Guarded: An Everyday Heroes World Novel (The Everyday Heroes World)

by Rachel Leigh

Stepping from behind Emerson, she comes closer. “No, Grinch. I’m a waaady-bug. Can I touch your hairy face?”

  “Of course. Go ahead and give the top of my head a scratch. Grinch likes that.” I lean forward and tilt my head down.

  Her tiny little fingers begin scratching my head as she laughs. “I know it’s you, Uncle Nash.”

  Emerson begins handing out candy to the kids at the door, but stops when her eyes set on something behind me. I turn around and see Rowan standing there with her arms crossed as she leans into the doorframe to the kitchen. Her expression has changed from callous to kind, but credit isn’t given to me, it’s because of the cutie pie scratching my head.

  “Auntie Gemma.” Gwen shrieks in excitement. “I like your pink hair.”

  “No, no, honey. That isn’t Auntie Gemma.” Emerson kneels down next to us. “Remember what we talked about. Auntie Gemma is with the angels now.”

  I can see how a three-year-old could be confused. Aside from the obvious difference in features, Gemma and Rowan look very similar.

  “Hi, sweetie, what’s your name?” Rowan says as she approaches. I stand up and take a step back.

  “I’m Gwen. What’s your name?” Gwen extends her hand so politely.

  “My name is Rowan. I’m Gemma’s sister.”

  “Can I call you Auntie Rowan?”

  I interrupt their conversation, “No, honey, her name is just Rowan.”

  “We should probably go now,” Grant voices as he takes ahold of Gwen’s hand. “Thanks, Nash. We’ll catch up later.” He looks back and forth from me to Rowan, as if he’s itching to get the scoop on what she’s doing here.

  “Have a happy Halloween.” I dig both of my hands into the bowl of candy and scoop out half of the contents, dropping them into Gwen’s bag. “Don’t you eat all of that in one night.”

  She sticks her hand inside the bag and pulls out a candy bar. “Here, Rowan, this one is for you.”

  “Thank you so much. These happen to be my favorites.”

  A smile grows even wider across Gwen’s face before she turns around and walks out the door with her mom and dad.

  Filling my lungs, I draw in a deep breath before turning around. “Okay.” I cross my arms over my chest, “Let’s get this over with. If you’re not here for money, what do you want?”

  “Gemma’s journal,” she responds point-blank.

  Scowling, I drop down on the couch that sits in the middle of the living room. “Journal? Gemma didn’t have a journal.”

  “Actually yes, she did. And she wants me to have it.”

  “I would know if Gemma was writing in a journal. We told each other everything.” Kicking my feet up on the table, I stretch my arms behind my head and realize I’m sitting here arguing while still sporting the Grinch mask over my head. Pulling it off, I toss it next to me on the couch. “Besides, she would have said something in the note she left me.”

  “You got a note?” she asks, surprised.

  “Why do you act so shocked? It’s not uncommon for someone to leave behind a note before they take their life.”

  “I’m not shocked. I just didn’t realize you got one, too.”

  My eyes shoot to hers. “Too?”

  “Yeah.” She reaches into her black cross body purse and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “I got one, too.”

  I sprint from the couch and attempt to swipe the letter out of her and. “Let me see that.”

  She pulls back and watches the confusion sweep over my face. “No. This is personal and what she had to say to me is none of your business.”

  I nod at her hand that is still waving the paper in the air. “How did you get that?”

  “It came in the mail shortly after the funeral. There was no return address. I assumed Aunt Lori sent it.”

  “No.” I shake my head in disagreement. “She would have told me.”

  She tucks the letter back into the pocket of her purse. “None of that matters. What matters is, she specifically stated that she wanted me to have her journal. So, hand it over.” Her hand sticks out, as if she thinks I’m just going to reach in my pocket and pull out this mysterious journal.

  “First of all, for all I know you are making shit up. You could have written that note. Second of all, even if Gemma did have a journal, it’s not here. I’ve looked at every piece of her personal property every single night for the last three months.”

  The look on her face leads me to think that she believes me. I mean, why would I lie about something like this?

