by Marie James
Samson follows closely behind, and the rest of the Cerberus group is behind him. At first, I thought Samson’s people being with us in the family section was weird, a platitude or show of pseudo-support since it’s only my dad, me, and Anna, but I’ve discovered in the last forty-eight hours that they are family, one that circles the wagons when their help and support is needed most.
We take our seats, my dad on one side and Samson on the other, but I keep my head down. It’s impossible to look at the hundreds of people who are here today with somber faces and grieving hearts.
Just as the hospital chaplain gets up to begin the service a small child, somewhere in the back, laughs. It’s something you’d expect at a playground, not a funeral service, but it’s also fitting. My mother was a pediatric nurse and loved the sound of a child’s laughter.
A small smile paints my lips as Chaplain Rusek begins. He speaks of my mother’s younger years as a child, the meeting of my father in college, and of her larger-than-life love for her family. He speaks as if he knows her, and as he goes along, I realize that he does. He tells of the many prayers they said together for sick children she encountered at work, and of the tears they shed together for those that weren’t meant to grow old in our world. He touches on her work in the community, and how everyone who met her loved her, and all of it was true. My mother was an amazing woman, and because of her, the world is a better place. With her loss, the world is dimmer somehow. The sun isn’t as strong, and the stars won’t burn as bright.
When the music plays, indicating the end of the service, it’s impossible to stand on my own, but like the rock that he’s been with all of this, Samson is there to help me up with his loving arms, being my strength if I fall.
The precession of people lining up to say their condolences is daunting at best and seems to take forever, but I nod my head and shake their hands because even though I am in pain, so are they. While we wait in the limo for my mother’s casket to be carried to the hearse, the air around us is stifling, but I know it’s my own humid breaths and my fight to keep from breaking down that’s making it so.
Samson’s thumb rotates, drawing circles on the back of my hand, and the distraction is a relief. I can’t watch her being placed in the back of a vehicle, her final ride before the graveyard, just like I know I won’t be able to watch her being lowered into the ground. These are memories I refuse to allow purchase in my head.
I’ll remember her smiling, laughing, and standing at the stove as she made breakfast Christmas morning.
I’ll remember her dancing with my dad in the living room on Saturday nights when they thought I was already asleep.
I’ll remember the pride she had each time she put on her scrubs to go to work and the way she supported every children’s charity in a hundred-mile radius.
I’ll remember her gentle touch on my forehead when I was sick, and the promise that tomorrow I’ll feel better.
“Tomorrow I’ll feel better,” I whisper. “Tomorrow will be better.”
The words are easy to say when I know making it happen is a fool’s errand.
Samson squeezes my hand but doesn’t respond otherwise.
With my broken heart and my low-simmering guilt for not being a better daughter to a mother who deserved so much more, we set off for the graveside service.
My tears are renewed now that I’m no longer under the scrutiny of hundreds of people.
“I love you, sweetheart.”
My dad’s voice is soft, his heart equally broken, but he squeezes my other hand when I offer it to him.
“Love you, too, Dad.”
His own tears stain the front of his suit, and as much as I wish I could keep better control of myself, the pain flowing from his eyes kickstarts my own sobbing. Keeping a hold of his hand, he allows Anna to comfort him while Samson holds me tighter and rests his chin on the top of my head.
I’m damn near inconsolable as the short ride to the graveyard comes to an end. Thankful that we’re instructed to wait to get out until the others attending the service are in place, I look at my best friend. Charli hands me another packet of tissues.
“You got this,” she whispers.
Her faith in my ability is misplaced. I’ll be lucky if I can walk as far as the sitting area arranged near the casket.
“Come on,” Anna urges when the door is open, and my dad is frozen in his seat. “Come on.”
She is a rock. This woman lost her best friend, and although I caught her crying yesterday at the end of the day, she looked up at me, wiped her tears, and asked me what else she could do to help.
When I shook my head, the words ‘bring my mother back’ stuck in my throat, she wrapped me in her familiar, loving arms, and we cried together.
The New Mexico heat blares down from above, penetrating the small tent we’re seated under. My palms sweat in both Samson’s hand as well as my father’s. Neither seems to mind as Chaplain Rusek speaks of my mother’s final resting place and reminding us that she’ll always be in our hearts.
Unable to stand my ground about not watching her being lowered into the ground, my ears focus on the sound of the crank as my eyes blur with tears. When I close my eyes for the final prayer, reopening them is insurmountable.
The last thing I remember is Samson carrying me back to the limo.
Chapter 37
Samson
“Is there rum in this?” Cam looks up at Charli with hopeful eyes as she takes the proffered drink.
“Not yet, but I can make that happen if you like.”
Cam shakes her head before taking a sip of the punch. Her red tissue-sore nose scrunches at the taste, but she doesn’t complain.
“I can get you something else if you don’t like that,” I tell her, but she waves me away.
“This is fine. I’m not planning to drink it anyhow.”
