Only Love (One and Only #3)

by Melanie Harlow

  I sniffed. “No, he wasn’t. Gramps was outgoing and charming and talkative. Always in a good mood. Always joking.”

  Grams laughed. “Well, that was later, dear. When I first knew him, when he was young, he was sort of gruff and quiet. I used to try to get him to talk all the time, and he’d get so frustrated. He broke up with me constantly.”

  “He did? But I thought you two were always so happy.”

  “Oh, we were! He never could stay away, and I knew it. So when he’d break it off, I’d say ‘okay’ and hop out of his car like it didn’t matter to me at all. He’d show up on my doorstep soon enough with his tail between his legs. I just had to be patient.”

  “Ryan doesn’t feel that way about me, like he can’t stay away.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Grams said with a shrug. “If I was a betting man, I’d say he does, but he also seems stubborn as the day is long.”

  I nodded. “He is.”

  “And he’s hurting right now. Emme told me about his friend.”

  “I didn’t know about that,” I said helplessly, “or I wouldn’t have accosted him like I did.”

  “Well, he’s proud. Probably didn’t want you to see him upset. But military men take it hard when they lose one of their own. It’s like losing a brother.”

  I nodded sadly.

  “So you might have to wait a little longer for him to see things clearly. Maybe you could stay through the week? My … my left foot is really bothering me today. Why, I could hardly get up these stairs. I might need you to drive me to the podiatrist, so—”

  “It’s no use, Grams. I’m not staying.”

  She sighed, deflating visibly. “I understand, dear. If you change your mind and want to try again, I’m always here, and you’re always welcome.”

  I wasn’t going to change my mind, but I thanked her anyway.

  She gave me a kiss on the head and stood up. “You know, when your grandfather was overseas, I used to write him letters, and he always said it was my letters that really won his heart. Maybe you could leave a little note for Mr. Woods—just something to remember you by, that’s all.”

  “There’s no point, Grams.”

  “Even if it’s simply a letter of condolence about his friend. He’s probably feeling pretty down. Imagine if he comes home late tonight, all by himself in that big empty house, but he has a note waiting for him. Something to remind him he’s not alone.”

  “He likes being alone.”

  “Do you still believe that?”

  I wasn’t sure what I believed anymore. Everything in my head was all jumbled up.

  “You give it some thought.” She patted my shoulder. “Goodnight, dear.”

  “Night.”

  She made it as far as the doorway before turning around. “Now don’t take this the wrong way, but if you do decide to write him a letter, it wouldn’t hurt to maybe put on some lipstick and leave a kiss mark on it. Maybe spritz it with a little perfume?”

  “Goodnight, Grams,” I said firmly.

  “Okay, okay. I’m done. Goodnight.”

  I was awake most of the night.

  I kept thinking about conversations Ryan and I’d had, remembering things he’d said. The way he trusted me. The way we kissed. Had I missed something? Had I grown so obsessed with my own feelings I’d lost the ability to read him?

  Or was Emme right? Had tonight been more about fear than anything else? Was he protecting himself from feeling too deeply? After all, he’d gone to war to escape the grief he felt over losing his mother, and war had taught him to survive by killing his feelings. Had the death of his friend put him back into survival mode?

  I understood his need to protect himself. Hadn’t I done the same thing? Hadn’t I made safe choices, dating only men who didn’t excite me or challenge me? And wasn’t all of it to protect myself from being rejected? From feeling like I wasn’t enough?

  Ryan was really the first unsafe choice I’d ever made. I wondered if I’d do things differently, if I could do them over again. My gut reaction was yes, because this entire thing was a painful mistake and I hate myself for getting involved with him. Good sex isn’t worth it.

  But there was more to it. Ryan had taught me things about myself, both physically and emotionally. He’d opened something up in me. He’d shown me a different side of myself, a side I was no longer afraid of. For that, I was grateful. And I’d do it all again.

