Make Me Yours: The Bellamy Creek Series

by Harlow, Melanie

  “That’s ridiculous.” He crossed his arms again.

  “Is it? I can deal with you wanting more time until we move in together. But that’s not what this is about.”

  “Huh?”

  “This is about you saying you’re fine and you’re not. This is about you looking for reasons to keep yourself from being happy, so that it can’t be stolen from you. This is about you wanting to cause the bad thing, so that the bad thing can’t take you by surprise.”

  He set his jaw. “You’re wrong.”

  “I’m not, Cole.” I had to wipe my eyes again. “Look, I’ve loved you for so many years—what would another couple months be until we could live together? In the grand scheme of things, it’s no time at all.”

  “Then why can’t you just agree to it?” he begged, his tone softer. “That’s all I need.”

  “No, it isn’t. This is not about time, Cole. It’s not about time, it’s not about Mariah, and it’s not even about Trisha anymore—it’s about you.” I choked back a sob. “Anyone would have wounds after going through what you did. And in order to survive and be there for Mariah, you had to ignore them. But the scars are still there, and you have to look at them now if you want to move on and be happy. You have to talk about them. Share them with me.”

  “You sound like Jessalyn,” he said angrily. “And maybe women and children need to talk about all their issues in order to get past them, but men don’t.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me.” He thumped his chest.

  I shook my head. It would have been funny if it weren’t so sad. “You’re wrong, Cole. It’s going to break my heart to walk out of here tonight, but if you won’t let me love you, scars and all, that’s what I have to do.” With tears streaming down my face, I turned to leave.

  “Cheyenne, wait. Don’t go.” He grabbed my arm and forced me to look at him. “I love you,” he said, his eyes shining in the dark.

  “All of me? Even the scars? Even that girl who still can’t believe Cole Mitchell would ever choose her? Because she’s in there too.”

  He swallowed. “Of course.”

  “Then prove it.” I took a deep breath and shook off his arm. “You said you wanted to fight for me, Cole. Here’s your chance.”

  Summoning all the strength I had, I held back the tears and walked out.

  Twenty-Nine

  Cheyenne

  Three days after the worst Christmas ever, I went over to Griffin and Blair’s apartment for coffee.

  I hadn’t told Blair anything about the Christmas Eve breakup because I didn’t want to interrupt her time with her family or cause her to spend time worrying about me on her trip. But they’d flown in last night, and I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I’d spent the last seventy-two hours crying in my bedroom, ignoring my mom’s attempts to talk, and wondering if I’d made the biggest mistake of my life.

  “Good morning,” Blair said with a smile, answering my knock in ivory flannel pajamas that were embroidered with Mrs. Dempsey on the top’s pocket. Then she saw my face, and her smile faded. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “No,” I said, tearing up. “I need caffeine and talk therapy and maybe some kind of muffin or pastry with either like some icing on it or some crumble topping.”

  She brought me inside and gave me a hug. “You’ve come to the right place.”

  I ditched my snow boots, followed her up the stairs and plunked myself on a stool at their kitchen island. “Where’s Griff?”

  “He ran over to the gym this morning.” She poured me a cup of coffee and set an oversized muffin on a plate in front of me. “There. Now you have caffeine and crumble topping. So let’s get to the therapy. What happened?”

  “Cole and I broke up,” I said, tears leaking from my eyes.

  “What? Oh no!” She grabbed a box of tissues and placed it in front of me before coming around the island to sit on the stool next to mine. Rubbing my arm, she waited for me to mop my cheeks. “Tell me what happened. Did you ask him about the nightmares?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t even get a chance.”

  “So what was it?”

  Taking a shuddering breath, I told her the whole story. By the end of it, she was dabbing her eyes with a tissue too. “Oh, no. Oh Cole, what are you doing?”

  “He thinks he’s being a man, but he’s just being a coward,” I said irritably. “I get why, but it still sucks.”

  “It does,” she agreed. “You sort of can’t fault him, but you want to.”

