by Bromberg, K.
Colton startles at my comment, confusion over my about-face written all over his handsome features. “Come again?”
“Maybe you need to look him in the eyes, see that you are absolutely nothing like him. Maybe you’ll find out he knew nothing about you or—”
“Or maybe I’ll find out my dad was my abuser and not only is her blood running through me but so is his.” His anger causes my mind to spin in a direction I’d never considered before.
“What are you saying, Colton?” I push gently for more because I hadn’t expected that response.
“My dreams,” he begins and then stops momentarily as he shakes his head. He reaches out to hold Ace’s tiny hand that has escaped from the blanket. “I’ve been having this dream that I walk in that room and my mom is there. She’s younger, prettier, not at all how I remember her, and she’s holding a baby. I think it’s me. She sings to me and there’s a man in the corner I can’t see. I think he’s my dad. When I look back to her she’s how I remember—strung out, used up . . . It’s so real. I can smell her, the stale cigarettes. I can hear the drips from the apartment faucet I used to count. See the superheroes I tried to draw in crayon on the wall so I could focus on them when . . .” His words break my heart for the horror he endured and survived and is now reliving due to circumstances beyond my control.
I wish there was something I could do to help him, comfort him, anything to help take this pain and conflict from him. But I can’t. All I can do is stand beside him, listen to him, and be here for him when or if he decides to face this ghost head-on.
“Fuck,” he curses as he shoves up from the bed again. Baxter lifts his head to see if it’s time to go out as Colton walks to the wall of windows looking into the darkness of the night to his beloved beach down below. “The fucking problem is it’s me in the dream. His body. His hands. His stench. But my goddamn hands reaching out to take Ace and do God knows fucking what to our son.” My stomach rolls as I look down at Ace’s angelic face. I can’t even fathom how much I’m going to hurt for him when he gets his first set of shots, so I can in no way comprehend the horrors Colton’s mom made him endure for a five-minute high.
“Oh, Colton,” I murmur to his back, needing him to come closer so I can wrap my arms around him and reassure him. But I know even my touch won’t calm the stormy waves crashing against each other inside him.
“You know . . . I asked Kelly to find my dad so I could come full circle with my history and put it to bed. I sure as hell don’t want a Kumbaya session with him that’s for sure. Wasn’t even sure I’d speak to him, but deep down I think I wanted to see if we were alike in any way. Stupid, I know, but a part of me needs to know.” He turns to face me now and in a sense I get he’s asking for me to understand something he doesn’t even understand.
“And now?” I prompt in the hopes he’ll keep talking, that voicing aloud his fears will allow him to overcome them.
“Now it’s like,” he sighs and runs a hand through his hair, such a striking silhouette against the moonlight coming through the windows at his back, “now I wonder if the dreams are true. Was that fucker my dad?” he asks, voice full of distraught disbelief. “I never once thought that as a kid. Never once made that connection. I knew I had her tainted blood in me, have dealt with that, knowing the other half of me was at least okay . . . but what if he’s just as bad? Even worse? What if I go to see my dad and it’s true? Then what, Ry?”
The look on his face and sound in his voice tears me apart because all I can offer are words right now and words won’t help. They won’t take away fear or mitigate the unknown. But I offer them anyway. “Then we deal with it. You and I. Together.” I reach out for his hand and link my fingers with his. He blows out a breath. “Parents give you their genes but don’t make the person you become.”
Will he ever be free of this torment? See the amazing man inside of him that we all see?
“Still, Ry. If it’s true, every time I hold Ace will I . . .? I don’t know.” His voice fades off as he looks down at our linked hands, the silence heavy in the air around us. “Since I’ve been eight years old, there hasn’t been a single person in my life I have had a blood connection with. That’s what being adopted is like. And it’s not like Andy, Dorothea, or Quin made me feel any less because they were related and I wasn’t . . . but a part of me wanted to have that connection with someone. Desperately. I used to watch Andy, memorize everything about him so I could learn to laugh like him, talk like him, gesture like him. Just so I could be like somebody. So people might see us together and from our mannerisms alone think I was his son.”