  Because love was always a chance worth taking.

  Without thinking twice, I got out of bed and tiptoed down the stairs. In the living room was a piece of furniture Grams called her “secretary,” where she kept stationery, envelopes, and pens. When my sisters and I were young, we used to love unlocking it, unfolding the desktop, and pretending to write letters.

  A wave of nostalgia hit me as I went through the motions now and composed a letter for real.

  Dear Ryan,

  I want to start by saying how deeply sorry I was to hear about the loss of your friend. And I want to apologize for making tonight about me when it shouldn’t have been. I should not have come at you like that, asking difficult questions and making demands.

  But I am new to this. I’ve never fallen for anyone the way I fell for you. The whirlwind of it caught me off guard.

  I won’t deny that I’m heartbroken. Your words outside the restaurant, true or not, hurt me.

  But I want to thank you for showing me what true passion feels like. For pushing my boundaries. For getting me to take a risk and follow my heart. Because even though it didn’t lead me to happy ever after, it was a chance worth taking.

  Love always is.

  You might disagree—in fact, a few weeks ago, I might have disagreed. But in the short time we spent together, I’ve learned something.

  The bravest thing you can do is trust another person, and let them see the real you.

  I showed you the real me. I saw the real you. And I am a stronger person for it.

  You are a good man, Ryan. I will always believe that. And I’ll never stop wondering what might have been.

  Love,

  Stella

  P.S. There is a bourbon pecan pie with your name on it in Grams’s fridge.

  I put the letter in an envelope, sealed it, and carefully let myself out the front door. Leaving it slightly ajar so I could get back in, I shivered through the chilly, rain-damp darkness across the lawn in my bare feet.

  Ryan’s mailbox was at the foot of the driveway, and I quickly stuck the letter in before I lost my nerve, and hurried back into the house.

  Upstairs, I dried my feet off and got back into bed. I felt a little better. Stronger. Braver. Tomorrow when I left, I might be sad, but at least I wouldn’t feel like a coward.

  Still, I shed a few more tears before going to sleep, longing for his arms around me.

  Thirty

  Ryan

  I went back into the bar, feeling like a cold, wet dog. Miserable and angry, I plunked myself down next to Mack and ordered another beer.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “What had to happen.” My jaw was clenched tight.

  “You broke it off?”

  “Yeah.”

  He didn’t say anything right away, just sipped his beer and ate his tacos. After a minute or two, the silence drove me crazy.

  “What?” I demanded. “Just say it. I can tell you’re thinking something.”

  “Okay. I think you’re making a mistake.”

  “Well, you’re wrong.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. But I do think you let your grief over Bones get in the way of whatever you felt for her. I think you’re pushing her away because you think somehow it will ease the pain.”

  “It will,” I insisted.

  “Even if it does, is it worth it? Are you going to live the rest of your life numb like that? Never feeling any pain, but never any joy either? Never letting yourself love someone? We should be dead, Woods. I get it. But we’re not. Stop acting like it.”

  “Fuck
off,” I said angrily, ignoring the fact that I’d asked him to speak his mind.

  “One more thing, and then I will be happy to fuck off.” Mack ate his last bite of taco and wiped his hands on his napkin. “You told this woman things you’ve never told anybody. You said she listens to you without judgment. You said she understands you. Right?”

  They were my words, but they were hard to hear. “Yeah.”

  “You said she baked you an apple pie.”

  The piiiiiiie. “Yeah.”

  “Plus, the sex was good.”

  “The sex was incredible.”

  “So what the fuck, man? If I had someone who I trusted, who listened to me, who understood me, who baked pies for me, and the sex was even marginal, I’d marry her. Like, tomorrow.”

  I let that sink in. Sipped my beer.

  “Because the incredible sex thing doesn’t last, believe me. It’s the other things that matter most. And before you know it, you’ve got three kids, no sex life, and the only talking you do is fighting. Next thing after that, you’re a single dad facing a lifetime of guilt, loneliness, and frozen cheesecake. Which your daughters will hate because ‘cheese does not belong in a dessert.’”

