The Promise of Us

by Beck, Jamie

  His phone pinged with a text from Peyton.

  Are you home yet?

  Rather than text her, he dialed. “Hey, just walked in.”

  “I know you must be exhausted, so I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to welcome you home. Maybe we can grab lunch in the next day or two. I’ve been revising the manuscript for our book while you’ve been away. We should start taking steps toward publication.”

  The memoir. Another worthy venture, although Aya and the other children in Moria wouldn’t fade from his thoughts soon. “I need a couple days to decompress and to edit the last photos I took in Greece. Later this week?”

  “Sure.” She paused. “Must’ve been tough to jump back into such a big assignment after so much time off.”

  He glanced once more at the images of his family. “Let’s just say it’s good to be home.”

  “Speaking of home, how do you like your place? I got a peek yesterday when I did the nice-sister thing and stocked your refrigerator with some fresh food.”

  “You’re awesome.” He smiled, lowering himself from his knees. He could use a snack, although he was so tired he needed an afternoon nap more. “And I love the place. It’s nicer than I deserve.”

  “Claire was very particular about it. I think she outdid herself.”

  “Agreed.” He slouched against the pillows and headboard, cradling the needlepoint pillow on his lap.

  “Have you called and thanked her?”

  “I literally just walked in. Plus, we haven’t spoken since the gala. I’m not sure what to say.” He hesitated, having spent many nights trying to compose a note in his head. “Have you seen her?”

  “We met to discuss a bridal shower, and we’ve spoken twice since then. Things between us are slowly improving. We even shared a laugh, sort of.”

  “That’s big news.” A bubble of joy stretched his heart. He’d helped Peyton, as he’d vowed he would. Maybe that was worth this bit of heartache.

  “There’s more. Dad hired her to revamp his inns. She and Steffi actually went up to Mystic early this morning.”

  He let his head fall back against the headboard, thinking maybe he’d helped make that possible, too. “No shit.”

  The time he’d spent in Sanctuary Sound had not been in vain if the two women he loved were better off for it. Loved. There. He’d admitted it, even if not to Claire. “When does she return?”

  “I don’t know. We still aren’t confidantes.” Peyton fell silent. “We did talk about you, though.”

  “Did you?” He sat up straighter.

  “She was worried about your safety.”

  Of course she was. “That’s it?”

  “Pretty much, but I’m sure you’re still very much on her mind, and in her heart.”

  “Mm.” Could there be a thread tying them together that she hadn’t yet cut?

  When he didn’t say more, Peyton said, “Call me tomorrow.”

  “Sure. Bye.” Logan punched off the phone and brushed his palm across the needlepoint pillow in his lap. Closing his eyes, he pictured his last conversation with Claire. Heard her logic. Saw her pleading look. Remembered his inability to tell her what she’d needed to hear—what she deserved to hear.

  His own cowardice made his thoughts turn again to the brave refugees who’d overcome hurdles and risked their lives in order to build a better home life for the people they loved. They’d sacrificed and suffered for something he took for granted, which made him wince.

  He rolled off the bed and dug his laptop and the kombolói from his bag, then scrolled through the photographs he’d taken of Claire at the Breakers, picking one of his favorites. The one where the corner of her mouth tipped upward, like her eyes, as she caught notice of the billiard room’s ceiling mural.

  It was so her. Subtle and soft, yet intensely engaged and sincere. Everything he was not, but everything he coveted.

  If there was any chance she hadn’t yet given up on him, he had to seize it. He opened his email, attached the photo, and typed a note:

  Claire,

  I’ve been staring at this image for weeks, missing you and your delicate beauty, curiosity, and imagination. Look at your awe at that ceiling mural. When I see this picture, I find myself wishing you would spring to life and turn that same gaze on me.

  Now I’m back and surrounded by you in this beautiful home you created—yet it feels strangely empty without you.

  If any part of you has missed me, please call me. I am changed because of you. I hope you’ll let me prove it.

  Yours,

  Logan

  He hit “Send” and blew out a breath, staring at the screen, hoping . . .

  Claire exchanged a silent look with Steffi upon their seeing Peyton get out of her parked car as they pulled up to the curb in front of Claire’s house.

  “Were you expecting her?” Steffi asked, brows drawn together.

  “No.” Claire’s heart pounded with worry that Peyton had come to share bad news about Logan. A slight tremor whipped through her, but she managed to open the car door when Steffi did the same.

  “Why are you here?” Claire blurted, scanning Peyton’s face for signs of grief. Her heart settled at the lack of any, but her stomach tightened in anticipation of dealing with Peyton yet again.

  “I wanted to talk to you, but you weren’t answering my texts.” Peyton clasped her hands in front of her body. Dressed in fine gray slacks and a loose-fitting pink spring sweater, she’d also donned the wig made of Logan’s hair, all of which made her look more like her old self.

  “My phone died and we didn’t bring a charger.” Claire crossed her arms. “What’s the urgency?”

  “Logan got home an hour ago.” Peyton searched Claire’s face now—for what, Claire wasn’t sure.

  “Is he all right?” Steffi asked.

  “He’s fine.” Peyton looked back to Claire. “Physically, anyway.”

  “Thank God.” A huge weight lifted upon confirming he’d made it home in one piece. “You sound perturbed, though.”

  “I am. He’s not his normal happy self, and I think it’s because of you.”

  “Me?” Claire glowered at the accusation.