“Colton.” It’s all I can say as pain radiates in my heart, digs into my soul, and brings tears to my eyes for the little boy hoping to belong and for the grown man still affected by the memories.
Still conflicted by the memories.
“Do you know what it’s like to know that for the first time in almost thirty years I’m connected to someone? Blood. Genes. Mannerisms. All inherited. That Ace is a part of me?” The incredulity in his voice resonates louder than the words.
“You’re not alone anymore.” I squeeze his hand, a silent affirmation.
“You’re right. I’m not,” he says. I watch his posture change—spine stiffens, shoulders straighten—to be more defensive. A man’s vulnerability only lasts for so long after all. “But at the same time I was naïve in thinking that this—the blood connection with Ace—would override the rest of this shit.”
I narrow my eyebrows. “What shit?” I ask, trying to figure out which one of the myriad of things can be considered as shit.
“Nothing. Never mind,” he says as he stands back up and presses a kiss to my forehead and Ace’s. “Just some things I need to work through on my own. I promise I’ll try to be quick.”
Our eyes connect under the cover of night, and I worry about what the darkness is hiding that I’d normally be able to see. I thought it was just the idea of becoming a dad but now I worry it’s more.
I’ve been so absorbed in my own world with everything that’s happened over the past few weeks that now I feel like an ass. I can worry about Zander, be upset over my job, and yet not once did I stop to look at the man beside me, my rock, to ask him what other shit he was dealing with.
I want to tell him, just not now. Can’t he deal with this all in a bit? Hell yes, it’s a selfish thought but at the same time, when I look down at Ace he trumps all of this. He is the perfect moment in our lives and we need to stay just like this, all together, as a unit. Colton promised me this moment and now we’ve found it, all I want to do is hold on to it for as long as I can.
But when I look back up to Colton and see the stress in his posture, I know that while the moment is perfect for me, he’s just taking a little bit longer to find his.
“Get some sleep. I’m going to go sit out on the patio for a bit and clear my head,” he says. I know that means the nightmare is still there, still lingering in the fringes of his mind and he’s not ready to go back to sleep again for fear it will return.
I bite back what I really want to say. Don’t go. It’s lonely in bed without you. Talk to me. Instead I say, “Okay. I’m here when you need me.” Because we do need you. But I also know Ace and I need the him that is one hundred percent and if he needs some time to get there, then I’m resigned to give it to him.
For him. Anything for him.
And for us.
This is marriage; being who you are while being what your partner needs when they need it the most. Stepping up while they need to step out.
“Night,” he says as he heads toward the door.
“Colton?” His name is part plea, part question because I know he is shutting down and possibly shutting me out.
He stops in the doorway and turns to face me. “It’s going to be fine, Ryles. All of it.”
THE MOTHERFUCKER IS DEAD.
My feet pound the sand. One after the other. My cadence: Fuck. You. Eddie.
Angry strides
eating up distance but doing absofuckinglutely nothing to lessen the rage. All they do is put more distance between paparazzi sitting at the public entrance to the beach and me.
My lungs burn. My legs ache. My eyes sting as sweat drips into them. I pick up the pace. Needing the exhaustion, the sand, the space to clear my head before I turn around and head back.
Fuck. You. Eddie.
I push myself to the brink of exhaustion. As far north as I can go before I’m bent over, hands on my knees, gasping for air. And even fatigued the image doesn’t go away. Won’t go away.
The picture he took.
Ry’s face is in the corner, mouth open in protest, one hand reaching to cover her breast, and the other reaching out to cover the camera lens. But the joke’s on us. It wasn’t Ry he was taking a shot of. Nope. She was just the frame around what Eddie wanted more: Ace sitting between the dent of her thighs. White diaper. A mess of dark hair. Mouth open crying. Face beat red.
