Mend (Waters Book 2)

by Kivrin Wilson

  As soon as I turn onto the off-ramp, Logan stirs back to life. Peering out the windows, he asks, “Where are you going?”

  “We’re stopping. It’s lunchtime, anyway.” Easing off the accelerator and coasting toward the first intersection, I throw him concerned glances. “You looked like you were having a heart attack.”

  He turns toward me, still appearing troubled though much more…present. “I just—” he begins, then wavers.

  “Where are we?” comes Freya’s voice from the back seat.

  “We’re stopping for lunch, honey.” I make a right turn, following the signs directing me to restaurants.

  “Where?” she asks, and then she gasps and squeals, “McDonald’s! McDonald’s!”

  Flattening my lips, I lean forward and twist my head, immediately spotting what my oldest child obviously just did: the red roof and yellow M. A slanted glimpse of Logan reveals him lost in reverie again, disconnected, not paying attention. Guess that means he doesn’t care where we eat.

  Well, hell. What else is there right here? I don’t see anything but other fast-food places, just different types of garbage.

  Fine. Whatever.

  When I park in front of the busy restaurant, my husband finally seems to notice what’s happening. Gawping at the building first and then at me, he says, “Really?”

  “It’s one time,” I say with a shrug in my voice.

  His eyebrows shoot up. “What about the slippery slope?”

  Popping loose my seat belt, I reply, “I’m trying to be a little more chill about stuff, okay?”

  Freya’s excitement has woken Abi, but Elliott is a little harder to rouse, so Logan ends up unbuckling and picking up and carrying the sleepy toddler into the restaurant. While we order at the counter, the girls bounce and chatter about which toy they’re hoping to get, and I grit my teeth, reminded of one of the gazillion reasons I hate this place—and every other fast-food restaurant that entices kids with toys so they’ll beg their parents to go eat their unhealthy food.

  When we’re seated in a big, half-moon booth in the kids’ playroom, though, with the kids contained in between me and Logan, the trays with greasy fare in boxes and wrappers in front of us fills my nose with a surprisingly appetizing aroma. It’s a smell that sends me straight back to the times my mom would take me and my siblings here. It was a rare treat and all the more treasured for it, wasn’t it? And even my mom—far stricter than the average parent, I’m pretty sure—recognized that and how important it is to indulge unhealthy cravings occasionally.

  Maybe I should take cues from Mom’s parenting style more often. Pretty sure her kids have turned into functional and capable adults, which is probably as high as you should set that bar if you want to be kind to yourself. Hoping your children will grow into prodigies of some sort seems like a recipe for bitter disappointment.

  After scarfing down their meals with impressive speed, the kids scamper across the room to the play equipment, where they start climbing and sliding. Watching them exert themselves, it hits me that this is actually perfect, giving them a break from the long car trip and letting them expend some of that excess energy of theirs.

  “All right,” I say, eyeing my husband across the table once I’ve swallowed down my last bite of food and am cleaning the grease off my hands with a baby wipe I pulled out of the diaper bag. “You gonna tell me what happened in the car?”

  His face going taut, he seems reluctant, almost scared at the thought. Good God. What is going on?

  But then he scoots down the padded bench seat until he’s so close our knees touch. “I remembered something,” he says in a low, somber tone. “At least, I think it was a memory…”

  “What?” My pulse kicks up a notch.

  “I told you my parents fought a lot, and I could hear them.” He picks up a napkin, starts fiddling with it. “It was always so loud and terrifying. And sometimes, if it happened after I was in bed, I’d sneak out and…watch them. If they were in the kitchen, I could see them if I hid right outside the doorway. If they were in the living room, I’d sit at the top of the stairs.”

  “Yeah.” I glance sideways toward the play area, making sure my baby boy’s still okay over there. “You did tell me that before.”

  “Well, in the car,” he continues grimly, “I was sitting there, trying to remember what I could of my mom, what I actually remember that’s not from a photo or from something my dad told me. And then I kept thinking about your family thinking I was abusing you, and what a fucking violation that feels like…”

  “What?” I ask as his countenance seems to grow suspended, on the verge of crumbling. “What is it?”