  Pulling the letter back out, she presses her lips together firmly, then extends it to me.

  I give her a look, seeking approval, and she nods before I take it from her. My eyes hold tight to hers, as I struggle with whether or not I really want to read the words on this paper.

  Slowly, folding one corner back at a time, I begin…

  Rowan,

  I hope this letter finds you well.

  Growing up, I always admired your strength. That fire inside of you that you refused to let anyone dampen. Oftentimes, you would do things out of spite just because someone told you that you couldn’t. I remember when you were twelve years old, Dad told you that you couldn’t drive until you were sixteen. You weren’t having it. By golly, you wanted to drive. So drive you did. You waited until we were all asleep and snuck Mom’s keys and backed right into Mr. Hilton’s two-stall garage. Then you left the car and went to bed like nothing happened. Yet, that still wasn’t enough, because you nagged and nagged at me to let you drive my car, and when you turned fourteen, I let you. You have always had a way of changing minds. That summer, you learned how to drive in my old, beat-up Chevy. That was also the summer we lost Mom and Dad, and you moved in with me and that psycho I was dating at the time. When you told me that he came onto you, it took everything in me not to kill him with my bare hands. Instead, you had the great idea that we burn everything he owned. You also convinced me to let you have your first glass of wine. We danced around the fire as we watched his possessions go up in flames. Those mischievous days with you are some of my favorite memories.

  Four years later, you turned eighteen and you packed up and left. You never once looked back. For a while I was angry. I thought to myself, how could she just leave me like this? After everything I’ve done for her, she just up and leaves without giving it a second thought. With some time, I realized you didn’t leave for me, you left for you. It wasn’t about me. It was about you finding yourself, chasing your dreams, and living. You have lived, Rowan Ann!

  We all have to make the choices that we think are best for ourselves, and sometimes we have to be selfish. We might piss people off, but forgiveness is a beautiful thing.

  I need to ask for your forgiveness. I’ve been selfish. I left you. And it has nothing to do with you.

  I left for myself.

  Keep being you, Rowan. Your free spirit, go big, bare feet in the sand, self.

  I need you to do one thing for me. Go to Sunnyville and check in on Nash. While you are there, I want you to get my journal. Once you have it, read it. Don’t start in the middle or at the end. Start at the very beginning and read it all. There is so much more I have to say to you.

  Time has an unusual way of giving us exactly what we need, when we didn’t even realize we needed it.

  Love you, little sis!

  Gemma

  Chapter Five

  Rowan

  Watching as Nash fights the urge to break down, I want to comfort him. I want to tell him that I get it. I understand exactly how it feels when she speaks to us.

  “Time has an unusual way of giving us exactly what we need when we didn’t even realize we needed it.” Nash looks down at the letter as he reads the words slowly. “She said the same thing to me.” He lifts his head. His expression is a puzzle that I want to put together. There is anger, hurt, confusion.

  “Hmm. Maybe it’s just the way she wanted to close both letters out. I mean, I suppose it’s true. With time, we always get what w
e need, even if it isn’t what we want.”

  Folding the letter back up, he walks toward me and presses it to my chest. I catch it just in time before it falls to the floor.

  “I’m going to bed. You can take the spare room and we will figure this out tomorrow.” He doesn’t look back as he keeps on his path to his bedroom, I assume.

  “What about the kids, the candy?”

  He hollers with no emotion behind his words, “Hit the light. They’ll go away.”

  Then the bedroom door slams shut.

  The aroma of coffee drifts through the open door of the bedroom. As if the caffeine carried through the air and into my bloodstream, my body bolts up quickly. Ready to face this day. I need to find that journal and head back to Vegas.

  Grabbing my bra off the floor next to the bed, I slide it under my tee shirt and clasp it behind my back. Last night after Nash went to bed—rather early—I grabbed my bag from the car and changed into a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt, then fell asleep pretty quickly myself.

  When I walk out into the kitchen, I expect to see Nash there. After all, he must have made coffee. Only he’s not anywhere to be seen. I part the blinds and look out the front window and notice that his truck is gone. I was pretty sure that Aunt Lori said he hasn’t returned to work yet.