  “I don’t fault him for being scared and not knowing how to handle it—I just wish he’d admit it, you know? He’s so damn determined to just tough it out.”

  “Men,” Blair muttered. “They’re such fixers. And he’s looking to paint the front door when the wood is rotten.”

  “Exactly.” I sniffed again. Took a sip of coffee. “I think even Mariah’s therapist knew something was up, because he mentioned her name during our argument. I wonder if she suggested he talk to someone professional.”

  “Maybe,” Blair said. “It certainly sounds like he needs it.”

  I exhaled, closing my eyes. “I was kind of afraid you were going to tell me I was being too demanding. That I shouldn’t have walked out when all he asked for was more time before we move in together.”

  “Not at all! You’re only demanding one thing—honesty. Okay two things—honesty and a willingness to conquer those demons.”

  “I thought love conquered all,” I said, tears welling again. “But it doesn’t.”

  “Oh, honey.” She slid off her stool and wrapped her arms around me. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I really thought this was it,” I sobbed. “I thought for once I didn’t pick the unavailable person. I thought I wouldn’t end up disappointed. I thought finally my feelings for Cole made sense. I thought he’d chosen me.”

  “He did, sweetie. He really did.” She rubbed my back. “And I know that he loves you and he’s going to be sorry.”

  From the bottom of the stairwell, we heard the door open and close.

  “Don’t tell him,” I whispered.

  “Okay, but he’s going to know something is up,” she whispered back.

  Quickly, I dried my eyes and took another sip of coffee.

  A moment later, Griffin appeared at the top of the steps, looking sweaty and disheveled in sweatpants and a hoodie. “Hey.”

  “Morning,” I said without meeting his eyes.

  “Cole here?” he asked, going over to the fridge.

  “No.”

  Griffin took the orange juice out, turned around, and leaned back against the counter. “What’s wrong?”

  I decided there was no point in lying. My brother wasn’t an idiot. “Cole and I broke up.”

  His eyebrows peaked. “Seriously?”

  “Yes. On Christmas Eve.”

  “Damn.” He took a drink right from the carton. “What happened?”

  “Griffin!” Blair took a glass from the cupboard and handed it to him. “What have I told you about that? It grosses me out.”

  “Why? You don’t even drink O.J.”

  “Because we are not Neanderthals without proper drinkware. Use the glass, please.”

  Griffin rolled his eyes but poured juice from the carton into the glass. “So what happened with Cole? I thought everything was good.”

  “It was . . . but it also wasn’t, and he never told me.”

  “Huh?”

  I took a deep breath. “I think Cole is scared of being happy with me because of what happened to him before. He doesn’t believe happiness can last.”

  Griffin took a drink and nodded thoughtfully. “I could see that about him.”

  “And I think after he asked me to move in with him, it hit him really hard. But even before that—as soon as he realized how happy Mariah was about the whole situation—he was kind of freaking out internally, but wouldn’t admit it. I could tell something was off with him, but he just kept saying he was fine.”
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br />   “Sounds like Cole.”

  It struck me that Griffin was Cole’s best friend. He knew him better than anyone. “Has Cole ever mentioned anything to you about, like, panic attacks?”

  “No. But I do know that he had pretty bad nightmares as a kid.”

  Blair and I exchanged a look. “He’s having them again,” I said. “Only he refused to admit it. And then in a weird twist, he tried to tell me Mariah was having nightmares.” I told him about my conversations with my mother and Mariah, and then my argument with Cole.

  Griffin’s mouth was set in a grim line. “Jesus. You gotta feel bad for him.”

  “I do,” I said helplessly, my eyes tearing up again. “But I can’t help him if he won’t even talk to me.”

  “Has Cole ever seen a therapist?” Blair asked Griffin. “Like maybe after Trisha died?”

  “I don’t remember,” he said. “I just remember him being really focused on Mariah. From that point on, all he cared about was her. I think he swept a lot of shit under the rug.”