  “I think he hit her,” he answers, a harsh whisper. “I think I saw him hit her.”

  My heart jumps, stops for a second with a jarring thump. The buzzing of conversations and the racket from the kids in the room seem much louder all of a sudden, straining my ears, and the smell from the greasy food grows stale and nauseating.

  “What?” I force out. “Logan…” I stare at him, shaking my head and waiting for him to contradict himself, say he’s mistaken or even just joking. When he only stares at the table, having moved on to shredding the napkin in his hands, I expel in a harsh, incredulous murmur, “Your dad?”

  His gaze flicks toward me. “I know. It’s ridiculous, right?”

  “Well, yeah. He’s…he’s—” Words fail me. He’s Mike McKinley. Retired cop. Protector of the innocent, defender of everything that’s decent and right. A selfless father and devoted grandfather. It’s a staggering idea. It makes no sense.

  “Exactly,” Logan says miserably when I don’t finish, because I don’t need to. “He was different back then, though. I mean, he had a temper. And he told me he drank a lot. He’d go out with his colleagues after work, then he’d come home and have another beer or two.”

  “Which is not an excuse.”

  “No,” he agrees simply, “but it makes it plausible.”

  I guess. Logan knows his dad better than I do. Oh, my God. No wonder he’s so shook-up right now. One of the first things I learned about my husband is how much he reveres his dad.

  Reaching for his hand, I slip mine inside it, forcing him to let go of that now-tiny napkin. “Are you going to talk to him about it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe?” His hand envelops mine, a tight grip, and his other one goes to his face, rubbing his eyes. “God. I feel like I have to, or I'm gonna go crazy.”

  I squeeze hard, his palm warm and dry against mine. I feel his hurt in my bones. He's had too many shocks at once: his mom is gone for good, dead; he has a sister; and now this, probably by far the worst.

  It has to feel like a betrayal. His dad’s not who he thought. For how long did Mike physically abuse his wife? All these years he's said Rose left because she was unhappy and found someone else. Seems like that wasn't the whole truth. She might've left to get away from her husband’s violence.

  What does this mean, for us? This is a man who's a huge part of our lives, of our kids’ lives. We entrust them with him all the time.

  Innocent until proven guilty, Paige. Logan’s fractured childhood memory’s not solid evidence. It definitely shouldn't trump years of Mike’s track record as a crucial and loving—and kind and gentle—part of our family.

  I'll reserve judgment then. Until Logan has talked to him and hopefully found out the truth.

  Wistfully, I watch my children as they frolic on the play structure. They’re shouting and giggling, teasing and chasing each other. And miraculously, not fighting at all.

  “They’re happy today,” I observe.

  Logan utters a grunt of agreement. “They’re happy we’re both here.”

  There's a jab of pain in my chest, near my heart. I turn to meet his gaze. “Yeah.”

  He's regarding me gravely. “What comes next, Paige? How do we move forward?”

  “I don’t know.” I blink at him, my mood turning pensive. “I was thinking. You said you’re seei
ng that therapist still?” At his nod, I almost stammer, hesitating before asking, “Maybe we could go see her together?”

  For a while, he just looks at me, clearly surprised. “Okay,” he says at last, and I'm pretty sure he sounds pleased. “I’ll call tomorrow and make an appointment.”

  Immediately, I suffer a stab of anxiety, and I nod quickly, then avert my face so he doesn't see it.

  Am I going to regret this?

  And if so, how badly?

  Chapter 28

  Logan

  The Escalade is already there when I pull into the parking lot in front of Sharon Lorentz’s office building, and as I take the spot next to it, I see that it’s idling and Paige sits in the driver’s seat, using her phone. She notices me as soon as I unfold myself from my Audi, and immediately she turns off her engine and climbs out.

