She’s…she’s doing good.”
My chest collapses. Trace’s concerned about me, still thinking of me. It’s a torment so unbearable it’s a physical pain inside.
“How are you?” Cole braces an arm on the kitchen island, scrutinizing my features. Then his head tilts at Trace’s answer. “Really? That’s great.” He laughs. “No, I mean it. I told you it would all work out for the best. I’m happy for you.”