  I looked over at him. “Sorry. That sucks.”

  “It does.” He pitched his napkin onto his plate and checked his watch. “Which reminds me, I should head out soon. My sitter only had an hour or so.”

  “No problem.” I wanted to be alone with my misery anyway. Mack wasn’t seeing things like I was, and I was tired of being on the defensive.

  He took some cash from his wallet and tossed it onto the bar. “You okay to drive home?”

  “Yeah. I’m gonna sit here for a while. I’ll have some coffee.”

  “Okay.” He put his jacket on, adjusted his collar, and clamped a hand on my shoulder. “Be careful on the road, Woods. You’re an asshole, but I don’t want to lose you.”

  A smile tugged at my mouth and I patted his hand twice. “Get the fuck out of here.”

  He took off, and I sat there by myself for another hour or so, drinking coffee and thinking about what I’d done. No matter what Mack said, I’d made the right decision. I must have been fucking crazy to think I could ever be someone’s boyfriend or husband. It was too hard, too fraught with complications, too dangerous. You had to give too much of yourself. I wasn’t capable. I’d never been capable.

  So why did it feel like my heart was being crushed in a vise?

  Around eleven, I left Bayside and got into my truck. I started the engine, but then sat there for a few minutes.

  I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to sleep in the bed that would remind me of her. I didn’t want to smell her on the sheets.

  Pulling my phone from my pocket, I texted Mack.

  Hey. Can I crash at your place?

  He replied right away. Sure.

  He didn’t ask why. I loved that about him. If he had, I’d have said something about one too many beers and him living closer, but I wasn’t drunk or even buzzed. I made the five minute drive to Mack’s with no trouble, and parked on the street.

  The house was dark, and I knocked softly, figuring the kids were in bed.

  Mack opened the door and stood back. “Hey. Couch is all yours. Sorry I don’t have any extra beds.”

  “No problem. Couch is perfect.”

  “You know where it is,” he said, locking the door behind me and heading up the stairs.

  “Yeah. Thanks.” I used the bathroom and went into the family room, where one lamp was still on. Mack had also thrown a pillow and blanket on the couch. I took my shoes off, turned out the light and stretched out. Immediately, something dug into my back, and I frowned, reaching beneath me. Switching the lamp on again, I discovered it was a Barbie doll. And actually, it kind of reminded me of Stella.

  I stared at it longingly for a moment before getting disgusted with myself and hurling it angrily across the room. Then I felt bad about it, because what if one of his daughters saw the doll had been thrown over there and got upset?

  I got up, retrieved the Barbie, and tossed it in a box full of Legos by the TV. Then I saw there was a little pink bed on the floor right next to the couch, so I went back to the Lego box, got the Barbie, and put her in the bed. Then I turned off the light again and lay back down.

  But being at Mack’s didn’t help. When I closed my eyes, she was all I could see. When I took a breath, I could smell her. When I tried to block out the taste of her skin or the sound of her voice or the feel of her body next to mine, I failed again and again.

  She was under my skin.

  I opened my eyes the next morning to find three little girls in pajamas standing next to the couch. They reminded me of those Russian dolls, each one smaller than the next. And they were all staring at me.

  “Were you playing Barbies?” asked the tallest one, a note of suspicion in her voice.

  “Daddy says you know how to make unicorn pancakes,” said the one in the middle.

  “Are you Santa?” questioned the littlest, although she had a lisp so it came out more like thanta.

  “Duh, Winifred, he doesn’t even have a beard!”

  “So what? He could still be Santa.” She looked at me hopefully. “Are you?”

  “Uh, no.” I sat up and looked around for my phone. What the hell time was it? “Is your dad up yet?”

  “We tried to wake him up to make breakfast, but he said to come wake you up instead.” Millie eyed me critically. “Do you know how to make anything gluten free?”