  Rounding the back of my car, I meet her in the space between the vehicles, momentarily struck and rendered mute by her appearance. Like me in my suit, she’s dressed for work, wearing a mid-thigh white pencil skirt and a shimmering, sleeveless dove-gray top. The outfit hugs her exactly right, emphasizing her subtle curves, showing off the slender perfection that is her body.

  Gorgeous, sexy, brilliant woman. My wife. Still.

  “Ready for this?” I ask briskly, curving my lips.

  She blows out a breath. “Sure. As much as someone about to have a root canal is ready to not be in pain anymore.”

  I release an amused snort. “Nice analogy.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Hey.” I move in closer, reaching up to cup her cheek, brushing my thumb across her skin as I murmur, “I love you.”

  I see her throat working, and her reply sounds breathless, quiet. “I love you, too.”

  Leaning down, I touch my forehead to hers, our noses caressing. “The other night was good.”

  “It was,” she agrees with a faint smile that seems almost secretive, kind of smug, and I’m wondering which memory is making her happier: the family dinner at our house Wednesday night, the evening of games and laughter with the kids afterwards, or the adult playtime that followed?

  For myself, as much as I adore my kids, it’s definitely the latter. I can’t even say how long it’s been since we fucked on the bed in the master bedroom in that house, when was the last time I spent the night with her there, woke up next to her in the room that used to be ours together. Something that used to be such a regular, everyday thing is now unusual, spectacular, and kind of bizarre.

  There was no awkwardness, though. We’re easing back into couple-hood with a comfort that’s proving all my assertions correct. We belong together. Two halves of a whole.

  I press a lingering, insistent kiss on her lips, and she parts them and returns the pressure, soft and open and yielding, and it’s so hot and so sweet it steals my goddamn breath away.

  Then we break apart, and I take her hand as we walk together toward the office building. We enter and ascend the stairs in silence, our shoes tapping and clicking on the steps. Inside the reception area, I only nod at the receptionist, since she knows me well enough by now. We were lucky to get an appointment this quickly, only four days after I called. They’d had a cancellation.

  “The kids are with Miranda?” I ask after we take a seat on the small couch. This weekend is mine with the kids, but we’ve already made plans to spend it together. Tomorrow we’ll probably end up taking them to the beach.

  “Yeah,” says Paige, crossing her legs, allowing me to ogle the way her skirt rides up her thigh. “Her daughter and grandkids are visiting. The girls were excited.”

  “I bet. You’re working after this?”

  “I have a consultation, yeah. Guardianship case.” She adjusts her purse in her lap. “Have you heard anything about Stu and Caroline?”

  I compress my lips. “No. It’s Hammer’s shit show now, but he hasn’t been in the office much. Plus he’s still pissed at me for refusing to have anything more to do with Stu.”

  “Well, Caroline called me to tell me what was going on.” She pauses, like she’s not sure how much she can share with me. “She’s turned in the evidence. They know where her accountant is, and he’ll most likely be arrested soon. But apparently Johanna’s nowhere to be found.”

  “She’s taken off?”

  “Seems like it.”

  My breath whistles out. “Stu warned her.”

  “Probably.”

  “Dumb ass,” I mutter, shaking my head. He could’ve used Johanna as a bargaining chip, cut a deal in return for testifying against her. He could’ve blamed it all on her, for Christ’s sake, said she was the mastermind. Everyone would’ve believed him, because Stuart Garnett couldn’t plot his way out of a roundabout.

  He’s gonna go to prison, and his biggest crime? Being an unmitigated moron.

  Sharon comes to fetch us herself, appearing in her doorway, wearing clothes in the usual explosion of colors, except today it’s tie-dye. She smiles and ushers us into her office, where Paige and I settle down on the leather love seat. Last time we were on this piece of furniture, we chose one corner each, sitting as far apart as possible. Today we’re so close our bodies are pressed together, and I take her hand again, threading her fingers with mine.

  Mostly to reassure myself that we’re okay still, that we’re in a good place right now, and this session is going to be a positive one.