  Just as I walk into the living room, the front door flies open and Nash comes teetering in.

  He grumbles, “What the hell are you still doing here?”

  “I thought—”

  He leans forward with anger in his bloodshot eyes. “You thought wrong. There’s no journal. I looked. Go back to Vegas where you belong.” His words are whiskey filled and harsh.

  “Nash. It’s only eight in the morning. Have you been drinking?” I question out of sheer concern.

  He staggers back a few steps, sweeps the air with his hand, then digs into his camouflage cargo shorts and pulls out a flask. “Don’t worry about what I do.” He unscrews it and the cap drops to the floor. I bend down to pick it up for him, but he grabs me by the arm. Not in an aggressive way, but it grabs my attention. “I don’t need your help. I don’t care what Gemma said about checking on me. Go home, Rowan.”

  Swallowing hard, I bend down and pick up the cap anyways. When I come back up, I catch the sadness in his eyes. I remind myself that he’s not acting this way toward me because of anything I’ve done. He’s hurting. The problem is, he’s hurting himself more than Gemma ever did. If this is the way he’s been living his life for that past three months, he needs my help. I might be the only one willing to try at this point.

  “I’m not leaving.” I take his hand in mine and drop the cap into his palm. “I’m going in the kitchen to get you a cup of coffee and some breakfast. Then we need to talk about what’s next.”

  I might only be twenty-two years old. Some might say that I’m still a child, but I’ve done and seen more in my short twenty-two years of life than most do in a lifetime. I’ve traveled the country. I’ve sold my body for a cheap meal. I’ve gambled away my life savings, then won it all back. I’ve witnessed miracles when I woke up from a night of heavy drug use and found that my life was spared. After that night, I never touched the stuff again. I’ve also spent the last three months in a psychiatric hospital, cleansing my mind so I could be the sister Gemma needs me to be. Even if she’s not here anymore—she still needs me.

  Opening and closing cupboards, I finally find the coffee mugs. I grab two. One that is just a solid red, and another that says Seize the Day. I’ll let Nash have that one. Maybe the words will seep into his soul and give him some hope, even if it’s just for today.

  The coffee pot light is still on, and I wonder how long ago this pot was made. For all I know, Nash brewed it in the middle of the night. Pouring a cup, I take a sip. Tastes fresh, so I pour another cup. Taking both by the handle, I set them on the table. “Coffee’s ready,” I holler, although I’m pretty sure I hear the shower running. I take a step closer to the living room and look down the hall. Yep, he’s in the shower. Good. Maybe he will sweat out some of the alcohol in his body and have a semi-productive day.

  When I go back into the kitchen, I open the refrigerator in hopes of finding some eggs to scramble. I’m not at all surprised to find that the only thing staring back at me is a box of beer, a tub of butter, and a half-empty milk jug. I should have known. Nash is a widower—a bachelor. Most of the bachelors I’ve encountered in my life had the same supply of food. Biting the inside of my cheek, I wonder if I should go pick something up. Regardless of whether or not he eats, I’m starving. Still in pajamas, I go into my room, grab my purse off the dresser, and slip on a pair of flip-flops that were in my bag.

  Dunkin Donuts is in the next town over, and it’s a short fifteen-minute drive. Thank God they have a drive-thru so that no one has to witness the mess that is me. I order a dozen donut holes and a couple bacon and cheese breakfast sandwiches. One of which, I have every intention of eating on the way back to the house. At the risk of drinking ten-hour-old coffee, I order a couple to go.

  The scenery on the drive back is as breathtaking as when I drove in. A picturesque town with the home feel I’ve always wanted. Growing up in Los Angeles was great, but I would often daydream about living in a small town where no one knew my past and actually wanted to take part in my future. A small church I’d attend with my family on Sundays. A big yard for the kids to run around in. Community picnics, PTA meetings, the whole shebang. Most importantly, a man who wanted to share in the simplicity of life. I remember telling Gemma about my dreams and she’d always say they weren’t as far out of reach as I thought. When you want something, you work for it. Unfortunately for me, the only thing I’ve ever worked hard for is just surviving.

