by TC Matson
“Please tell me you brought—”
My words fall short when my gaze lands on Declan. Anger spikes my pulse, and an ache rips through my chest. His presence, or lack thereof, sends reminders of everything I’m trying to forget. “What are you doing here?” I snap.
He holds out a box of donuts. “Came to bring you breakfast. Your favorite.” He tips his chin at them.
“I’m not hungry,” I retort angrily, lying straight through my teeth. Cinnamon donuts are magical and the best damn thing I’ve ever tasted. But I refuse to give in.
He shifts, clearing his throat and looking sullen. “Can I come in?”
“No. I’m about to leave,” I clip. His eyes roam over my pajamas with an arched brow. “And I’m sure you need to get back to the track. I’ll call you later.” Yet another lie. I push the door, shutting it in his face.
Holding the sob at bay, I rush to my bedroom and drop to the bed with my head in my hands. Hot tears burn my eyes, searing a path down my cheeks as I mourn for my baby, my doomed relationship, and my broken heart. I lost everything that day. Everything. I don’t know how to start picking up the pieces and putting them back together. Which piece belongs where?
How can I move forward when I’m reminded of what I lost daily? They said it could take up to two weeks for my body to release the rest of the tissue inside of me. I’m alone when I’m cleaning up in the bathroom. I’m alone when I cry. I’m alone when I berate myself for being a failure. I failed my son…
Overnight the fate of my future jumped into oncoming traffic. My life changed. And now I’m forced to work through the destruction and devastation.
After checking to see if the coast is clear, almost stumbling over the box of donuts and throwing them away, I rush out of the house and to my parents’. Dad’s at work, but Mom is doing what she does best—baking.
“What a beautiful surprise,” Mom beams as she wipes off her hands and pulls me into a hug.
Ingredients are all over the kitchen. A rolling pin and a ball of dough sits on the island. “You’re baking early, Momma.”
She chortles. “Suzanne is hosting a bake sale to help the elementary school with new books for the library and gym equipment. I wanted to do my part.”
Suzanne is one of Momma’s good friends and loves to exploit her cooking skills. She knows everyone in town loves her baking and it doesn’t come as a hardship for Momma.
“Always the saint,” I tease. “I hope you made apple pies. They’ll sell the fastest.”
Her eyes crinkle at the sides. “Actually, five of them.” She grabs one and hands it to me. “Technically four, though. I made one for you since you love them so much.”
“You’re the best,” I chirp.
I sit down across from her and watch as she mixes ingredients for the next greatness she’s planning on making. I’d help, but baking isn’t so much my forte. When I was younger, she tried teaching me, but even with her supervision, somehow, I’d screw it all up. After so many attempts, Momma had me sit and talk to her, which she claims is what made her pies the best. Bullshit, but my young heart swelled anyway. I tried my hand at cookies once—the premade ones where all you have to do is slice them and put them on the baking pan—but all I did was give skeet discs a run for their money.
“How are you doing, honey? she asks, her tone light as she keeps her eyes on the rolling pin.
“Better.” Not totally a lie.
“Time heals everything. You’ll come out of this hurt on the other side and will be stronger, whether you see or feel it now. But don’t sit there and beat yourself up. Many women experience this, and for whatever reason, it happens. They are the strong ones, stronger than most. They deal with something no mother should. And a lot of the time, they end up raising healthy children in their lives. Smart and beautiful ones.”
“It sounds like you’re talking with experience,” I point out.
Her eyes flick to me briefly. “I am.” She continues to spread the dough, making it larger. “I understand firsthand the devastation you’re going through. I also know that, on more than one occasion, you’ve sat there and sulked, blaming yourself for everything. You might not believe me now, but it wasn’t your fault. One day you’ll understand that.”
A lump of misery forms in my throat. I hate knowing my mother has dealt with the same heartache I have.
“Have you heard from Declan or are you still being stubborn as ever and not answering his calls?” she switches the subject.
I roll my eyes with an overdramatic sigh. “He showed up at my door this morning.”
Excitement dances in her gaze. “Oh? And?”
“I shut it in his face.”
Horror flashes across her expression although she bites her lips to keep from laughing. “Amelia Rossi Palmer. I did not r—”
“Dawn. Amelia Dawn Rossi,” I correct her.
“Oh, so he took your name?”
I purse my lips at her, playfully narrowing my eyes.
“You’re married, honey. Regardless of how radical it was…is. You are a Palmer. You are his wife and he is your husband.”
“I never changed my name,” I fire back.
She kills me with a gentle smile. “Doesn’t mean you didn’t say ‘I do.’”
This is pointless.
“You know, every married couple is faced with hard times. Every marriage has rough patches. You have to navigate through them…together. Learn together. That’s what makes a marriage strong and unbreakable. It would be a different story if you were in a loveless marriage, but I’ve seen it with my own two old eyes. There’s a lot of love between you two. Fresh love. New love. Love that’s worth fighting for. Sometimes, Amelia, better comes after the worse.”
“Have you been watching Dr. Phil again? Or reading those books that fill your head with nonsense?”
