Break Away (The Baltimore Banners Book 5)

by Lisa B. Kamps

  He should leave. If he was smart, if he had even an ounce of sympathy or decency, he would leave.

  Instead of moving to the door, he moved closer to Emily, not stopping until his body blocked hers against the counter. Not touching, but near enough so she wouldn't be able to flee, near enough he could feel the chill coming from her skin.

  The urge to pull her into his arms was strong. He wanted to hold her, to wrap his arms around her and warm her with his own body.

  But he wanted answers more. No, not answers. Information. Information he should have asked for five years ago, details he hadn't realized he needed until seeing Emily several weeks ago.

  Details he was certain she didn't want to share.

  Emily pushed the mug away then grasped the counter with both hands, her back to him. Did she know? Could she read his mind? Or did she merely sense what he wanted?

  "Will you tell me?" The words came out in a hoarse whisper, the strangled sound harsh in the silent room. Long seconds went by, filled with nothing more than the quiet ticking of a clock he hadn't before noticed.

  Emily stiffened even more, her knuckles white from where she held onto the counter. He didn't think she would answer, even when she pushed away from the counter and stepped by him.

  He followed her into the living room, watching as she lowered herself to the sofa. She curled up in the corner and grabbed a small throw pillow, hugging it to her chest as she curled her legs under her. The sound of her breathing filled the room, long deep breaths, like she was readying herself.

  JP moved to the sofa and took a seat next to her, not quite touching but still close enough. Probably too close. He couldn't bring himself to look at her, not ready to see the pain he felt drifting over her in desolate waves.

  "What do you want to know?"

  The question caught him off-guard and he wasn't sure how to answer it. What did he want to know? He wasn't sure.

  Memories of that night five years ago came rushing back, the clarity surprising, sobering. He hadn't recalled the details since then, had pushed them so far back in his mind because he hadn't wanted to remember them. But they were there now, at the front of his mind, painfully clear.

  He had expected nothing more than another fun night with Emily. Dinner, maybe a movie. No drinking—Emily stayed away from alcohol since discovering she was pregnant, and JP didn't want to drink in front of her. But they would still have fun. And later, while they were in bed together, he would hold her in his arms and rest his hand against her stomach, a little round, a little hard, and wonder at the miracle of life growing inside her.

  The pregnancy had come as a surprise to both of them, especially so early in their budding relationship. But once the surprise had worn off, he had been excited, caught up in plans for the future, for his son or daughter.

  But he had known, as soon as he saw Emily standing at his door, that something was wrong. She looked frail, tired, pale. Heartbroken and lost. And she just stood there, her eyes rimmed in red, her full mouth trembling.

  And then she had told him. She'd had a miscarriage, and their daughter was dead.

  The news hit him with such force, he lost his breath. But he didn't do anything, didn't say anything. He stood there, frozen, using every ounce of will he possessed to keep himself from collapsing right there at the door.

  He still didn't know how long he stayed that way, but it was too long. Too much time passed and he couldn't say anything, couldn't find the right words. And then it was too late, because Emily took his silence to mean something else. She had straightened her shoulders and nodded, then turned and walked away.

  It was the last time he saw her, until that morning at the practice rink several weeks ago.

  But he had never forgotten her.

  JP brushed a hand over his face, trying to banish the memories, trying to banish the emotion that suddenly felt so fresh.

  What did he want to know?

  Everything. Nothing.

  "Do you..." He cleared his throat. "How did it happen?"

  "They don't know, not really. They, uh, they tried to explain but...they didn't really have an answer." He heard her swallow, felt her shift next to him. "I woke up fine, then started bleeding. And cramping. I...Monica knew something was wrong. She took me to the hospital."

  JP tried to nod, not knowing why. Maybe to let Emily know he was listening? He clenched his hands together, folding them tightly around each other to stop them from shaking.