  When I pull back up the house, I’m relieved to find that Nash’s truck is still there. Hopefully he doesn’t drive in that state of mind often.

  With both hands full, I use my pinky to pull open the screen door with my elbow catching it before it slams shut. The house is so quiet. It’s almost eerie. No wonder he seems so down and resorts to drinking all the time. “Nash,” I holler. “I’ve got breakfast.”

  When he walks into the living room, I want to shield my eyes. Hide my face, that I’m sure is blushed. Seeing him in his black boxer briefs with no shirt on feels awkward. Turning my head away and staring at the couch, I continue to talk as I catch him rubbing the white towel over his damp head from the corner of my eye. “I’ve got breakfast.”

  A chuckle escapes him. “For me? Or for the furniture?”

  Closing my eyes briefly, I ask, “Could you put some clothes on? Geez.”

  He scoffs, “Jesus, I’m wearing boxers, Rowan. Besides, this is my house. I can walk into my living room butt ass naked if I want to.” He steps closer and snatches the bag from my hand. “I’m sure you see a lot more skin on a daily basis anyways.”

  Jerking my gaze from the couch to him, I wonder if he’s implying what I think he is. Yes, he most definitely is. “Excuse me, are you insinuating that I see naked men often?”

  “Well”—he pops a whole donut round in his mouth. I watch as it balls in the side of his cheek—“don’t you?”

  “No!” I spit. “I do not. You don’t know a damn thing about me, so don’t try and pretend that you do.”

  “Know enough.” He drops the bag on the coffee table in front of the sofa and walks toward the kitchen.

  “Hold up a minute. You don’t get to spew that nonsense and just walk away. What is it that you think you know about me?” I air quote with my fingers.

  He continues to the kitchen, but his words carry through the space between us. “Just let it go. I’ve got a pounding headache and the sound of your voice is making it worse.”

  My eyes pop wide-open. Rage works its way up from the tip of my toes to my ears, flaming every vein in my body. I storm into the kitchen behind him. “What the hell is your problem?”

  “Isn’t it apparent?” He grabs a coffee mug from the cupboard. Completely ign
oring the cup I already poured him and the to-go one sitting on the table in the living room.

  “No, it’s really not. Please elaborate.”

  Spinning around quickly, he eats up the space between us. His eyes narrow in on mine. “You. You’re my problem.”

  Swallowing hard, it hits me. He’s not just angry with me about missing the funeral.

  He hates me.

  Chapter Six

  Nash

  Her brown eyes harbor sadness. Without a doubt, my words dug deep. Good. I’m not sorry, though she will argue that I should be. This girl has no reason to be here. The only thing that ever brought us together is gone. Gemma is gone and she’s not coming back. Even when she was here, Rowan wanted no part of our lives. She didn’t come to the wedding when Gemma asked her to be her maid of honor. Never even gave an excuse for her absence. Seeing the pain in my wife’s eyes on our wedding night, knowing that Rowan caused that pain, makes me thankful for the anguished eyes looking back at me now.

  “Why do you hate me so much?” Her voice cracks. “What did I ever do to you?”

  As I tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, I whisper, “You didn’t do anything. That’s the problem. You never did a damn thing.” Exhausted, I excuse myself without actually excusing myself. Still reeling from my early morning binge, I wobble into the bedroom and fall down on the bed face first.

  When my eyes flutter open, the sun beams through the parted curtains. Sickness pools in my stomach at the realization that this day is still carrying on. I was hopeful that I’d wake up to darkness and have an excuse to just stay in bed. Although I’m on leave and have no one to report to. Even if little miss sassy pants thinks I owe her an explanation for every move I make.

  Rolling over to my back, I tuck my hands under my head. I don’t even remember falling asleep. Must have had a pretty good buzz going. Then it hits me. The cruelty in my words. I said some pretty harsh stuff to Rowan. Rubbing my eyes firmly with the palms of my hands, I get up to go talk to her. I don’t know what I plan to say. I doubt I’ll apologize, but there is a part of me that feels pretty shitty considering this is my wife’s little sister. Gemma wouldn’t want me to act this way.