“Cam—”
“I can’t handle being babied right now. Please don’t.”
This isn’t the first time she’s warned me when I’ve tried to get her to drink more liquids or actually take a minute to eat.
Instead of frustrating her more, I press my lips to her temple, a silent reminder that I can take whatever she dishes out. I’m like a rash stuck to her, and she’s realizing very quickly that there isn’t a thing she can do to get rid of me.
“I hate these things,” she huffs out after another sweet couple stops by to speak with her about her mother.
She’s been a dutiful daughter helping to ease the burden for her father, all the while wilting in on herself a little more each day, and I know it won’t be long before she cracks.
“Let’s go upstairs,” I suggest.
She considers the offer, her body tensing like she’s going to stand up from the living room sofa we’ve been camped out on since getting back from the funeral, but a long sigh escapes her throat as yet another person walks toward us.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, dear,” the little old lady says, taking Camryn’s hand and patting it softly with her own. “Your mother was an amazing woman. So proud of you and your accomplishments. When she stopped by the church for the donated teddy bears for the kids at the hospital, she was always praising your grades and dedication to medicine.”
“Thank you,” Camryn tells the older woman.
The little old lady pats me on the shoulder before shuffling away.
“Let’s go,” I repeat, but she remains planted on the sofa.
“I can’t. It would be rude. All of these people expect me to be here.”
“They expect you to take a little time for yourself, as well,” Anna says from behind us. “No one will think a thing if you need a break.”
“Thank you for being here,” her dad says to a gentleman as he makes his way toward us. “Honey?”
Dr. Davison’s eyes narrow as he looks at his daughter as if seeing her for the first time today. Her cheeks are hollow, shoulders slumped, and the dark circles under her eyes are battling with the red from crying.
“You need to go upstairs and rest.”
I resist the urge to squeeze her hand, but even a physical, ‘I told you so’ doesn’t belong at a time like this. I’m just grateful that two other people that she respects are making the same suggestion I did.
“Go on. Doctor’s orders.”
This gets her moving, but she stops to hug her father long and hard before heading toward the stairs. I begin to follow her, but Randall’s hand clasps on my arm before I can move past him.
“Take care of my baby girl.” His eyes search mine as if assessing that I’m able to meet the challenge.
What he doesn’t know is his request has been my intention all along.
“Yes, sir,” I tell him.
He nods, squeezes my arm, and turns away from me to continue to speak with guests.
I fully expect to find Cam sprawled out on her bed, but instead she’s sitting on the end, hunched over with her head in her hands. Closing us into her room, I grab the pain relievers and glass of water off her nightstand and offer them to her.
Her eyes don’t meet mine when she pops the pills in her mouth and washes them down with the water.
“You haven’t left my side in days,” she mutters as I bend down to remove her heeled sandals. “I’m not going to break if you give me a little space.”
“I know.”
She doesn’t say anything as I help her to stand and pull down the zipper on her black dress. Her bra is next. I’d be a liar if I said I don’t appreciate her curves before pulling a soft t-shirt over her head. She’s always beautiful, even in her grief, but anything sex-related isn’t my focus. Helping her heal is the only thing on my agenda for as long as that takes.
“I don’t expect you to stick around.”
She lifts her feet one at a time, leaning with a hand on my back to steady herself as I slip unicorn dotted pajama bottoms up her legs.
“Where else would I be?”
“Anywhere but here. You wanted to fuck me. You didn’t sign up for this shit.”
“You’re mine,” I remind her, refusing to get angry or engage with her when she’s looking for a fight. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She’s stiff when I pull her against me. My face rests on her stomach, and as much as I want her to run her fingers through my hair, her arms hang limply at her sides.
“Why are you wasting your time?”
“Because you need someone, and because I—”
“Stop.”
I shake my head as I stand. “I won’t. I’m here because I love you.”
“You shouldn’t say things like that at a time like this.”
“I should’ve said that before now. I’m not using those words as ammunition or a way to placate you while you’re hurting. I’m saying I love you because I mean it.”
“I won’t say them back.” Tears pool in the corners of her eyes. She’s cried so much the last couple of days that she has stopped dashing them away.
“That’s okay, too.”
I usher her toward her bed, climbing in behind her and pulling her to my chest. It doesn’t take long for her tears to dampen my shirt. Just like I knew she would, she crashes hard. I keep her to my chest, dozing off and on through the setting of the sun.
The crickets are playing an annoying melody outside when her dad knocks softly on the door. I’m fully clothed and on top of the covers when he opens the door, but I still feel awkward and mildly uncomfortable for him to find us in bed together.
“She was so tired,” I begin to explain, but he holds his hand up.
“It’s fine. She’s a grown woman.”
“I wouldn’t disrespect you in your own home,” I tell him, praying he can see the only thing I’ve taken off are my shoes, and I only kicked those off twenty minutes ago.
“Samson, it’s fine.”
He’s as exhausted as his daughter is, and I know checking on her before turning in is his last task of the night, but it surprises me when he sits on the edge of her bed before staring down at his hands.