She might be smiling, but exasperation storms her gaze. “Don’t you think for a second your dad and I have always had it easy. When he started the practice, he was always gone. Working late hours. And if he was home, I wasn’t on his mind. Work was. He was distant.”
“That’s different, Mom.”
“Is it? How so?”
I swallow down the vexation. “It just is.”
“Let’s see. Declan’s working and trying to make a better life. At first it was for just him, but now it’s for you too. He’s extremely focused. How is that different?”
I slap the counter. “He wasn’t there!” I scream and it startles us both.
My breath is ragged as I close my eyes trying compose myself. She washes her hands, wipes them off on her towel, and takes a seat beside of me. She places her hand on top of mine and gives it a squeeze.
“I was nineteen when your father and I married.” Here we go again. I’ve heard their story a hundred times. She pats my hand. “I was also twelve weeks pregnant. We knew your grandfather would’ve killed your dad if we had a baby out of wedlock. So, it was our little secret.”
My face scrunches up. This part I’ve never heard.
“Two days after our wedding, I lost the baby. We didn’t know how to deal with the loss. We also were so broke we didn’t know how in the world we were going to eat and were much too prideful to ask your grandparents for help. You father buried himself in work. I went back to the diner and did the same. I was numb, probably to the exact extent you are right now. Losing my baby hurt. We weren’t trying, but we weren’t making sure it wouldn’t happen either. I was so caught up in my grief, I didn’t know your dad was hurting just as badly as I was. But being the stubborn ox that he is, he didn’t want to ruin his strong demeanor in front of me. So he kept himself distant and buried in work. But every night, we went to bed together, even if we didn’t say two words to each other. We were dying inside from the hurt.”
“How did you two get through it?”
Her lips quirk up into an easy smile. “The best advice this old lady can give you—communicate. You never know what he’s been dealing with when you’re
closed off. If you love him, you’ll find a way to make it work.” She pats my hand again as she stands. “Now. Do you think everyone will like my Pink Lemonade Stand Cake?”
Mom has always had a way of talking, making a point, and when it got too deep, changing the subject. She does it for me. I drown in deep waters.
I eye her rolling pin with a smile. “You don’t need a rolling pin for a cake.”
“This,” she pushes the pin and smooths out the dough, “is for the peach cobbler. I’m thinking of the next one.”
* * *
Around lunch time, Kirsten called to say she wouldn’t be able to make it to the class today. One of the other waitresses called out and they offered her the extra shift. I spent the entire day on the other side of the island with my mother watching her gracefully switch between cakes and pies to lunch, and then back to baking, before making dinner. Nothing else about the baby was brought up. No more Declan talk. She let me be.
At dinner, Dad told me about his day like nothing had changed in our lives. The routine I’ve been craving is slowly settling back in and it feels good. The rest of the evening, I didn’t think about the baby.
It’s dark when I pull into my driveway spotting the same SUV from this morning parked in front of the house. He’s sitting on my front porch swing and smiles when I walk up the steps. Annoyance pulls every cell in my body. Regardless of my mother’s speech, I’m not ready to talk to him.
“When are you leaving?” I huff.
He shrugs. “Guess when I’m ready to. Can we talk?”
I grit out a smirk as I shove my key into the door and unlock it. “There’s nothing to talk about.” Super mature… Especially when I slam the door without looking back.
An hour later, Kirsten comes home looking exhausted but has a devious smile quirking up her lips. “Why is there a sexy man on your front porch?”
“He wants to talk,” I inform her.
“And you’re just leaving him out there? For the rest of the women to pine over?”
I glare.
She’s still grinning as she sashays her ass down the hall and disappears into the bedroom.
TWENTY-FOUR
I set my alarm for six, knowing it gives me an hour to get to the coffee shop and then to Amelia’s before Kirsten pops out and gives me an update. A lot of people are on my side, including her parents. They were my first stop when I got into town a few days ago. What I didn’t realize was Amelia had confessed to everything, and immediately, I was thrown in the hot seat by a pissed off father. But after an hour of hard conversations, her dad knows my feelings for her are genuine and real. Her mother has been on my side from the start and said to not quite throw it away just yet. I don’t plan on it.
I went to the coffee shop, grabbed two coffees and a chocolate filled donut and now I’m sitting on her front porch watching the sun rise above the trees. It’s not long before I hear movement, a few muffled voices, and then Kirsten pops out.
“Good morning,” she sings as she shuts the door behind her. “She’s up.” She throws her thumb over her shoulder. “And she knows you’re here. Good luck today.” She bounces down the stairs to her car and heads off to work.
Thirty minutes later the door opens and I brace for the snappy comments. She’s still in her pajamas, her hair pulled into a low ponytail on her shoulder. She looks tired with dark circles under her sad eyes.
She doesn’t spare me a glance when she takes a seat on the opposite end of the swing. It makes my pulse spike with hope. Without a word, I hand her the coffee and am relieved when she takes it. I’m not going to push her to talk. I’ve been here, but not in her face here and when she’s ready, I’m at arm’s length.