  I nodded. “I think so too. But it was always there, and now that it’s uncovered, he needs to deal with it. Except he won’t.”

  “He won’t talk to a therapist?” Griffin asked.

  “Nope. He said therapy is for women and kids.”

  Blair made a disgusted noise and rolled her eyes. “Why do men think they have to be so tough all the time? It’s okay to show your emotions.”

  “He did show them,” I said, grabbing another tissue. “And he talked about them. He told me he loved me. Was he lying?”

  “No,” Griffin said firmly. “That I know for sure. I’ve never seen him so crazy about someone. And he doesn’t bullshit people like that. He never has. If he told you he loved you, he meant it.”

  “Really?” I asked, hope rising in my heart.

  He nodded. “Yeah. Like at Thanksgiving, and at the wedding, and at dinner here that night . . . it was obvious the guy was messed up.”

  “To be clear, that’s supposed to be a compliment,” Blair said, rolling her eyes.

  “I asked him about you on Thanksgiving, and he tried to deny something was going on, but Cole is a really shitty liar.” Griffin shook his head. “His upper lip does, like, this weird, twitchy thing, and his eyes dart all over the place. And he sweats.”

  “Yes!” I exclaimed. “I’ve seen it!”

  “Sometimes his hands twitch too, so he folds his arms and sticks his hands in his armpits. It’s fucking ridiculous. He’s such a Boy Scout.”

  “Oh my God, he totally did that during our argument.”

  Blair laughed sympathetically. “Poor Cole.”

  I looked at Griffin, needing to hear it again. “Do you really think he was happy with me?”

  Griffin shrugged. “Yeah. I mean, dudes don’t go around saying shit like ‘I can’t believe how happy I am’”—he spoke in a high-pitched voice with an exaggerated version of Blair’s Tennessee lilt—“but if I had to be the judge, I’d say he was, and right now he’s probably miserable.”

  “Could you maybe check on him?” I asked, clasping my hands together. “I can’t stop worrying about him.”

  “Why don’t you reach out to him? Maybe he’s changed his mind.”

  “I can’t, Griffin.” My eyes filled again. “It will hurt too much. Every time I see him or Mariah outside with the new dog, I melt down.”

  My brother exhaled heavily. “Okay. I’ll give him a call later.”

  “Thank you.”

  Griffin put his glass in the sink and disappeared down the hall to their bedroom.

  “Now how about eating a little something?” Blair pushed my plate closer to me.

  Giving in, I took a bite of the muffin. “Thanks. It’s really good. Way better than a garden salad.”

  She laughed. “No one wants raw vegetables during an emotional crisis.”

  I shook my head. “Nope.”

  “Finish your muffin, and then we’ll go do something fun. Get our nails done or something. Go shopping. Buy something cute for New Year’s Eve.”

  “Ugh, don’t even talk about it. For once, I was going to get to kiss the man of my dreams at midnight. Instead I’ll be home with my mother, wearing sweatpants, watching the ball drop while eating raw cookie dough and drinking wine out of a box.”

  “No way, sister. Griffin and I decided we’re going to have a few people over here, and you’ll be here in a sequin miniskirt with a glass of bubbly in your hand at midnight. Guys will be knocking each other over to be the one you kiss at midnight.”

  “A sequin miniskirt?” I looked at her sideways. “You’re crazy.”

  “I know.” She tipped her head onto my shoulder. “But at least I made you laugh.”

  Thirty

  Cole

  At the closing, I got the keys to my new house, but I didn’t feel like celebrating.

  I’d imagined the day so much differently—I’d pick up Mariah and Cheyenne and go straight to the house, and we’d walk through it together, knowing it was finally ours.

  Instead, it was just like every other day had been since Cheyenne walked out—agony.

  I couldn’t sleep. Had no appetite. Didn’t feel like working out. I was ignoring calls and texts from friends, evading my mother’s questions, and getting through work on autopilot.

