by Marie Meyer
Fear seals my lips shut. I don’t want disappointment to bleed into my words. None of this is her fault. I don’t want her to think I blame her.
She rests her head on her chest, quietly sobbing, murmuring, “I’m sorry, Cayden. I should have told you sooner. I’m so, so sorry.”
In Afghanistan, the guys called me Big Daddy. I earned the nickname because I was always taking care of people. I always put others before myself—like my father. But I don’t know how much more I can take. I’m wearing down. Dad, SWAT, Mom, Ren…our future? I don’t know how much longer I can be the strong one and hold everything together.
“Sweetheart…” I muster two syllables. “Come on, let me take you home.” I set my hands under her arms, lifting her as I stand. She sways, unsteady on her feet, empty, and spent—and not in a good way. “Lean on me, baby.”
Giving me her weary body, I guide her back to the truck. Our moods drastically changed from just an hour ago.
The ride home is quiet. I steer the truck back to Ren’s apartment, throwing a glance in her direction every now and then. My fingers itch to touch her, seal the chasm that’s opened between us, but I’m afraid.
How can a five foot nine, 138-pound woman scare me? I’ve seen men blown apart on the battlefield, yet, having Ren shy away from me, curled in on herself, shoulders rising with each muffled sob, it’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever witnessed. She’s pulling away from me, and I don’t have any strength left to grab her back.
For weeks I’ve been saying how much I want to have a big family. My flippant thoughts and big dreams were a rifle zeroed right on her.
“Ren…” Her name pierces the night like a sniper’s shot. I reach across the canyon that is my truck’s cab, my fingertips hovering just over her arm. She’s a magnet, pulling…guiding me in.
Anchored. The thousands of nerve endings in my fingertips register our contact, firing at will, sending a barrage of impulses to my brain. This is the girl you love. She is your future. Your family.
You’re home.
When I’m not touching her, I’m Odysseus, lost at sea, fighting to get back to his fair Penelope.
Ren glances at my hand, my stroking fingers gliding up and down her arm. Like a blooming flower opening to the sunlight, she unfurls at my touch, turning her body toward me.
“I’m so sorry, Cayden. I could never find the right time or the right words to tell you.”
“Shh”—I lay my palm against her arm, more nerve endings fire—“you don’t have to apologize.” I’m sorry, Ren. Sorry I wasn’t there for you.
Just after one in the morning, the parking spaces outside Ren’s apartment are empty. I swing the truck to the curb, roll to a stop, and kill the ignition. Without a word, I hop down and come over to her side, but she’s already out, shutting the door and walking up the sidewalk to her building.
She didn’t wait. Is she telling me goodbye?
I follow in her wake, joining her at the security doors. Dark leaden eyes stare up at me. “Come inside?” There’s pleading in her brittle voice.
Yes is on the tip of my tongue, but I’m confused and so fucking tired. She is the moon to my ocean, pushing me away and pulling me back in. And the loss of my family is a rip current, pulling me under.
I need to be alone for a while, to kick to the surface, get my head above water. When I’m with her, she consumes me—she’s all I see, all I hear. I’m drowning.
With an infinitesimal shake of my head, I fire another shot. “It’s been a long day, Ren. I just need some time.”
“I understand.” The wind blows a curl over her eye. She doesn’t bother to brush it away.
A knot forms in my gut, a knee to solar plexus. I’m breaking this girl’s heart, watching it crack under the weight of my refusal.
What about my heart? It’s peppered full of holes. “Give you a call later?”
She nods. The shadows of the streetlamps dance over her features, running the gamut: despair, to confusion, settling on disappointment. She turns away, opening the door.
You love this girl. Don’t let her walk away, Sinclair.
Stepping off the landing, I walk back to my truck, and watch her retreating figure on the other side of the glass door.
Go after her, you idiot.
I start the truck and guide it onto the street, pointing it toward home.
I can’t stop the damn buzzing in my ears. Radio static.
Communication lost.
Alone.
MIA.
* * *
Bzzzttt…bzzzttt…bzzzttt.