One day old and already thrown into the goddamn inferno of chaos that is my life. Used. For money. For revenge. To hurt us. Take the purest thing in my life and use it to hurt me.
Not fucking cool. That’s sleazy. Unacceptable.
Fuck. You. Eddie.
I turn back south. My feet move again. Arms pump. My leave from reality only temporary.
I sure hope that cool half a million he just pocketed was worth it. When I get done with him, he’ll realize that damn photo cost him so much more.
Now I have to face Rylee. Tell her the man who took our moment, our piece of peace, has stolen from us again. Took the control to introduce our son to the world in our own way. Made Ace a pawn in this fucked-up game of his.
Fuck. You. Eddie.
Rylee’s face fills my mind: eyes wide with panic, voice wavering, paranoia over the windows consuming her. And now I have to go add a little more crazy to her chaos.
On top of everything else I’ve already heaped there.
Too much. Just too goddamn much. Open ends. Unexpected surprises. Forced hands. Uncontrollable situations. The never-ending unknown.
Fuck. You. Eddie.
CJ’s words were gasoline added to a wildfire already out of control. What had his answer been when I asked him how that little fucker keeps getting the upper hand in this goddamn game of payback? The only power Eddie has over you is the reaction you give him. My response? A curt Fuck you.
He holds no power over me. None. I’ll let him think he does, but his hand’s been dealt. Cards are on the table. He may have the wild card.
But I’m carrying all the aces.
“SHH! DON’T BE SO LOUD. You’re going to scare him,” Aiden shouts in a whispered voice to the rest of the boys gathered around him. Or more like gathered around Ace.
Seven heads—blond, brown, and one red—form a phalanx of overeager boys all vying to watch him sleep in Shane’s arms. All but one.
Zander sits on the couch, just outside of the circle and watches from afar. A slight smile is on his face but there is a distance in his eyes I recognize and detest. I watch him observe but make no move to get closer. And instinct tells me he’s doing what he knows, putting up a wall around him, distancing himself from his brothers, so if he’s fostered out, the blow won’t be as hard to take.
Defense mechanism 101.
Why do I suddenly feel the need to take this course?
I look up from watching Zander to find Shane’s eyes above the heads of the other boys. Our gazes hold and I can’t read the look in his. He’s getting so old now, graduating from college next semester, and has gotten so much better at guarding the emotions in his eyes. I can’t read what they say, and it’s not like this is the time or place to ask him what he’s not telling me.
An elbow is traded between Auggie and Scooter. The interaction surprises me, and even though my reprimand is automatic, a small part of me smiles at this small step in Auggie’s marathon journey to fitting in. And then the other part of me is saddened I haven’t been there to know of this progress.
“Easy, boys,” Colton warns from where he’s talking to Jax in the kitchen when elbows bump again.
Questions ring out left and right. Does he sleep all the time? Is it my turn to hold him yet? Are his diapers nasty? Is it my turn to hold him yet? Does he really come out of your belly button? Is it my turn to hold him yet? Is it true he eats milk from your boobies?
That one earns some snickers and a few pairs of blushed cheeks.
“Zander, you want to come sit next to me?” I ask, needing to draw him out of his shell some.
“Okay,” he mumbles as he rises from the couch and shuffles over. He sits next to me, and I put my arm around him and pull him in close. Needing and trying to offer some comfort, and pull some from him even in his silence.
“I missed you,” I murmur as I press a kiss to the top of his head that I’m sure embarrasses him, but I don’t care. Affection is something that never goes to waste no matter how much the other person thinks they don’t need or want it.
“Me too,” he says. I rest my cheek on the top of his head and just hold him there as the boys continue to stare at Ace, mesmerized by how little he is.
And a part of me is slightly surprised I’m not as freaked out as I imagined I would be watching all of these typically not-so-gentle boys crowding around him. But I shouldn’t be; these are my boys—my family—and I trust them because I know they’d never hurt something so dear to me.