  "You weren't alone." He hadn't meant for it to come out as a question. But it was suddenly important to him to know, important that she hadn’t been forced to go through that by herself.

  "No. No, my sister was there with me."

  JP nodded again. Took another deep breath. "I...I wish I had been there for you."

  "There was nothing you could have done." She said it so quietly, her words so certain and empty of all accusation. That didn't stop his guilt. But he couldn't say anything, couldn't speak through the sudden tightening in his throat. And then Emily was speaking again. "They weren't going to let me see her. They said it would be better if I didn't."

  "Did you?"

  "Yes. I named her. Made them give her a death certificate."

  JP leaned forward and covered his face with his hands, trying to breathe. He had a daughter, and he didn't even know her name. He bit down on the inside of his cheek and held himself still, trying to convince himself that if he didn't move, if he didn't breathe, the pain and guilt would go away.

  Something soft and warm settled on his shoulder, the touch gentle, reassuring. He didn't think, just reached up and grabbed Emily's hand and held it between both of his like it was a lifeline and he was a drowning man. And he was. Drowning in sorrow, in guilt, in regret.

  "Her name. What is it?"

  There was a long pause, so long JP was afraid she wouldn't answer, that she would refuse to tell him. But she squeezed his hand, just the barest movement, before she answered in a voice that was barely a whisper.

  "Her name is Gabriella. Gabriella Jeane Larocque."

  Something inside him finally broke and the walls he had been so busy building around himself for the last five years tumbled down, as easily as if they were nothing more than castles built of dry sand. A sound escaped him, little more than a growl built of pain and regret. Then arms closed around him, warm, reassuring, offering comfort instead of taking. And it was wrong. All of it. Emily was the one who needed comfort, not him. He hadn't been there for her five years ago and he wasn't there for her now.

  But he couldn't move away, couldn't offer her comfort. He wrapped his own arms around her and held on tightly as she ran her hands along his back and whispered words of consolation. He dropped his head onto her shoulder and squeezed his eyes shut, her voice soft in his ear, and let the pain of the last five years crash around them.

  Chapter Ten

  The road wound along a small hill then curved to the left, away from a tiny brook that swirled and bubbled under a wooden footbridge. Mature trees flanked the road, their branches dark and bare in the chilly November air. JP pulled the car to the side and cut the ignition, his eyes full of shadows as he looked to the left, away from her. Away from where they needed to go.

  Emily didn't want to be here. Not now, not with JP. The last two hours had been too draining, too intense. Too...everything. Her body was limp, exhausted; her eyes scratchy but dry. She ran a hand across them then blinked in a futile attempt to create moisture.

  She glanced over at JP, not wanting to look at him but unable to stop. He looked worse than she felt. His dark hair was disheveled, strands sticking up here and there from all the times he had run his hands over his head, like he could scrub away whatever thoughts were whirling through his mind. The healthy complexion of his skin had faded, the light stubble of a day's growth of beard a dark contrast on his chin and jaw. She didn't have to see his eyes to know they were rimmed in red but just as dry as her own. He gripped the leather steering wheel of the SUV with both han
ds, his knuckles white. Emily knew his hands would be shaking otherwise.

  She looked away, her gaze moving to the neatly manicured lawn stretched to their right. Even now, in November, the grass was thick, carefully maintained. But the green was washed out, the color almost gray in the weak light.

  She opened the door and climbed out, then headed to the pathway that would take her over the footbridge. The sound of a door closing echoed behind her, followed by the sound of footsteps. The sound was muffled, almost distorted, like nature was refusing anything louder than a whisper to intrude on this somber place.

  Emily kept walking, her feet retracing steps she had taken so many times before. But alone, always alone.

  She wasn't alone now.

  A breath hitched in her chest and she shuddered, then folded her arms in front of her. The jacket she wore was thick and warm, she shouldn't be chilled. But she was.