The silence that surrounds us isn’t uncomfortable. The birds chirp in the distance as the world begins to wake. Anticipation gnaws at my stomach, but I force myself to let her be the one to initiate.
“How are you here when you need to be at the racetrack?” She finally breaks the long twenty minutes of silence. Her voice is soft, and for the first time in a while, it’s without anger.
“My backup driver has it under control,” I answer.
She nods and falls back quiet.
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Yeah,” she says, keeping her view in front of her.
Silence again and it’s killing me.
I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Her shoulders slump and she exhales. “Me too.”
“Had I known, I would’ve been right beside you. I would’ve dropped everything. Why didn’t you call Norman? He could’ve gotten the message to me.”
Disdain laces her quick laugh. “I did, after he accused me of trying to trap you for money again. He sent me to voicemail.”
Rage burns through my veins. “That fucking bastard.” The mother fucker will be fired when I get back. I refuse to work with him any longer. Enough is enough.
I promised myself when I came here I was going to be patient, both mentally and physically. Yet with her not even three feet from me, I’m wound up so tightly, so damn desperate to feel her, I can’t fight it. Reaching down, I place my hand on top of hers and squeeze.
“Losing our son is torment, but seeing you in pain and unable to take it away is excruciating. I want to be your rock, the man you lean on, but you keep shutting me out. And no matter what I do or what I try, you won’t let me back in. I need you too. But what else can I do if I don’t have you? I end up burying myself in work—working through my grief on the track and coming to terms with my guilt silently.”
She looks down at our hands but says nothing.
“I wasn’t there, Amelia, and I’m so sorry. But please don’t push me out. I don’t know how to be a good husband but I’m trying so fucking hard.”
She slides over and nuzzles into my side. “You are a good husband, Declan.”
“I’m selfish, Amelia. I don’t want to give you up. I don’t want to have to stop loving you and walk away. But I know you deserve better. So, if you truly want to end this, I’ll walk away, pay for it all, and never bother you again.” The words feel like I’ve swallowed poison, burning from my chest, up my throat, and scalding my tongue.
Her body trembles against me, and her shoulders shake as she cries. “I don’t want you to leave.”
I wrap her tighter as relief avalanches me.
“But, I—”
“Please, Amelia,” I beg softly.
“I need time, Declan.” She sits up and wipes her tears from her cheeks. “All this was thrown at us. We went from what was supposed to be a one-night stand to married with a child on the way really fast. You pulled me into your world while yanking me out of mine. Then I lost…” she takes a deep breath. She blinks to me with wet eyes. “I think we need time to figure out what we really want.”
She leans over and presses a kiss to my cheek. It feels like goodbye, a checkered flag I’m not ready to see.
“I’ll call you soon, okay?”
Dazed by her choices, I nod. “Yeah. Okay.”
* * *
“You’re kidding, right?” Norman scoffs into the phone. “You think you can put your career on hold and take a hiatus this close to the end of the season?”
I knew he wouldn’t be happy about my decision, but I can’t quite find the care to give. He’s been against Amelia since day one and because he’s so damn scared she’ll steal from his paycheck, he’s cost me a lot of my sanity. It’s only natural I’d relish in his vexation—the reason why I called him and not Buddy. I want him to stew, to let the anger begin to boil. Soon, he’ll be in the hot seat.
“It’s two weeks, max. Two races. Jeremy will be just fine. He’s a great driver.”
“And when Buddy asks, because you know he will, what the hell do you want me to say?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be good at coming up with things?”
“He’s the owner,” he sneers.
I chuckle at his anger. “Tell him I had a family emerg
ency.”
When I get back, I’m setting up a private meeting with Buddy to discuss Norman. Buddy may be a hard ass in business, but he’s a gentle giant in life. He’ll be livid when I tell him all the “wonderful” things Norman has done in the past few months.
“Fine,” he barks, “but I better receive updates so I can keep everyone in the loop. This is asinine, Declan. You’re at the height of your career, about to move into stock racing—the spot you’ve been chasing for years—and you’re pulling one hell of a stunt. You better hope you still have a job when you get back.”
“Yeah, Norman. You too.” Wolfishly, I thrum and then hang up on him.
TWENTY-FIVE
I start back with work today. It’s only two mornings a week so I don’t mess up Ashley’s summer job that helps pay for her schooling. She’s been working at the practice for two years, and during that time, I help Momma with whatever she needs. But with everything going on in my life, I don’t need all the time I have on my hands. Ashley was understanding and compromised, giving me mornings since she hates them anyway.
Declan’s sitting on the top step when I leave. His lazy smile flutters something in my chest. He stands, stretching out a cup of coffee and a black container. “Morning.”
“What are you doing here?”
He tips his chin to the coffee. “Bringing you breakfast. It’s been donuts for days, so I figured I’d switch it up to fruit.”
“Thanks.”
He looks me up and down. “Are you going back to work?”
I nod. “Yeah. Super part time for a few more weeks until school starts back.”
His lips tighten as he offers a forced smile. “That’s good.”
“Yeah.” Why does this feel so awkward? “I need to get going. Thank you for breakfast. You don’t have to keep doing this, you know?”