  Mariah was still so upset, she was hardly talking to me. I hadn’t told her much—just that it had been Cheyenne’s decision to end the relationship, and I asked her to please respect Cheyenne’s privacy and not go running over there to ask her questions or beg her to come back. I hadn’t wanted to ruin Mariah’s Christmas morning by telling her right away, but she was desperate to tell Cheyenne about all her new presents—and show her the photo of Buddy, a nine-year-old Terrier mix who’d been abandoned and was always passed over at the shelter because people wanted younger dogs. I’d felt for the animal, who must have thought all his best days were behind him. Mariah had taken one look at the photograph and burst into tears, grabbing onto me and refusing to let go, even though I was already going to be late for work.

  “Is he really mine?” she sobbed.

  “Yes, if you want him. We can pick him up tomorrow.”

  “I want him,” she said. “Can I call Cheyenne and tell her?”

  I hesitated. “You can, but there’s something I need to tell you first.”

  I’d delivered the news, and she’d run up to her room and slammed the door.

  My mother, who’d heard the exchange, gave me a sympathetic look. “Oh, Cole,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  I struggled to keep my face impassive. “It’s fine.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No. I’m late already.” But I glanced up the stairs—I felt horrible leaving with Mariah so upset, but how was I going to comfort her? I felt the same way she did.

  “Go to work,” my mother said, heading up the steps. “I’ll deal with her. We can talk later.”

  “Thanks.”

  During my shift, I went over the argument with Cheyenne again and again. My chest ached every time I thought about her tears, but my jaw clenched up in stubborn refusal whenever I thought about what she was asking me to do.

  If she loved me the way she said she did, shouldn’t she respect my decision to deal with my baggage my way?

  After work, I sat down to a late supper at the kitchen table, and my mother sat across from me. Mariah, who’d already eaten, was up in her room.

  “So it was Cheyenne’s decision?” my mother asked.

  “Yes.” I poked at the food on my plate, unable to eat. My stomach had been in knots all day.

  “Maybe she just needs some space.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, what was it specifically that made her want to break things off?” my mother pressed. “You two seemed so happy together.”

  “Leave it, Mom. I don’t want to talk about it. She’s gone, and it was her choice.”

  She lifted a cup of tea to h
er lips. “Was it a choice you forced her to make?”

  I glared at her across the table. “I said leave it.”

  A heavy sigh. “Mariah is very upset. You’ll need to talk to her. She thinks she did something wrong.”

  Closing my eyes, I set down my fork and rubbed my face. “I’ll talk to her.”

  But Mariah wouldn’t talk to me. No matter how much I coaxed and begged her to open her door, she said she didn’t want to talk, and I didn’t have it in me to fight.

  After work the next night, I asked her if she wanted to go pick up Buddy with me, and she said yes. But in the car on the way to the shelter, she remained silent and sullen.

  “Mariah,” I said, pulling into a parking spot. “What happened between Cheyenne and me isn’t your fault. Sometimes grown-ups just decide they want different things.”

  “But she wanted the same things we did. She wanted us to be a family. I know it. So either you did something wrong, or I did.”

  “It wasn’t you,” I said firmly. “I said something that made her upset.”

  She finally looked at me. “What did you say?”

  I stared out the windshield. “I told her a lie.”

  “About what?”

  I turned off the engine and sat for a moment in silence. “I told her that you’d been having nightmares, not me.”

  “Why? Were you embarrassed?”

  “Yes,” I answered, figuring that was the easiest way to explain it to a nine-year-old. “I was embarrassed.”

  “You shouldn’t be,” Mariah said fiercely. “Cheyenne loves you. She would never make fun of you for having bad dreams.”

  “I know she wouldn’t.”

  “You told me a lie too.”

  I met her eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “You said you loved her the real way.”

  “I do love her the real way,” I insisted.

  She crossed her arms, pinning me with an accusing stare. “Then you wouldn’t have let her go.”

  * * *