  She stopped at the peak of a small incline, near the base of a large oak tree. Thick branches spread outward, spreading like protective arms above the ground around her. She took a deep breath and glanced over her shoulder, waiting for JP to catch up.

  He finally looked at her, his expression one of anxiety and sorrow. She didn't know why, didn't question what she was doing, just reached for his hand and threaded her fingers through his. Then she looked away, motioning toward the bronze plaque with a small nod.

  Gabriella Jeane Larocque.

  Beloved daughter.

  There were no other words, nothing else except a single date to mark a profound moment of heartbreak that stretched for years. JP's hand tightened around hers, his grip almost painful. Emily looked away and blinked.

  Cold swept over her when JP released her hand. Cold, and an aloneness deeper than any she had experienced before. She shoved her hands into the jacket pockets and watched as he moved closer to the grave, each step slow, hesitant.

  He stopped, his gaze focused on the plaque for a long minute that stretched around them. Then he dropped to his knees, his hand reaching out until he traced the letters with a shaking finger.

  Emily heard his soft moan, heard the breaths hitch in his chest, deep and broken. Her chest squeezed, hard and quick, as he leaned forward and rested his head against the plaque. His broad shoulders, so hard and strong, shook silently.

  She didn't want to be here. Not now, not with JP. She didn't want to see the strong man she remembered, the strong man he was, break under the weight of sorrow and grief.

  And she didn't want him to suffer alone.

  She kneeled beside him on the cold hard earth and for the second time that day took him into her arms. From her own experience she knew there were no words she could say, nothing she could do.

  Except hold him.

  So she did, for long minutes that stretched around them, holding no meaning as time itself seemed to stretch, stop, distort. The earth beneath her knees should have chilled her; that chill should have seeped through her body, spreading until it took hold. But she wasn't chilled, couldn't even feel the hardness of the ground beneath her. JP's warmth chased the chill away, comforting, reassuring.

  No, not his warmth. Their warmth. Together. Each taking and giving as they mourned this shared loss together for the first time in five years.

  JP finally pulled away, gently, then brushed his face against the shoulder of his sweatshirt. He kept hold of her hand as he leaned forward, dropping a kiss against the cold metal of the plaque. His lips moved, his whispered words nearly lost in the cool air around them, a mix of French and English combined in his faint, gentle accent.

  Emily only understood a few words. My love. My daughter. My heart. She didn't need to understand more than that, not when the emotion in his voice said so much more.

  She swallowed against the thickness in her throat, struggling for breath as she stood. She turned away, wanting to give JP some privacy, needing privacy herself as she ran her hands over her face. Her lungs filled with air, crisp, clean. She took a few more deep breaths, in and out, each one deeper, trying to force a calmness she so desperately needed.

  "No wonder you hate me."

  Emily jumped, startled, as if the words had been shouted instead of merely whispered so softly behind her. She turned to see JP less than a foot away, his eyes dark with shadows as he looked at something in the distance.

  "Is that what you think?"

  His eyes darted to hers then just as quickly looked away again. "You should. I wasn't there for you. I made you go through that alone."

  "JP, there was nothing you could do. There was nothing anyone could do."

  "Not...not then. After. I should have..." His voice drifted off and he shrugged, the action speaking of desolation and regret instead of uncertainty. Emily paused, not sure what to do, what to say.

  Not when he was partly right.

  She had hated him. Right after, when she had first told him. For months afterward, as she tried to heal, to forget, to move on. But that was five years ago and she'd had time to view it from a safe distance. Or as safe as could ever be. She hadn't given him a chance, had simply walked away, content to convince herself he didn't care, content to convince herself it didn't matter.

  Yes, she had hated him then. But now? No, not now. She didn't have room for hate, not any more, not after letting it consume her for so long, not after it nearly destroyed her.

  She took a hesitant step toward him, not sure if she was doing the right thing or not. Then she stopped questioning and simply reached out and cupped his cheek with her hand. His skin was surprisingly warm, the stubble oddly soft against her palm.