“Why are you here, Samson?” He continues before I can answer him. “Is it obligation? You feel like it’s the right thing to do since you guys were casually dating when Angelica…”
He can’t even say the words, and my heart is breaking all over again for this man. I don’t even have the ability to think about losing this girl in my arms, but this man is suffering from the loss of his true love.
“I’ll understand if that’s the case. Every Cerberus man I’ve ever met has somehow been born with the need to protect women, to make things right when injustices are perceived. Kincaid has a knack for finding the most stand-up men to represent his organization, so I’m not surprised that a young man like yourself, raised in a family around those very men, would have those traits as well.”
“What are you asking, sir?”
His focus shifts from his hands to my face. “What are your intentions with my daughter?”
I don’t even hesitate before I speak. “To love her for the rest of my life. To protect her as much as I can from anything that would hurt her. To not allow her to shut down when she’s in pain. To remind her every day that people love her, and to make sure she feels that love. There’s nothing casual about the way I feel for your daughter, sir.”
“You’re a good man, Samson Donovan. Your dads should be proud.”
“She makes me a good man. My dads provided an example of what a loving person looked like, but she makes it possible.”
“She’s very lucky to have you.” His voice grows to a whisper. “Make sure you tell her, you show her every single day how much you love her. Tomorrow isn’t always promised.”
“I will, sir.”
Before leaving, he runs his hand over the back of her head.
I thought Camryn was still asleep, but when the previously dried spot on my shirt grows wet again, I know she heard every single word.
Chapter 38
Camryn
“Did you want some of Mrs. Webb’s lasagna, too?”
“I’m just about casseroled out, sweetheart,” my dad says without pulling his nose from the magazine he’s been staring at for the last hour.
“I can text Samson and see if he can bring some Chinese food from that place you like instead,” I offer.
“I’m surprised he left the house.” His tone is light and teasing, but I also hear the truth in his words.
Samson has been by my side since he found out about my mother’s death. It’s been four days since the funeral, and he isn’t showing any signs of slowing down or leaving for that matter.
“I can ask him not to come back.” I don’t add that he’s going to come right back here after he grabs a couple days’ worth of clothes whether I tell him to stay away or not.
“Why would you do that?” Only now does he raise his eyes to me.
“Because he’s getting on your nerves.”
I place the lid back on the Pyrex dish and put it back in the fridge. Neither one of us wants to eat right now.
“He’s not getting on my nerves,” Dad insists. “You’re projecting.”
“He’s not getting on my nerves either.” I’ve sat and wondered why he isn’t. The constant shadow and offers of help and emotional support have been relentless. In any other situation, I’d already be biting his head off and insisting he leave me the hell alone. I only came to one conclusion as to why I haven’t tried to push him away again, and I’m not ready to face that reason just yet.
A genuine smile tugs at the corners of my dad’s mouth. I’m so happy to see it that my mouth does the very same thing.
“He cares for you.”
“I know.”
“He’s a good man.”
“I know that, too.”
“Then why are you keeping him at arm’s length?”
“I’m not.”
“Physically, you aren’t. The two of you are the closest thing to Siamese twins as you can get w
ithout having shared the same womb.”
My cheeks heat with knowing my dad is well aware that we’ve been sharing the same bed in his house for the better part of a week. I’m seconds away from explaining that no hanky-panky has happened under his roof, but then I remember the conversation I overheard with him and Samson the day of the funeral.
“Emotionally, you’ve got that man dangling at the end of a line, waiting with an open claw to cut him loose.”
“That’s not fair, Dad.”
I join him at the table even though I want to run away from this particular conversation. He hasn’t said much in the last few days, so if he wants to talk about the one thing I don’t, then I’m going to sit here and have this discussion.
“Your mother was quite happy when she heard that you two were dating.”
“I hate that you guys had to hear if from people at the hospital. I didn’t know where it was going.”
“Where do you think it’s going now?”
“Exactly where I never imagined my life would take me.”
“And where exactly would that be?”
The sparkle in his eyes nearly brings me to tears. He’s happy for me. My mom was happy for me. It’s as if knowing this makes everything a little bit better.
“Do you want him to bring Chinese or not?”
His lips twist when I refuse to answer his question.
“Chinese would be great.”
I excuse myself from the table, deciding to call rather than text Samson. I’m quick to think he’s around too much, but it only takes an hour for me to miss him to the point that I need to hear his voice.
“Hey, baby,” he answers after the first ring.
“I miss you,” I blurt, slapping my palm on my forehead.
What is it about this man that makes me says stupid things all the time?
“I miss you, too.”
And that answers my question.
“Have you already left the clubhouse?”
“Yep.”
A truck door closes, and I realize I’m too late.
“I was going to—”
A knock sounds on the door, so I leave the hallway and go to answer it. People have still been stopping by, but at least now it’s only a few folks a day rather than the influx we first had a week ago.