Mend (Waters Book 2)

by Kivrin Wilson

  His Adam’s apple bobs. I’ve created visuals, I can tell, and they’re eating at him.

  “Bullshit,” he says, and then he reiterates, “I don’t believe you.”

  “Are you serious?” I exclaim, a bubble of fury popping in my chest. “Do you see the irony here? Everything fell apart because you didn’t believe I wasn’t screwing around, and now it’s the complete opposite!”

  Tossing fuel on my fire, he only shrugs, shoves his hands into his pockets. “What you see as irony to me feels like relief. It’s like I’ve been let out of prison.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, sucking in a breath. It’s like he’s made a bet with someone to see how maddening he can become. “Why don’t you believe me?” I grit out.

  “You’re not the revenge-sex type.”

  I shoot up, sliding off the barstool and pointing a finger at him. “Don’t fucking tell me what type I am! You did that when we first met, and it was complete crap then, too.”

  “Yeah, because you did it to me first,” he argues without rancor. “And I never said it as an insult, Paige. I liked you just the way you were. I wanted you just the way you were. I still do.”

  God help me. I clench my hands, digging my fingers into my palm. He’s good at this. Way too good. Knows exactly what to say to disarm me, to make my pulse race. My job is to not fall for it. Not this time.

  It’s not that I doubt he means it.

  It’s that it has nothing to do with anything. I didn’t leave him because he didn’t love me enough, did I?

  “I told Beth to get the docs ready to file,” I say, a final, desperate attempt to punish him.

  It takes him a while to respond to that, and I can see his emotions under the stony surface, struggling to burst forth. Then he just says, “Okay.”

  “Okay?” I widen my eyes at him.

  “Well, no.” With a grimace, he takes his hands out of his pockets, crossing his arms. Defensive now. “It’s not okay. I obviously don’t want you to do that.”

  Out of nowhere, I feel the fight go out of me. It drains like a gutter, leaving me empty. Helplessly, I tell him, “I don’t know what else to do.”

  He appears to chew on that, and then he suggests succinctly, “You can forgive me.”

  I laugh; I can’t help it. Throwing up my arms, I say, “Fine. I forgive you.”

  “No, not like that. Do it for real.”

  “It won’t make a difference.”

  “Yeah, it will,” he insists, his gaze boring into me as he steps toward the end of the counter, toward me. “It makes you powerful. It sets you free. You won’t have to be angry anymore.”

  I’m so tired. Those words, they make so much sense. They sound like the truest words ever spoken, and I want to believe them like a little kid wants to believe in Santa. I want to be powerful and free. I don’t want to be angry.

  Sapped of energy, I sink back down on the stool, my elbows going up on the counter, my head falling into my hands.

  “You know,” I say as my weirdly wired brain skips off wildly, landing on a fact tucked in its depths, “they’ve done brain scans on people while showing them photos of their significant other, and turns out, when you’re in love, certain areas of your brain light up—producing dopamine, making you happy.”

  There’s a confused pause. “Okay?”

  “It’s especially obvious with new couples.” I raise my gaze to him, my throat starting to constrict, my breaths not so much drawn into my lungs but sinking now, beyond my control. Struggling against it, trying not to let my voice break, I say, “But it also happens with people who’ve been together for decades, because for a lucky few, they’re still as crazy about each other as they were at the beginning.”

  Logan’s throat is working, his expression cracking, and it’s seeing him fighting back tears that shoves me over the edge.

  “And I’m terrified,” I go on, and it comes out as a sob, my eyes filling and overflowing, “that no matter how much I try to push you away, that’s always going to be me. Still in love with you, despite everything.”

  “Paige,” he breathes out, and then he moves in toward me and is standing before me, reaching out. “Baby.”

  “No,” I gasp out, swatting his arms away, tumbling off my chair and pushing at his chest with my elbows, aiming to escape, because I can’t stand this, it’s too much, and I need to get away. “No.”

  He grabs me, locking me in his arms, tucking me against his body that has never felt bigger or stronger or more bone-jarringly real. I’m twitching like I’m fighting his hold, but I put no force into it. I can’t. I don’t want to, not really.