Then again, I’m so exhausted I think the only thing that pulls me wide-awake instantly is the sound of Ace’s cry. Other than that I feel like I’m walking through a fog.
I’m talking to Zander, asking about school and simple things, trying to draw him out of his shell, when out of the blue a flash goes off.
Something in me snaps and takes over me.
“No!” I shout, flying off the couch as fast as my sore body can go. Heads turn to look at me as shock silences the room. “No pictures!” My voice is shaky but firm. My heart races and fingers tremble, as anxiety owns my body. I’m on panic-riddled autopilot as I jerk Connor’s phone from his hand and delete the picture he took of Ace immediately.
I see the shock in his eyes, the lax jaw, the shake of his head, and yet all I can think of is Ace. All I can feel is the rage I’ve kept in check after losing my shit yesterday when Colton told me about Eddie’s ultimate invasion of our privacy. How it’s eaten at me bit by bit. Made me feel like our life is spinning out of control and will never get our bubble back.
I need our bubble back. Desperately.
I’m standing in the middle of the family room, Connor’s phone grasped in one hand, and the boys looking at me, unsure what to do. My body begins to shiver as a hot flash of dizziness engulfs me. Sweat beads on my skin. My stomach turns. I look from boy to boy, unable to explain, and worried because I know I just scared them and yet I can’t help it.
The panic attack hits me like a flash flood—instant and yanking me under its pull—magnifying everything I was feeling and then some. But just as my knees start to buckle, Colton’s arms wrap around me from behind and pull me against him.
“Breathe, Ry,” he murmurs into my ear, his warm breath on my flushed skin, a grounding sound when all of a sudden I feel like I’m losing it. And when I can focus again, the looks on the faces around me tell me as much. “You’re okay. Just a little panic attack. I’ve got you.”
His words and the feel of his body against mine calm the anxiety seizing me, limb by limb, nerve by nerve to the point it’s hard to focus or catch my breath. My clothes stick to me as I break out in a cold sweat.
“I’ve got you,” he says again, his voice the only thing I can focus on. The one thing I need. I can see the concern on the boys’ faces but my emotions are paralyzed. I can’t feel, can’t bother to care to explain I’m okay, that they shouldn’t worry. I have a momentary ability to focus. The fact I’m not thinking of the boys first means something is off with me. That’s not me at all.
And that realization�
�that snippet of reality—causes a second wave of anxiety to hit me harder than the first.
“Something’s wrong,” I whisper so softly I don’t even know if Colton hears me.
“Ry’s okay,” I hear Jax say as he steps forward and reassures the boys like I should. But I can’t. Words are locked in my throat. “Just a panic attack.”
“Let’s go upstairs,” Colton murmurs. His body is still behind mine, and just as he turns us, I lock eyes with Shane. I can see the fear in his eyes, his own panic written all over his face, and yet Colton pushes me to walk toward the hallway before I can unlock the apology in my throat.
“I can’t,” I murmur, lost in a daze. “I’m sorry. I don’t know . . .”
“C’mon, baby.” His voice is soothing as he gently lifts me into his arms once we clear the boys’ line of sight. “I’ve got you.” I start to wriggle, unsure, uneasy, un-everything. “I’m not gonna let you fall, Rylee. I’ll never let you fall,” he murmurs against the side of my face.
I sink into him, hear his words and let him take the reins. Knowing he’s right but don’t want to admit I’m having a hard time dealing with everything right now. Each step he takes is like the hammer reinforcing everything that’s been piled onto my buckling back.
“It’s just all too much, too fast,” he murmurs.
Step.
The video release. Invasion of privacy. Exposed. Embarrassed. Violated. Helpless.
Step.
Taking a forced leave of absence from my job. Lost. My purpose gone. Betrayed.
Step.
Zander’s uncle stepping forward. Handcuffed. Inadequate. Taken advantage of.
Step.
Ace’s birth. Emotional overload. Intense joy. Unconditional love.
Step.