Lifting my phone off the nightstand, I crack open one eye, scanning the incoming message from Speed Racer. Talk to me, Cayden.
Beside the four messages from Ren, Blake has texted twice, I’m sure, on Ren’s behalf.
Peeling my sorry ass out of bed, I stretch, arching my back. Tendons snap and pop as I lengthen my spine. I haven’t worked out in a week, not that it matters, I pissed SWAT away weeks ago.
Listen to yourself, Sinclair. Pull your fucking shit together.
It’s amazing how much my conscience sounds like a combination of my dad and my USMC drill instructor. They’d both pound my ass if they were here.
I need to get out of this house. The walls are closing in. I’d give anything to go back to work, but Cap was generous in giving me two weeks bereavement leave. Turns out, I have a lot more to bereave than just Mom.
Ren’s voice sticks in my head. I’m not the woman you should be with.
Does she really believe that? Do I believe that?
For three days, I’ve searched my soul, only to come up with the same answer: Ren is perfect. I miss her enthusiasm for life—the littlest thing sends her skipping and dancing around, and I fucking love it.
Walking in the bathroom, I flip on the light, smiling at the memory of our camping trip. Seeing Ren so excited and happy when she finally overcame her fear and swam in the river. The sound of her laughter filling the night is something I’ll never forget. And there’s her devotion to all things Harry Potter and superheroes.
I flush the toilet and drop the lid; Ren hates it when I leave the seat up. She says all the stuff inside gets aerosolized when it’s flushed, and she’d rather not breathe pee.
Huh. I can’t even take a piss and not think about her.
Turning the taps to the shower, I adjust the temperature and hop in. I need to get over to Mom’s place and start boxing things up. The Realtor wants to get the house on the market as soon as possible. Maybe a change of scenery will help me figure shit out with Ren.
I love her. But is that enough? I never thought the issue of children would be a deal breaker. I’d meet the right woman and a big family wouldn’t be too far behind. And now I’m certain I’ve found the right woman, and she tells me a family may not be possible.
I don’t want us to resent each other in five, ten years. Is it better to sever our connection now, while there’s still love to get us through the pain of the breakup, or it is better to ride it out and call it quits when that love turns to hatred?
The thought of hating her sends bile rising in my throat.
I switch the water off and grab a towel. My forehead thumps with a migraine, the weight of so many giant life decisions looming on the horizon.
* * *
Twisting the key in the lock, I shove Mom’s door open. A musty scent permeates the air, having been vacant a little over a month. The house’s way of mourning Mom, I guess.
I glance around, Mom’s pictures on full display, Dad’s ships in bottles visible on a shelf in the next room. Twenty-eight years of memories built this home. Now it’s my sole responsibility to dismantle it.
Maybe it’s best to start upstairs, in my old room. The memories promise to be less painful there.
I sigh and climb the first step, paying attention to the pictures on the wall. My baby picture from the day I came home from the hospital. Faded from years of sunlight shining through the windows. I always hated that pictur
e being front and center, but Mom refused to take it down.
Second step, Cayden Sinclair’s toddler years. Third step, elementary school. Fourth, Little League, summer camps, peewee football. Fifth, junior high. Each step, my life history plays out in front of me. Braces, friends, tuxedos, graduations, awful haircuts; Mom didn’t miss a beat of my life.
And then there are the photos I’m not in. Many of them, actually. She and Dad traveled the world before I was born and after I moved out—before Dad got sick. Rome. Paris. Mexico. They’re so content…happy.
How did Mom choose which ones went up on her wall instead of being thrown into a drawer and forgotten? Why did she want to relive these memories each time she traveled up and down the stairway? “Why, Mom?”
Running a finger over the glass containing the photo of Mom crossing the finish line of her first marathon, I wait for an answer that I know won’t come. Why didn’t I ask her before she died?
“Doesn’t really matter now, huh? They’re all going in a box.” I trudge up the stairs, ignoring the rest of the memories.