  “Let me back in, baby,” he murmurs harshly, hoarsely, and I feel his hot breath on my hair.

  “No.” It’s a whimper, a plea, a helpless protest. I’m panting, almost hyperventilating, tears falling in hot, rushing streams down my cheek. My legs start buckling, but he’s holding me up, not allowing me to go anywhere, be it up, down, or away.

  Something within me releases. It’s like a vise, and as soon as it lets go, I exhale with relief, realizing it’s been crushing me for a long damn time. Sagging into my husband’s embrace and burying my face into the crook of his neck, his shirt immediately getting soaked with the fluids leaking from my face, I let the feeling envelop me.

  I’m not surrendering.

  I’m giving myself permission. Permission to want him and to need him…and to forgive him, like he asked.

  “I love you,” I tell him, my voice muffled against his skin, and I force life back into my limp arms, wrapping them around his waist. “I just want us to be okay again.”

  “We can be.” He digs fingers into my hair, making a fist, hand clenching and unclenching.

  “How?” I demand miserably. “After what you did, now I’m the one who doesn’t trust you.”

  He inches back, and his face brushes against mine until our noses touch. “We can just try to have faith in each other, baby.”

  “That’s not all it takes, though,” I say with a small shake of my head. “If trust is like a wall, it’s not enough to rebuild it. You also have to give it time, lots of time with no further attacks, before you can be sure that it’s not going to collapse again.”

  He’s quiet for several heartbeats before he whispers, “All I know is I’m nothing without you”—air whooshes from his chest—“and I feel like it’d kill me to let you go again.”

  “I don’t want you to.” I tighten my arms around him, bunching part of his shirt on his back in my fist, tugging at it while I beg, “Please, don’t.”

  That’s apparently as much encouragement as he needs, because with a grunt deep in his chest, he crushes his lips to mine. It’s a kiss full of quiet hunger, of intense desperation, and it’s also like coming home after a long journey or like stepping into a hot shower when you’re covered in filth and grime.

  Closing my eyes, I let the sensation wash over me, let it submerge me. This is what peace feels like—Logan’s mouth and hands on me—and it’s what it feels like when an upside-down world turns right side up again.

  We stand there like that for a long, long time. Frozen time. Time in a vacuum. Time that I don’t want to end.

  Finally I pull back to look up at him, sliding my hand up and behind his neck, caressing gently. “You’ll have to earn your keep somehow, though, now that you’re an unemployed bum.”

  His lips curve crookedly. “I can be your pool boy.”

  “We don’t have a pool.”

  “Guess I’ll have to find some other way to service you then.” He tilts his head, and then his teeth are grazing my earlobe, sending a shiver down my spine.

  “Tell me the truth, though,” he says near my ear. “Did you really call that guy?”

  “Yeah,” I admit, sliding my hand down his chest, down to the hem of his shirt, seeking bare skin. “It went to voice mail, and I didn’t leave a message. Took me less than ten seconds to come to my senses.”

  And then I spent most of
the evening pampering myself in that expensive hotel suite—soaking in the Jacuzzi, ordering room service, and zoning out watching melodramatic shows on Netflix.

  Until I lost patience with that and decided to do…something else.

  “My little Good Girl.” Under his shirt, I can feel his abs flexing with his silent laughter, and I’m glad he thinks it’s funny, that I was angry enough to even make the phone call. Apparently I was allowed that much of a knee-jerk action, and with a smile to myself, I’m wondering just how long he’s going to feel guilty and how much I can milk it.

  I shift far enough away to narrow my eyes up at him. “You didn’t ask what I did the rest of the day.”

  “What did you do?” he asks, smiling indulgently.

  Without a word, I untuck my blouse from my skirt, tugging it up, watching his eyes flicker with desire as he realizes what I’m doing. But that’s nothing to the transformation of his face when he sees my exposed belly button—and the ring pierced through it.

  “Oh, shit,” he wheezes out. “That’s fucking hot. Jesus.” He puts his hand on my stomach, his thumb stroking the ring, testing out the feel of it. Then he kneels down and is about to put his mouth on it, but I stop him with my palm on his forehead, pushing him back.

