Only Love (One and Only #3)

by Melanie Harlow

  When I got home, I went up to the room with my weight bench, and I could hardly stand to look at the stairs. I lifted for a solid forty-five minutes, then came down to the kitchen for some water, forbidding myself to stop and sit on the steps where we’d had sex just so I could feel closer to her.

  Day after day, for two weeks straight, I did the same thing, but it never got easier. In fact, it got worse. I stopped sleeping in my bedroom and spent restless nights on my uncomfortable couch. I never rode my bike. I did anything to avoid looking in the dining room at the inn, at the table where we’d sat trading stories and laughs. If I had to work at the wedding barn, I refused to look at the spot in the back where we’d been together. I stopped doing work at her grandmother’s house, but then I felt bad when the dead leaves began to pile up and spent one Sunday afternoon raking and collecting them. I wore earbuds and blasted heavy metal music so that when Mrs. Gardner called to me from the back porch, I wouldn’t feel like such an asshole when I didn’t respond.

  Mack and I flew to Iowa to serve as pallbearers at Bones’s funeral, and I thought that might drive home the validation I was looking for, but it didn’t. And as hard as I tried, as hard as we all tried to remain stoic and detached during the service, I don’t think any of us got through it without our composure slipping. It was such a tragic waste.

  After we got home again, I ached to call Stella and pour my heart out to her. I wanted to tell her about Bones, about how lost he’d been, how the military had failed him when he’d tried to get help. I wanted to tell her how guilty I felt that he’d reached out to me the night he killed himself, and I hadn’t said the right things. I wanted to say to her, This is why I can’t be with you. How I feel right now, this pain, is why.

  But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  I’d never hated being alone so much.

  Thirty-One

  Grams

  I didn’t understand it. I simply didn’t understand it.

  I’d done everything right. Lured her up here, got him to come over, made the introduction—and it was obvious right from the get-go they were attracted to one another. But still I had to intervene!

  The chicken, the pie, the meatloaf. I might not be a product of the twenty-first century, but some things don’t change, and I know the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. (Although high heels and lipstick never hurt, either.)

  It was clear that night at the dinner table they were already crazy about each other. And from what I gathered, things in the feathers were A-OK. So what had gone wrong? Why on earth didn’t he want to be with her?

  I nearly marched right over there and demanded an answer the minute Stella pulled out of the driveway. But I told myself to wait. For one thing, he might still be grieving for that friend of his. And for another, I’d never been one for a direct approach. I always found it much more effective to be stealthy. The sneak attack.

  I’d bide a little time. Get the lay of the land.

  You might have won the battle, Mr. Woods, but the war isn’t over yet. Not if I have anything to say about it.

  And I always had something to say about it. What grandmother didn’t?

  Thirty-Two

  Stella

  I tried hard to forget.

  I worked. I ran. I even baked an apple pie. But everything reminded me of him. Everything.

  A new couple was referred to me for counseling, and the wife happened to be a military photographer who’d served in Afghanistan. She’d been diagnosed with PTSD, but she didn’t feel that was right. “It’s something else,” she insisted. “It’s more like the things I’ve seen have left a bruise on my soul that won’t go away. And I can’t relate to anyone who hasn’t seen those things, who doesn’t know what it was like for me to have to document them.”

  Her husband loved her but didn’t understand why she hadn’t been able to simply come home and be wife and mother again. He kept telling her she hadn’t done anything wrong, had nothing to be ashamed of, and she needed to move on and stop obsessing over it. He wanted her to take the anti-anxiety pills her doctor had prescribed, believing that would “numb her up” and make it easier to cope.

  I thought of Ryan, of course, and the night he’d told me about what it was like for him over there, and then what it was like for him to come home.

  “Do you want to be numb, Carrie?” I asked her. “Will that help you cope?”

  “No,” she said. “I want to talk to him about it. I want him to listen to me without trying to help me cope.”

  “Do you hear what she’s saying, Dean?” I asked her husband.

  He looked uncomfortable. “Yes, but talking about it upsets her so much. And it upsets other people. I don’t think she should talk about it.”

  I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. Ryan’s voice was in my head. “She needs you to be a safe place, Dean. She needs to feel accepted and understood, no matter what she says. Can you do that for her?”

  When they left, hand in hand and a little more hopeful than when they’d arrived, I locked my office door and wept.

  Maren flew in the first weekend of November, which was the weekend before Emme’s wedding, and the three of us went out for dinner Saturday night.

  “I’m starving,” Emme said, cracking open the menu. “But I’m so nervous to eat because I don’t want my dress to be too tight.”

  “You’re not going to outgrow it in a week,” Maren assured her. “Eat what you want.”

  Emme stared at her. “Hello, I’m pregnant, and my body is getting bigger every single day. I could absolutely outgrow my dress in a week.”