I reach the top, determined not to look at one more of Mom’s pictures, but it’s like I don’t have control of my own neck. My head turns and there it is, the newest photo in Mom’s collection. Ren and Me.
The night Ren and I spent with Mom when Lacey couldn’t. Ren isn’t the first girlfriend I’ve brought home to meet Mom, but she is the first to make it on Mom’s wall.
Staring down the steps, it hits me. I get why Mom chose these pictures. Why she wanted to remember. This was her life…her family: me, Dad, the Thompsons, Lacey, my school buddies, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends.
Ren.
To Mom, family wasn’t just a biological relation, but the people she loved unconditionally. These photographs are reminders of the people she needed in her life every day. Her home…her north. When she put away laundry, vacuumed the steps, dusted frames—every menial household task, Mom needed these people at her side.
And she needed Ren. As sick as she was, Mom still took the time to fit Ren into her family…because she knew.
Taz, Vin, Bull—my Marine brothers—Riggs. I’ve fought in battle alongside these men. I may not share blood with them, but together we’ve shed blood, and I would gladly give up my life for any one of them.
What defines family? Someone you would die for…someone you can’t live without. Your reality.
Ren.
I’m a fucking idiot.
Racing down the stairs, I fly out of the door, locking up behind me. I’ve got to find Ren. Beg her forgiveness. That’s the thing about the future; I won’t have one if Ren isn’t a part of it. Screw the what-ifs, the big dreams. So what if we can’t have kids—doesn’t mean we can’t try, and have a damn good time while we’re at it. Hell, there are other ways we can make a family—adoption, a surrogate. But right now, I need to make things right with her. Life will be all right, as long as I get to come home to Ren each night.
I text Ren, I found north.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Ren
Three days. How long does he need to think? Either he can accept the fact that I can’t have kids, and love me anyway, or he needs to get the hell out of my life. And my head. And my heart.
One last text, that’s it. After this, I’m done.
Yeah, right.
I tell the stupid voice in my head to shut up. I can quit Cayden Sinclair. I can. I’ve given plenty of men their walking papers. If I don’t hear from him after today, I will rip this piece of junk necklace off, delete him from my contacts, and deactivate my Facebook account. Go off the grid.
But you can’t delete him from your heart, my conscience sings. Why is she such a coldhearted bitch? Isn’t she supposed to be on my side?
Phone in hand, I type four words, Talk to me, Cayden. I press send and pray this is the one that will capture his attention. Direct. To the point. No beating around the bush. He needs to talk to me. He owes me that. Over my dead body will I let him take the coward’s way out. After I let him in, poured my soul out, and fell in love with his ass, he can at least aim his pistol at my heart and pull the trigger in person.
I wrench my hair into a ponytail, twist the elastic around, and give it a final tug. It’s so tight, the hairs at my temples scream and I’ve got an instant facelift. If I inflict pain in other ways, I can forget about the knife currently lodged in my heart. A constant reminder of why I gave up dating in the first place…too, too painful.
I fluff my bangs and slather on some lip balm, out the door in record time. If I waste one more minute staring at my face in the mirror, thinking about Cayden Sinclair, I will lose my shit.
Well, what did you expect to happen? You let things go too far. You waited too long.
STAHP! Where is the angel on my shoulder? I want her back. At least she’s nice.
I need Dylen. She’ll know what I should do.
Slamming the door to my apartment, I throw my keys and phone into my purse and head to the elevator.
The drive to Shameless Grounds wasn’t terrible, traffic was light for a Saturday morning. I walk in and notice Dylen isn’t here yet. That girl will be late for her own funeral.
I place my order, a double espresso con panna (extra panna!). A generous serving of whipped cream can’t heal a broken heart, but it can sure give it a nice fluffy place to recoup after it’s been trampled on. I snuggle into my favorite spot—the window seat in the corner—and stuff a throw pillow behind my back, closing my eyes with a sigh. Glad some things never change.