  “Can I play a game on your phone?” the middle one asked, holding it up.

  “I don’t have any games, sorry.” I ran a hand through my hair. “Hey, can I get that back?”

  “Sure.” She handed it over, clearly uninterested since I had no games.

  I had no new messages, which shouldn’t have depressed me, but it did. It was just after seven, and I wondered what time Stella was leaving today. I needed to avoid running into her if I could.

  “What’s your name?” asked the little one.

  “Ryan. What’s yours?”

  “Winifred.”

  I looked at the older two. “And you’re Millie, right?” I asked the taller of them. “And you’re …” I thought hard. “Felicia?”

  “Felicity,” she said, but she seemed happy I was close. “Do you have any kids?”

  “Nope.”

  All three of them looked sad about it.

  “But if your dad says it’s okay, I can go get some doughnuts.”

  “Yay!” they shouted, taking off at a run and pounding up the stairs, even gluten-free Millie.

  Mack said it was fine, so I ran to a bakery and picked up a dozen different kinds of doughnuts and a couple large coffees. When I got back, I ate breakfast with them, then I stayed long enough for Millie to give a piano recital, Felicity to show me her collection of Petoskey stones, and Winifred to introduce me to every one of her stuffed animals.

  Finally, it was nearing eleven, and I really couldn’t think of a reason to hang out any longer. Plus, I’d promised Mrs. Gardner I’d paint those new boards on her porch. I didn’t want to flake on that.

  “Guess I’ll take off,” I said to Mack.

  “I’ll walk you out.” He threw a cap on his head and followed me out to the street where I was parked.

  “Thanks for letting me crash,” I said, unlocking the truck.

  “Anytime. You’re not too bad at the dad stuff,” he said. “I should call you to babysit.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know how you do it.”

  He shrugged, his arms folded across his chest. “I’ve got no choice.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  “How did you know you wanted to be a father?”

  “Carla told me she was pregnant with Millie.”

  “How did you know you’d be good at it?”

  “I didn’t. I was scared shitless. I still am. But those girls are everything to me. T
hey keep me going on my worst days and make the good days better. They’re all my reasons.”

  On the ride home, I tried to imagine being a parent on my own and couldn’t. I tried to imagine being a parent with someone else and couldn’t. But when I imagined what I would do if Stella came to me and said she was pregnant with my child, I felt an undeniable pull deep within me.

  They’re all my reasons.

  I knew exactly what he meant.

  Stella’s car was gone when I pulled into my driveway, and Emme’s too. I experienced a pang of regret even as I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Inside, I changed my clothes without looking at the bed. From the garage, I grabbed what I’d need to paint the boards, then I headed next door and got started without even knocking.

  It wasn’t long before Mrs. Gardner came out. “I thought I heard something out here,” she said. “My, it got chilly, didn’t it?”

  I nodded and kept working, dying to ask about Stella but biting my tongue. Talking about her wouldn’t help me forget.

  “I’m making some lunch. Would you like a sandwich?”

  “No, thanks.” I tried not to think about what kind of sandwich she might be making. Turkey? Ham? Roast beef? Leftover meatloaf? My stomach rioted.

  “Are you sure? It’s just me in there. The girls have gone back to Detroit and left us all alone.”

  So she was gone. That was it—I wouldn’t see her again. The vise on my heart tightened. “I’m sure.”

  “Well, if you change your mind, you let me know. It’s never too late, dear.”

  She went back into the house, leaving me there to wonder if she was right.

  Monday after work, I grabbed the mail from my box and dumped it onto the kitchen counter as usual. Most of the mail I got was junk or addressed to the previous owners, so I didn’t even look at the stack of envelopes and flyers before changing my clothes and heading out for a grueling ten-mile run.

  I thought about Stella with every punishing step. Did she hate me? Was she sad? Had she been more successful than me at forgetting?