  “Uh-uh,” I tell him. “Germs. New piercing.”

  “Dammit.” He heaves an exaggerated sigh, standing back up, and then his head dips in, his mouth seeking mine again.

  Jerking my head back, I put my palm on his chest, smirking at him. “That’s not all.”

  At his raised eyebrows, I unzip my skirt at my hip, doing it leisurely and enjoying the heat in his gaze, the thrilling promise in its depths. Turning around, I pull my blouse up again and wait. It only takes a second before his fingers hook under the hem of my skirt, nudging it down.

  The breath he expels turns into a low chuckle. “That’s just perfect.”

  I smile to myself again. Yeah. The young guy who did the tattoo seemed a little taken aback at my request: a plain percentage symbol. Guess it’s an unusual kind of tramp stamp? Like Logan said, it’s perfect for me, though.

  I am a statistic.

  All of a sudden, I can hear the lock in the front door turn, and whirling around, I widen my eyes at Logan. While I hurriedly tuck my shirt back in and yank the zipper back up, his chest shakes with quiet laughter, and it’s contagious, because I can’t help snickering, too.

  He bends down and steals another quick, soft kiss, just as tiny feet come running into the room.

  “Were you kissing?” Abi squeals at the top of her lungs, stopping in the middle of the kitchen and scrunching up her face. She has chocolate stains around her lips. Am I the only one that makes my kids wipe their mouths after eating? Sheesh.

  “Ew!” exclaims Freya, coming in right behind her sister, and she sticks her tongue out and mimics shoving a finger down her throat.

  Baldwin bounds past them with Elliott right behind, chasing him and giggling, and Mike soon appears, keys in hand and diaper bag hooked over his shoulder. He throws us a cautious, expectant look as he enters the kitchen.

  “We were,” I say in response to my middle child’s question. “And you know what that means?”

  “What?” the girls ask almost at the same time, Abi appearing excited and Freya suspicious.

  “Daddy’s moving back home,” I announce gently. Beside me, while I watch the girls’ reaction, I can sense Logan’s sagging relief, know that if we were alone, he’d be grabbing me again.

  The kids’ faces light up, first with disbelief and then with pure, unrestrained joy. They charge at us, jump into our arms for hugs and kisses—and reassurance.

  Over by the doorway, Mike clears his throat. “I’m gonna head out then.”

  His voice sounds tight, and I see his face looking wobbly with emotion. Finally, his expression says. And, This is how things should be.

  Turning back to my husband, I meet his eyes, and silently, we communicate the same thing.

  We’re going to be okay again.

  Epilogue

  Logan

  The dim and polished hotel bar and restaurant with its dark, gleaming wood tables and tall booths with leather upholstery are surprisingly crowded for three p.m. on a Friday, with more seats occupied than not. Whether they’re enjoying a late lunch or just seated at the bar for a drink, though, the patrons’ chatter is barely more than a hum above the subdued music that fills the room, and the TVs mounted between all the shiny bottles of booze are silently tuned to various sports games.

  An upscale hotel in downtown San Diego, the Claremont is a busy public place but relatively quiet. In other words, the perfect location for meeting a stranger.

  Such as the little sister you never knew you had.

  I inform the young blonde hostess at the entrance I’m there to join someone. She asks for that person’s name, and when I tell her, she smiles and points toward the booth in the far-right corner.

  From here, all I can see is a dark-haired woman in a black top with something colorful wrapped around her neck. As I draw nearer, it becomes clear that it’s a scarf, draped haphazardly.

  She’s bent over her phone, tapping away with both thumbs, probably typing two or three times as many words per minute as I ever could. Because she’s a full decade younger than me and would’ve still been a teenager when texting became a thing, so she would’ve grown up with it, would’ve learned to do it with impressive efficiency.

  Which begs the question: what am I doing here? Is it even possible that I’ll find any common ground with this woman?

  Something—my shadow, a premonition?—alerts her to my presence, and her head whips up.

  And my steps slow involuntarily, my feet growing leaden. Holy shit. Those big, almost round eyes. The pointed chin. That pale, porcelain skin. Sharp cheekbones, tiny nose, full lips.