  “Then you’d wear something else,” Maren said calmly. “The dress isn’t the most important thing.”

  Emme shook her head, her eyes wide. “It’s like you don’t know me at all.”

  I laughed, glad to be out with them, distracted from my broken heart. The server came around, and Maren and I ordered wine while Emme struggled to choose an appetizer. “The calamari. No! The spinach and artichoke dip. No! The steak tips. Oh damn, they have an olive plate too. I love olives.”

  “Just bring them all,” I said. “We’ll have small plates tonight.”

  Emme smiled. “Good call, sis.”

  We chatted about the wedding, about family, about work. Maren caught us up on the house she and her fiancé Dallas were building on a ranch in Oregon and said they’d been so busy they’d made no wedding plans yet, but they were thinking maybe next summer out there. Emme answered all our questions about being three months pregnant and how she couldn’t wait to find out the sex of the baby.

  “Don’t you want to be surprised?” Maren asked.

  Emme looked at her like she was nuts. “Hell no. My life has had enough surprises. Now and then I’ll take a little advance notice, thank you.”

  Eventually talk turned to me. “So what’s new with you, Stell?” Maren asked. “Anything exciting coming up?”

  “Not really,” I said, twirling the stem of my wine glass. “I am trying to start a new therapy group at the clinic for combat veterans. But I’m still doing the research.”

  “That’s interesting.” My sisters exchanged a glance. “Have you heard anything from that guy who lives next door to Grams?”

  I shook my head as a lump jumped into my throat. “No.”

  “Want to talk about it?” Emme asked gently. “You never mention him.”

  “What’s to talk about? He dumped me. Just like Walter did.” The pain of it hadn’t dulled one bit.

  “No.” Emme put up a hand. “I’m sorry. I met them both, and Ryan is nothing like Walter.”

  “I agree,” I said. “But they had something in common—neither one of them was into me.”

  “Stella, be honest. You weren’t into Walter, either.” Maren forked another piece of calamari and stuck it in her mouth.

  “Maybe not. Not like I was into Ryan, anyway.”

  “So what happened?” Maren asked, looking back and forth from me to Emme. “I never really he
ard.”

  Taking a deep breath, I filled my youngest sister in on the last few days Ryan and I spent together, our final goodbye, and the letter I’d left. Then I ordered more wine.

  “Jesus. That’s tough.” Maren chewed on her bottom lip. “No response? Do you think he got the letter?”

  I shrugged. “Why wouldn’t he have?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t want him to be that big of an asshole.”

  “He’s not an asshole,” I said, sighing deeply. “He’s just … complicated. And conflicted. And really, really good in bed.” Every night, I tortured myself with memories of his body on mine.

  “How good?” Maren asked.

  “He made her come with his thingy,” Emme stage whispered, waving her index finger around in the air. “And that was a first for her.”

  “Can we please not call it a thingy? It’s a dick,” I said right as the male server dropped off my glass of wine.

  All of us froze until he left, quickly and red-faced, then we burst out laughing.

  “Thingy makes it sound small,” I said after a generous sip of pinot noir. “And it’s not.”

  “Well, good. I’m happy for you.” Maren clinked her glass to mine.

  “I was happy for me too. While it lasted. But … maybe it wasn’t meant to be.”

  “Don’t give up yet,” Emme said. “It’s only been a couple weeks. Maybe he’s the kind of guy who needs to contemplate life without you before he realizes he’s being an idiot. Nate did.”

  “I don’t know, Em. That situation was different. You guys had known each other a while, and you were right there across the hall. Ryan and I are hundreds of miles apart. Out of sight, out of mind. He’s probably already forgotten me.”

  “I highly doubt that,” said Maren. “And you know Grams is not going to let this go.”

  I cringed. “God. She means well, but I really hope she doesn’t embarrass me further. I’m dreading showing up to the wedding by myself. I can already see her trying to set me up with any unattached males in attendance, whether they’re twenty-five or eighty-five.”

  “Maybe you should bring a date,” Maren suggested. “Even if it’s only a friend, or maybe someone you’d like to get to know better.”

  “Sure! Any new prospects?” Emme asked.

  I shook my head. “I’d have told you. It’s hard out there. I don’t know how you guys did it.”

  “It is hard.” Emme poked a steak tip into her mouth.

  “It’s so hard I had to go back to my very first boyfriend,” said Maren. “A repeat.”

  “I definitely don’t have anything in my past I’d like to repeat.” I took another sip of wine. “And I don’t want to settle. Ryan might not have been the one, but that’s how I want to feel about someone. Head over heels. I want to get flustered and dizzy and feel like I can’t get close enough to him, no matter how hard I try. I want that undefinable thing that happens when you look at the person you desire. And I want good sex.”

  My sisters stared.