  Also because I always want to touch her, and now that she allows it again, you bet your ass I’ll be taking advantage of that every chance I get.

  “It’s good to see you again, Paige,” Sharon says as she takes the armchair, clipboard in lap and pen in hand. Paige answers politely, and while they engage in some small talk, I tuck my thumb in between our hands, stroking her palm and feeling her tense slightly. God, the woman is one big erogenous zone.

  And the last thing I need right now is an erection. Shit. I shift uncomfortably, wondering if anyone will notice if I button my jacket again.

  “Before we start,” the older woman says, “Logan, anything you and I have talked about in private is of course confidential, and I can’t discuss it with Paige without your permission. So if you’d like me to do that, I need you to sign this.”

  She pulls a sheet out from the top of the papers on her clipboard, scoots forward in her chair, and leans over to slide it across the coffee table at me. I read it over quickly, find that it’s a standard statement of consent, and so I snatch a pen out of the cup of pens on the table—it has a smiling emoji on it—and sign and date the bottom of the page. If my therapist can’t reveal anything I’ve discussed with her, that kind of defeats the purpose of this whole thing, doesn’t it?

  “Thank you,” Sharon says as I reach over the table, handing it back to her. Tucking the paper into the bottom of her stack, she offers us a professional smile, addressing Paige, “Well, I have to admit I wasn’t expecting this. Last time I talked to Logan, I got the feeling a reconciliation between you two still wasn’t likely.”

  Exchanging a glance with my wife, I answer, “At that point it really wasn’t. But last week things changed.”

  “Okay.” Clicking her pen, letting it hover over her notepad, the older woman continues looking at Paige. “Well, I’ve gotten to know Logan very well by now, but you, Paige, I only know from what he’s told me.”

  Paige lets out a self-deprecating chuckle. “Oh, great.”

  Sharon’s mouth dimples, her lips tight. She hates sarcasm and has often lectured me on how it’s an unproductive defense mechanism, but thankfully she’s too smart to say anything. I’m sure she senses what I know: that Paige would probably jump at the first excuse to bail right now.

  “So, Paige,” the counselor says, scrawling a quick note. “Logan said things changed last week. How did they change for you?”

  My wife takes her time answering, probably pondering how to respond. I squeeze her hand in encouragement. This isn’t easy for her, talking about private issues with someone who’s essentially a stranger to h
er. Which is why I was so happily surprised when she suggested it on Sunday.

  Clearing my throat, I bring her hand into my lap, resting our tight clasp on my thigh.

  “I guess,” she says at last, “some of the things he told me made me see our problems from a different angle? Like, I started to understand it better, why he did the things he did.”

  Sharon’s gaze flicks up for a second. “What things are you referring to specifically?”

  “The questions he asked and the comments he made,” Paige answers, right away this time. “Everything he did that made it clear he thought I was lying, that I was seeing someone else. That he didn’t trust me.”

  My gut cramps. Will the shame of what I put her through ever diminish? I kind of doubt it.

  “I just never understood what I’d done to deserve it, you know?” she goes on. “I mean, it was the pregnancy that triggered it, but there was a medical explanation for that, and his doctor confirmed it. That didn’t put a stop to his jealousy, though.”

  “Mhmm,” Sharon responds, her pen scratching. “Those are definitely all things he’s discussed with me. So I’m guessing he told you that we managed to get to the bottom of it, why he reacted that way?”

  “Yeah. Because of his mom.”

  Something inside me releases, unwinds. She said that so simply and not at all like it’s something she’s doubtful or dismissive of. In fact, she sounded like she’s accepted it, and the relief that grips me feels overwhelming, like an injection of morphine for excruciating pain I’d stopped noticing. A tight knot swells in my throat, but I manage to swallow it down.

  “Okay. So.” My therapist frowns mildly, riffling through her notes before she continues, her attention back on Paige. “One area of concern I’ve had was the extremes Logan’s jealousy pushed him to, the actions he took and kept from you for a long time.”