  "Oh, Jean-Pierre. I don't hate you. Not anymore."

  His eyes finally met hers, the brown so deep and warm, pulling her in even as they reflected a hundred different questions she couldn't begin to answer. The air grew warm and heavy around them, cloaking them with a gentle understanding.

  She knew he was going to kiss her before he even moved, saw it in his eyes, felt it in the shiver that ran through him. Before she could move away, before she could tell him no, his lips pressed against hers.

  Soft, warm, gentle. Giving, not taking. The kiss was reassuring and sweet, not the passionate claiming she had been expecting.

  And all the more dangerous because of that.

  Then he pulled away before she could react, before she could make sense of the range of emotions swirling through her. JP pulled her into his arms and simply held her, the strength of his arms protective, the warmth of his body reassuring.

  She lowered her head against his chest, his heart beat steady beneath her ear as she wrapped her arms around his waist.

  And they stood there, holding each other above the grave of their daughter as silence stretched around them.

  Chapter Eleven

  JP drifted to awareness slowly, the slight tingling in his left arm nudging him toward consciousness. Gray light seeped behind his closed lids, beckoning even as the silence surrounding him lulled him back to sleep. He was stuck between the hazy comfort of an unknown dream and the harsh reality of wakefulness, his body fighting for one while his mind fought for the other.

  The tingling became a little sharper, a little more uncomfortable, pulling him more fully from the dream. He shifted, the fact that he was stretched out on his oversized sofa slowly registering in his cotton-filled brain.

  And he wasn't alone.

  His eyes opened slowly, squinting against the dull light filtering through the partially closed living room curtains. He blinked a few times, the insides of his lids damn near scratching his eyeballs with grit, then turned his head a fraction to the left.

  Emily was pressed against his left side, his arm wrapped loosely around her. Her head was tucked against his shoulder, her hand soft and warm as it rested in the middle of his chest.

  JP squeezed his eyes closed for a brief second, wondering if he was imagining things, if maybe he was still dreaming.

  No. Emily was still there, her body soft and warm, pressed against the length of
his own. He caught a whiff of her hair, the scent light and fresh, reminding him of spring breezes and warm sunlight. The urge to lean down and breathe in her scent was overwhelming but he pushed it away. Wouldn't that be embarrassing, if she woke up to find him smelling her?

  Scattered images floated through his hazy mind, bits and pieces from this morning. Fuck. No wonder he felt drained and wrung out, like he had just finished a game without taking a single line change.

  How long had they been laying here, on his sofa? Long enough for his arm to fall asleep.

  No way in hell was he moving it, not if it meant moving Emily. The damn thing could just fall right off for all he cared, as long as it meant that she would stay right there, her body pressed against his.

  He closed his eyes, surprised at the contentment hovering at the edges of his mind, wanting to take over. The desire to let it do just that, to take him over completely, was strong. But he fought it, almost afraid of it.

  Afraid it would be the wrong thing to do, especially after this morning.

  Fuck. Had he really broken down this morning? Yeah, he had. Like a damn kid taking his first real hit against the boards. What the hell was wrong with him?

  He hadn't expected it. Any of it. The crashing emotion that had blindsided him. The burning need to know, especially after burying it deep inside all these years. The glimpse of what Emily had gone through.

  Alone.

  Because he hadn't been there for her, had thought she didn't want him there.

  He sure as hell hadn't expected to see a grave.

  No, not a grave. His daughter's grave.

  He brought his right hand up and rubbed his eyes, pushing against them to ease the grittiness, the sudden burning. Something painful squeezed his chest, causing his breath to hitch.

  Fuck.

  He took a slow breath, pushing the pain away, then let it out.

  What the fuck had he done?

  Too much. Not enough.

  He glanced down at Emily, wishing he could see her face. But her head was turned to the side, long strands of her wavy hair covering her cheek as she slept.