That's the Way I Loved You

by Carrie Aarons

  That’s the Way I Loved You

  Carrie Aarons

  Copyright © 2020 by Carrie Aarons

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Editing done by Proofing Style.

  Cover designed by Okay Creations.

  Thank you to way-back-when Taylor Swift for helping me write this book.

  Your first and second albums were the soundtrack to Jason and Savannah.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

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  Also by Carrie Aarons

  About the Author

  1

  Savannah

  My cherry red nails click absent-mindedly on the table, a nervous tic I’ve never been able to cure manifesting in the anxious silence.

  Perry lays a hand over mine, and my eyes shoot up to his dark brown ones. There is a slight hint of annoyance in them, that I can’t sit still and instead have been drumming like a child, and I instantly feel the slight burn of shame at the back of my neck. This initial impression is everything, and my too-bold nail polish choice could be screwing it up for us.

  “Everything all right?” Perry’s voice is faux cheerful, with an edge of power as he directs his question to the loan agent.

  Armand, the loan agent assigned to our case, taps on his keyboard, his face concentrated on the laptop in front of him. “Just double-checking something.”

  Those words gnaw at the lining of my stomach because double-checking doesn’t sound like a good thing. We should be golden, set to go, in the clear for buying the penthouse we’ve been eyeing for months.

  I feel Perry’s hand tighten on fingers that he’s keeping from drumming nervously on the cool marble table. We sit on one side, a unit in color-coordinating power suits. And on the other, it’s a firing squad of the Upper East Side’s most judgmental. There is Armand, flanked by two other agents from the mortgage company who hold equally unreadable stares as they assess us. Then there is the shrewd, forty-something woman who runs the board of the Pavel, the uber-elite building we’re trying to move into. And finally, next to her, is the leasing agent for the penthouse we’ve been fighting for since it went on the market a little over sixty days ago.

  My boobs are sweating under the lilac Chanel blazer Perry gave me as a Christmas present last year. The color doesn’t do much for me, with my strawberry blond hair it’s far too light and washes me out. But it’s a designer label, and I know it makes Perry happy when I wear it. So I did.

  After being together for four years, he’s finally given in and agreed that we should move in together. Because Perry is almost eight years older than I am, and a perpetual bachelor, he’s been reluctant to give up his solitary space. In the beginning, we had to move past a lot of obstacles. Our age difference, the way we’d been brought up, his often quiet brooding. But it was the softer side of him that hooked me, the one that would bring chicken soup to my apartment when I was sick. Or show up at one of my shooting locations with roses just because. He had been there for me in a very dark time before I became the woman I am today.

  And I just can’t wait to start this next chapter of our lives together.

  “So, I’m seeing some inconsistencies in your credit score and the properties you reported to us, Ms. Reese,” Armand says, an eagle eye skewering me to my chair.

  My heart starts to beat wildly. Even after almost ten years of living in New York, I’m still not used to the way people direct questions at you. As if they have a hidden agenda, like the politeness they layer over skepticism is misleading enough not to ruffle your feathers.

  Where I grew up, people just said what they thought. Everyone was genuine, and if something needed addressing, it was addressed. No skirting around things with flowery language and unreadable social cues.

  I try not to shift in my seat. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to. I rent my apartment, have never owned a property, and I only have the one credit card. There is no debt to my name.”

  Truthfully, there isn’t. I’m a simpleton when it comes to money, something that frustrates Perry. I believe in paying all of my bills on time, which means two days early. I don’t let him diversify my portfolio, and I won’t put a cent into the stock market. With one checking and one savings account, plus a retirement fund, that’s all I need to survive.

  “While searching your social security number, there is a property listed. Number three Covered Wagon Lane?”

  My heart plummets. I’d be surprised if I looked down and didn’t see a hole in the floor, followed by a fallout of the sixteen floors below us. I swear, I almost double over and puke right there on the gleaming hardwood floors of the Pavel’s conference room.

  It’s been almost a decade since I heard that address said out loud. Even longer since I’ve allowed myself to even think of it. But the moment Armand utters the words, that tiny cabin with the rusty red front door pops into my mind. And sadness, like a black sheath of mourning, clouds over my heart in anticipation of hurricane like storms.

  “The property is in collections. Seems to have a few liens on it, and it looks like there is some interest of foreclosure on it.” Armand scans over the screen and then flits his eyes back up to me.

  Every eye in the room is trained on me, some expectant, others smug, and more than one has a glimmer of disgust in it. These people are not used to the words collections and foreclosure.