  She’s a darker-haired, more exotic version of my mom. My beautiful and pixie-like mother, who my dad told me often got compared to Audrey Hepburn, except for her golden hair, the same color as mine. This woman, though. Her hair is such a deep, dark brown it’s almost black, giving her a startling resemblance to the late actress.

  My little sister. One simple glance at us side by side, and anyone would know it. I had no idea she would look so much like me, was definitely not prepared for this. Yeah, over the past few months, I’ve searched for her on social media out of curiosity, and I’m pretty sure I found her on several sites, but unlike so many people her age, she doesn’t seem to be into posting selfies.

  “Cara?” I ask as she slides out of the booth and gets to her feet. “Sorry, is it Care-ah or Cah-rah?”

  “It’s Care-ah,” she replies automatically. For the space of several breaths, she just stares at me. Then she exhales audibly. “Oh, my God, you look even more like her in person.”

  My heart does a flip, and I give her a tiny smile. “So do you.”

  She swallows visibly, and then I’m surprised to see her eyes welling up, glistening with tears that soon overflow and start rolling down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she says, swiping at them, leaving her makeup slightly smudged. “I’ve been telling myself over and over again: not gonna cry, not gonna cry, not gonna cry. Obviously that didn’t work.” Sniffling, she releases a quick, self-deprecating laugh. “And now I’ve already made this awkward. I’m sorry.”

  My smile widens. “No, you’re fine. Don’t worry about it. How about we sit down, though?”

  With a nod, she steps back to the table and scoots in on the bench seat. Unbuttoning my suit jacket, I slide in across from her, and as I do, I catch her eyeing my appearance. Should I have gone upstairs to my room to change before coming here? This two-day trip back to San Diego is mainly for work, and I know this getup can be intimidating—that’s the whole point. The last thing I want is for her to feel uncomfortable, though. We’re getting enough of that from the situation itself.

  Once we’re settled in, we sit there for a while, just staring. At last, I open my mouth
to speak, but she beats me to it.

  “God, I’ve been in shock since you emailed,” she confesses. “And so nervous since we agreed to meet. I had no idea you even existed.”

  “I didn’t know you did, either, until about five months ago. I didn’t even know she was—” I cut myself short, stumbling over the word. Dead has such a stark, unforgiving ring to it. Weakly, I finish the sentence with, “…gone.”

  My sister—my sister!—creases her forehead. “Five months?”

  “Yeah.” I puff out a sigh, my lips twisting. “You’re wondering why it took me so long to get in touch.”

  “Well…yeah?” Watching me in puzzlement, she quickly straightens and heaves a shrug. “That’s probably just me, though. I would’ve tracked you down ten minutes after I found out.”

  I’m unsure of how to explain myself, and I get a reprieve in the form of a black-clad server showing up to take our orders. I tell him I’d like iced tea, and Cara offers the guy a friendly smile as she asks for coffee. With a questioning look at me, she pushes the menus toward him, saying he can probably just take them, and I don’t argue. I’m not here to eat.

  As soon as he disappears, I draw in a fortifying breath and start talking. “When my dad told me about you, I had a lot of other stuff going on. My wife and I got back together after being separated for a year. I quit my job. We moved to the Bay Area. Between getting settled in our new house, the kids getting used to new schools, and Paige—my wife—and I starting up our own law firm together, things have been pretty crazy.”

  She nods, understanding.

  “But most of all,” I go on before she can reply, “I guess I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. For twenty-eight years I had no idea where my mom went or what had happened to her. Then I found out I missed my chance to ever see her again—and that I have a sister. It was a lot to take in.”

  “Yeah. I get it.” Resting her elbows on the table, she leans forward a tad. “You know, before I even answered that first email you sent me, I called my dad. We’ve never had the best relationship, and since Mom passed away…” She trails off, frowning briefly. “I just couldn’t believe they never told me. I felt like my whole life had been a lie, you know? They wore wedding rings, for God’s sake. I had no idea they weren’t actually married. No one did. I guess I don’t understand why she didn’t just get a divorce?”