In our early college days, Dylen and I would meet here to study. Nestled in a quiet neighborhood, we could get away from the constant noise of the city, which I think was piped into our dorm and amplified to keep us out of our room as much as possible. Plus, Dylen, having spent most of her summers with her father in France, said Shameless Grounds was the only place she could get a decent café au lait.
Waiting for the server to bring my espresso and whipped cream mountain, I pull my phone out of my purse and scan Facebook. Against my better judgment, I go to Cayden’s page. His posts are vague most of the time, not wanting to share too much personal information, should a criminal come across his page. His last update was a little over a week ago, “Thanks to all who came out to celebrate Mom’s life.”
I resist temptation and don’t click the like button. I don’t want him to know I was Facebook stalking him.
Flipping back to my profile, I check in and update my post, “Reunited and it feels so good!” I tag Dylen.
“Sœur!” Dylen sings, stepping up to the table.
I look up and see my friend…my sister. “Dylen!” Standing, I throw my arms around her. She tightens her grip, and I can’t breathe. “God, I miss you.”
Her strong embrace makes my eyes water. At least that’s the story I’m sticking to, even though I knew I’d crumble the second I saw her.
Holding my breath, drawing on her strength, I close my eyes and relax. I’m fine. I will be okay. I will rise another day.
When I’ve composed myself, I pull back, and look into her ocean-blue eyes. “I am so glad you’re home.”
“I just saw you a week ago, chouchou.”
“I know. But, I had to share you at Katy’s funeral. Now you’re all mine.”
“Let me order, then I’m all yours.” With one last squeeze, she dashes toward the counter.
I sit down and stare out the window, unable to keep from wondering what Cayden’s up to. I know he has the day off; the department gave him two weeks.
“Café au lait, acquired. Achievement unlocked!” Dylen announces, stuffing her wallet into her purse as she sits. “Pictures. I have pictures!” She whips her phone around.
When I told Dylen I was kidnapping her from Blake today, I failed to mention my apparent breakup. Had I told Dylen beforehand, she wouldn’t be bombarding me with her sappy, love-drippy honeymoon pictures.
I’ve really got to work on rebuilding that protective wall around my heart.
Happy couples and all their touchy-feely shit was so much more tolerable when access was denied. Now, romance of any kind feels like my flayed heart is submerged in a chlorine bleach–rubbing alcohol solution. Cayden didn’t pay attention during our Harry Potter movie date nights—the Crucio curse is unforgiveable.
You’d forgive him.
Inwardly, I scowl at that insufferable voice. Dammit. I totally would. But not before some serious groveling.
“And here we are outside our beachfront condo. This cute old couple took the picture for us. They were there celebrating their fifty-ninth anniversary. So adorbs.”
And before I can comment, she’s onto the next picture.
“Coffee, girls,” the server says, setting our drinks down.
Mine is heaped with whipped cream, making Dylen’s simple drink look boring.
“Thanks,” I say before pressing my lips to the edge of the cup. I don’t care if I have a whipped cream mustache; it tastes divine, and sweetens my attitude so I can endure the rest of my ride on the newlywed carousel.
I set my cup down and wipe cream from my upper lip and the tip of my nose. “Dyl, these pictures are great. You look so happy.”
Swallowing, Dylen cocks her head to the side. “What is this broody, sullen demeanor I’m noticing?” I can’t put anything past my best friend. “Spill it.”
“I told Cayden.” I don’t have to give Dylen any more details. She knows what I’m referring to and how big a deal this admission is. Outside of her and my immediate family, no one knows about my ordeal three years ago.
“Oh, chouchou,” she whispers. “What happened?”
I suck my lower lip into my mouth and bite down hard. I will not cry. I will not cry. The silent chanting helps. Just keep chanting, just keep chanting…
“I really thought he was the one, Dyl,” I finally get out. “I told him that I love him.”
Dylen’s cornflower eyes are petal soft. “A week ago you were inseparable.”
“Yeah, until Cayden laid the whole ‘I want a big family’ spiel on me.” Tears sting my eyes. I started the battle strong, but I fear I may lose the war. “I haven’t heard from him in three days. I’m pretty sure it’s over.”