  “Well, this is a different Stella,” Maren said. “What happened to ‘Sex isn’t everything. It’s not love or intimacy or even going to last?’”

  “That Stella went the way of the pterodactyl after she banged a sexy Marine,” Emme pointed out with a giggle. “And frankly—sorry, Stellsy—I don’t miss her.”

  I gave her a dirty look. “Hey. I still don’t think sex is the most important factor in a relationship, but I do think good chemistry is more important than I did before.”

  “I agree,” said Maren. “And I wish this guy would come to his senses, but even if he doesn’t, he’s not the only complicated man with a big dick out there.”

  “Thanks,” I said wryly.

  “What if you were to reach out to him?” asked Emme. “Is that out of the question? I mean, what if you got in touch just to say ‘hey, how are you?’”

  I shook my head. “Too obvious. And he’s not the kind of person who chats on the phone. Believe me, you guys. My letter left the door open for him, and it was hard enough for me to do even that.”

  “That was really brave of you,” said Maren. “I don’t know that I would have been so forgiving so quickly.”

  “I understand him,” I said helplessly, fighting tears. “I almost wish I didn’t.”

  That night in bed, I tried to think positive.

  Maybe I’d meet someone else, a nice man with a name like Harold. A scientist who spends long hours in the lab, which accounts for his thin physique and pale skin. Maybe I’d even be a little attracted to Harold’s intellect, and maybe we’d have some things in common and want the same things for our future. Maybe I’d figure I might as well settle for nice, since I can’t have perfect. A nice man, a nice house with a nice picket fence, nice kids, nice sex, nice life. We’d never fight because we’d communicate so well, and arguing really isn’t Harold’s style. We’d hire people to do things like paint the fence and mow the lawn, because Harold isn’t too handy outside the lab. We’d have sex every other Saturday night in our bedroom only, lights out, missionary style, over in precisely ten minutes. Maybe I wouldn’t even take my nightgown all the way off. Harold would kiss me goodnight, and I’d roll over and try to have nice dreams.

  But I wouldn’t. Instead I’d dream of Ryan—hot, dirty, passionate dreams that would leave me breathing heavy and drenched with sweat, and I’d wake up every morning longing for the one man who’d claimed my heart and never let it go.

  Thirty-Three

  Ryan

  November arrived and things slowed down at work, which sucked for me, because I needed things to keep me distracted. My feelings for Stella were like fucking chains on my heart, and they refused to break, no matter how hard I tried.

  A thousand times I wanted to call her and beg her forgiveness, but I never did. Why should she forgive me? She’d been right—I’d lied to her. I’d broken her trust. I’d known she was scared of what she felt, and I’d told her she was safe. I’d told her I’d try.

  But I did try, said a stubborn voice in my head. I tried and I failed. I fucked it up, and I don’t deserve a second chance. I’d only screw up again, because I don’t know what I’m doing. I never have. She deserves better.

  But I missed her fiercely, not just her physical presence but the hope for change she’d brought to my life.

  I spent more time on the house—patching and painting bedroom walls, refinishing the floors, repairing cracks in the ceiling. After checking with the real estate agent, who secured permission and funds from the owner, I decided to try tackling the kitchen. It was so horribly outdated, I knew the house wouldn’t have a prayer of selling without some refurbishment in there.

  And I had the desire to take something ugly and make it beautiful again.

  I asked Mack if he knew anyone with good taste that might help me choose some materials and appliances, and he suggested I ask April Sawyer. I shot her a text on the first Friday in November.

  She replied that she’d be happy to help and offered to drive with me down to the Home Depot in Traverse City on Saturday. I’d have preferred to meet her there, but I didn’t want to be an asshole, so I said okay and told her I’d pick her up at Cloverleigh around three.

  My phone rang a minute later.

  “Why don’t I drive to your house?” April suggested. “That way I can see the space.”

  “Oh, right. Okay.” I gave her the address. “See you tomorrow. Thanks.”

  We hung up, and I looked around the kitchen, thinking that I’d better clean up if April was going to come look at it tomorrow. I washed all the dishes in the sink and put them away. I cleaned out the fridge. I dragged a mop over the floor. I gathered all the mail that had been piling up on the counter and sorted through it.

  That’s when I saw the envelope with my name on it. No stamp, no return address, just Ryan written in cursive letters, black ink. I swallowed. Was this Stella’s writing? When had she written this? Before she left?

  With my pulse poundi
ng in my ears, I tore open the envelope and pulled out two handwritten pages.

  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.

  Hold on a second … she was apologizing to me? After the shit I said to her, she was sorry? I felt so low, I wanted to sink into the ground. It would almost have been easier if she’d just torn me a new asshole.

  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.

  My throat was dry and tight. I hated the thought that I’d caused her pain.

  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 journey 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 finished the letter, then immediately read it again. And again. And again.