  Foreclosure. There is no way any bank one hundred square miles around Hale, Texas, would give a rat’s ass about that junky shack in the woods. But how the hell is that property still even tied to me?

  Because you left your hometown and never bothered to look back, a self-satisfied voice whispers in my ear.

  I rub at my chest, not caring anymore if these people see a crack in the armor. Age-old wounds, ones I’ve merely stitched up haphazardly and ignored, open like it’s ten years ago all over again.

  How the hell did he not take care of this? The one thing left in his responsibility, and of course, he couldn’t even manage to clean that mess up.

  Chancing a glance at my Wall Street-trader boyfriend, I try my hardest to bite back the sheepish smile trying to form on my lips. Perry DeLeon is one of the sma
rtest, most successful men I’ve ever met. He’s gorgeous in that obvious way, with angular features and neatly trimmed brown hair. He looks just as good in a three-piece tux as he does in tennis gear, and for some reason, he picked me. When we met, I was a bumbling, mousy girl who still barely knew her way around the subway system. Perry seemed smitten from the moment we met, maybe because I seemed mysterious? In reality, I was trying not to choke on my tongue as I looked at him in his midnight black town car. He was like Mr. Big, driving up in a chariot to teach me the ways of New York City.

  With him, I’ve transformed. I’ve traveled, I landed my dream job; we fell in love, and created a life that I only ever read about in storybooks.

  I knew, at some point, my past would rear its ugly head. I’ve shoved it down, tried to tie bricks to its ankles and drown the girl I used to be. I never thought it would come to bite me in the ass, at least not this terribly.

  Perry knows nothing of who I was before I landed face-first on the sidewalks of the city.

  But I have a feeling that my wild, country roots are about to wind their way around us both, exposing the truths I’ve kept buried for far too long.

  2

  Jason

  Midland sings on about having drinking problems as I slam another nail down into the roof.

  My hand throbs, the calluses whining along with the chorus of a country song as I abuse the appendage. I’ve been at this for far too long, but pain is second nature in my life and I push past it.

  “Jay, come on down. Quitting time!” Beau yells, and again, I ignore him.

  The rest of the guys went home an hour ago, but I’m in a particularly shit mood, so I stayed up here. Not that I’m getting paid much, if anything, to be here. Beau should thank me for finishing this roof his guys have been working half-ass on their entire eight-hour shift. Because of me, they’ll be able to start insulation tomorrow, and Beau will be that much closer to handing over the keys to this mansion to his hoity-toity clients.

  I bring the hammer down, smacking a nail into its place, as I hear Beau start up his car.

  “Don’t get yourself killed,” my best friend instructs out the driver’s side window, before pulling away.

  At least he knows what I need, even if I’m unwilling to say it. I need to be alone, with country music drowning out my thoughts, and a hammer thwacking against a hard surface. Something my fists are not allowed to do, hence why I’m not down at Buddy’s, the local bar. If I went there tonight, I’d end up in the sheriff’s drunk tank.

  I’m not sure why some days are harder than others. Maybe it’s the change in the seasons, with the cool winter weather turning to spring. Maybe I didn’t get enough sleep. Or maybe it’s nearing closer and closer to that date on the calendar, the one I dread with each passing year.

  Whatever it is, it’s got me wound tighter than a spring-loaded coil, and the only thing that helps is working for free to pass the time between sun up and sun down.

  My existence over the past ten years has become a restrained contentment. At the beginning, when I lost the two biggest dreams in my life, I drank myself into a stupor each day. It wasn’t until I almost killed myself and another on the road through town, which resulted in a DUI and some heavy community service, that I started to clean it up.

  After that, I bought my business, built it up, and run that thing like a well-oil machined in the months that it’s viable. When I can’t do that, I work on Beau’s crew for fun, and because I can’t just sit still. Sitting leads to thinking, which leads to sorrow, which leads to drinking, and well, I saw how that chapter ended.

  Aside from work, I have my friends. Most folks in town know me, and my calendar is never empty of social events or community work I can do.

  But it’s the nights that spook me. That crawl their way under my skin and slice open the barely healed scars on my heart.

  I hear the purr of the engine before I see it. Jesus, that driver has to be going over eighty, which is not only stupid on these winding roads but also illegal. And then it comes into view, the sleek gray BMW with the sunset glinting off of its body. From my position on the roof, I watch as it jets past, going faster than a bull just released from its gate at the rodeo.

  “Jesus,” I mutter to no one but myself.

  Out-of-towners are the fucking worst. Whoever is in there is probably wearing designer labels, just passing through on their way to Dallas or Austin. No regard for our sleepy town and the residents who try to stay safe inside it.

  Just as I’m about to turn back to my aggressive construction work, I hear sirens.

  Lazily, I turn back around, feeling a smug sort of satisfaction when I see a pickup with the word sheriff emblazoned across it pulling out onto the road, in pursuit of the BMW.

  Well, I guess I was wrong in my drunk tank assumption. Turns out, the sheriff isn’t patrolling the local bar, but sitting out here in a speed trap. Sheriff Kevin Jenkins and I went to high school together, played ball, and now we have a standing poker night once a month with a couple other buddies.

  He gets on her bumper, signaling for the driver to pull over, and he or she does. Prick is probably pissed off that a snoozing cop on a country road flagged him down. As Jenks walks to the car, I can see his authoritative gait and I have to chuckle. I’ve seen this guy drunk seven ways to Sunday, pissing on a field goal post at the high school, and now he’s the law around here.

  Good, I think when he reaches the car, give ’em a whopper of a ticket. Then, to my surprise, the driver opens the door to get out, and jumps into his arms. Jenks laughs as he sets the driver, a woman, down, and then I catch a glimpse of her hair in the setting sun.

  I swear, I almost fall off of the roof.

  Because I would notice that hair anywhere. Strawberry blond, the color of sunflowers as a blood-red sun descends down over them. The color of her mama’s sweet banana and strawberry pie, which I can practically taste in my mouth right now.

  That hair, the locks I’ve run my fingers through a thousand times …

  To say I’m baffled is an understatement. My eyes must be playing tricks on me. There is no way Savannah Reese is in Hale. She left ten years ago and never came back.

  But I would swear, she’s standing not a hundred feet from me. Thankfully, from my position on the roof, neither her nor the sheriff has noticed me.

  They talk a little longer, and then she gets back in her car and drives off.

  I watch that BMW until I can’t see it any longer, but I know where it’s headed. And when she takes the turn for the long road that leads to the lake, I’m sure of it.

  Before I can think about what I’m doing, I’m scaling down from the roof and sprinting to my truck.

  3

  Savannah

  Gravel kicks up under the tires of the BMW coupe as I wind it around the trees, the headlights barely making the road visible.

  If you can even call this a road. It’s more of a path in the middle of the woods, and time has done it no favors. Back when I lived here, you could barely make it out even then. With all the weeds and brush cluttering it now, I can tell no one has been out here in years.

  I come to a clearing, and squinting against the pure darkness of rural Texas, make out a small house in front of my headlights.

  This place used to be my sanctuary. It was my dream home, once upon a time. This shanty, nothing more than a two-room hut fifty feet from the lake and secluded from the world … it was paradise. God, how naive the Savannah I was back then had been.

  Anyone else who had lived in New York City for the last ten years would be scared to get out of the car. But not me. These were my boondocks, the ones I’d run wild in under the starlight since I could sneak out of my bedroom window at the age of ten. Those native NYCers were probably more likely to be murdered at their favorite Chinese restaurant around the block, yet the woods at night are what they’re afraid of.

  Stepping from the car, I’m glad I opted for my flat knee-high boots instead of the spike-heeled blac
k ones I’d thrown in my bag. Because as soon as my foot makes contact with the ground, it’s met with a mud that only wet season in Texas could provide.

  The house is in worse shape than it was the day we bought it. I can see a missing section of the tin roof, the one we used to lie under and listen to the thunder clapping down on. The windows are grimy and fogged, and I’m pretty sure they’re not keeping any kind of cool air out of the inside of the structure. The front door hangs off-center, and I’m pretty sure I’ll break my neck if I step foot on the front porch.

  There was a moment in time when I pictured being carried across the threshold as a married woman; carrying our first baby through it. I’d dreamed of a bright red door, something like the shade of my nails, and blue-trimmed windows. I’d had my eye on two rocking chairs; the handmade kind two nineteen-year-olds never could have afforded.

  And then my whole life went sideways, and it all collapsed, just like this old shack.

  “She’s still a beaut, ain’t she?”

  The voice comes out of the shadows, startling me and sending my heart clattering against my ribcage. I don’t jump though, because I know it. I’d know it anywhere. Even though I’ve forbidden myself from hearing it in memories or thinking about it during the waking hours, I can’t help the dreams that always come in sleep.