  “Yes, Claire.” Peyton crossed her arms. “Because of you.”

  “Should I stay and ref?” Steffi darted a glance from Peyton to Claire.

  “No,” Claire said at the same time Peyton answered, “You can go.”

  Claire and Peyton stared at each other, a challenge forming in the space between them.

  “Please keep it civil.” Steffi clasped her hands together in prayer. “I love you both and don’t want the truce to end so soon.”

  Claire closed her eyes and counted to three so she wouldn’t argue. She’d made such strides these past several weeks on all fronts. She wouldn’t let Peyton derail her, for God’s sake.

  Before climbing into her car, Steffi flashed an uneasy smile. She started the engine and slowly drove away while watching them as if she expected them to burst into flame.

  When the car turned the corner, Claire turned back to Peyton. She’d said Logan was unhappy. “Does he hate the apartment?”

  “No, he loves it.” She grinned.

  Claire flipped one hand over. “Then why are you here? I know we’ve been working together to plan Steffi’s party, but I told you before, I don’t want to discuss him with you.”

  “Let’s not have this conversation on the sidewalk, okay? May I come inside for five minutes?” Peyton’s calm expression challenged Claire’s self-control, even though the last thing she wanted was to invite Peyton inside.

  “Fine.” Claire led the way into her house, then set Rosie and her bag down by the door and shot Peyton an “out with it” look.

  “Here’s the thing. I love my brother. His happiness matters to me, and since I think you’re an integral part of that for him now, I must get involved.” Peyton sank onto a chair with a huff, as if they were old friends—which they were, or had been. “I’d like to think I’ve learne
d something from months of pondering my own death, planning a funeral, writing an obituary . . . you know, all the morbid things one thinks about when hit with the big C.”

  With no ready rebuttal to such macabre candor, Claire sat on the sofa and waited. Her living room grew uncommonly warm, but she didn’t want to offer Peyton a drink or do anything else that might extend this visit.

  “These physical changes”—Peyton gestured to her hair and chest—“have also made me see myself, people, beauty, and love differently. The memoir—one of Logan’s great ideas—is definitely adjusting my filter and my priorities.”

  “This is all . . . interesting, but what’s it have to do with me?” Claire scratched at the arm of the sofa, although it was her body that itched.

  “You’ve been where I am—survived something tragic. Until I fought my own battle, I never understood why you’ve lived scared. Now I get it. For the past several months, I’ve taken only calculated risks. Afraid of loss. I craved security and stability. But today I’ve had an epiphany. Timidity only leads to a different kind of suffering—the kind made up of regrets and ‘could have beens.’”

  Claire’s cheeks bloomed with heat. Peyton might not be judging her, but her words were like a pillow pressed over Claire’s face.

  Peyton leaned forward, elbows on her knees, eyes staring at a distant spot. “I came to town filled with regret and shame, convinced I deserved this illness. I’ve apologized, tucked my chin all over town, tried to make amends. And while I still feel some of those things, I’m no longer willing to spend whatever time I’ve got left begging and cowering.

  “I’ve no idea if my surgery and the meds I’m still taking have killed all the cancer and can keep it from spreading, so I need to make the most of my second chance—however long it lasts.” She turned her gaze on Claire. “Every single day is a gift, Claire. I came here to remind you of that because I think you’re still living scared.”

  Claire shook her head. “I’ve been making changes, Peyton, as you know. But regardless of whether you agree, what does any of this have to do with Logan’s happiness?”

  “Last time we talked about him, I suggested your differences were insurmountable. But I hadn’t thought through how events and people change us. My cancer changed me. The situation with Todd changed us. And, oddly enough, now I think maybe you changed Logan, too. I hadn’t considered that before . . . that maybe his needs could change.” A sweet, sad little smile flickered. “I see you taking chances again—which is great—but you’re not taking the most important risk. The one with your heart. I also know I’m partly to blame for that. That’s why I’m here.

  “If any part of you regrets walking away from Logan, tell him now. Don’t let love slip through your fingers. You’ll never forgive yourself if you do—and you’ll never forgive me, either. Despite everything, I still hold out hope that, someday, you and I will be friends again. But even if that day never comes, I’ll always support your relationship with my brother.” Peyton sighed and slouched back into the chair.

  Claire could hear the heaviness of her own breath. She stared at Peyton, her body reeling on a sea of emotion whipped up by that speech. A few years ago, this moment might’ve ended with a hug between the friends. Something in Claire longed to go back in time to when everything had been simpler. But they could only go forward.

  “I believe you mean well, so thank you for that. But you’re inserting yourself into something you shouldn’t.” Claire shrugged. “Whatever Logan does or doesn’t feel, it’s up to him to share it with me, which he hasn’t.”

  “Have you shared yours?” came Peyton’s shrewd reply.

  Claire stood and crossed to the front door. “I don’t want to be rude, but I’m tired and hungry. I heard you out, but this isn’t your problem to solve. I think you should go now. Please.”

  Peyton shook her head as she rose from her seat. Claire opened the front door with a polite smile fixed on her face, preparing to say goodbye, when Peyton surprised her with a fierce hug. She spoke directly in Claire’s ear with sad urgency. “Please don’t dismiss everything I’ve said just because you dislike me. Despite everything, I still love you, Claire, and I want to see you happy.”

  Peyton released Claire and walked out of the house without making eye contact.

  For a few seconds, Claire stood there not knowing what to do, unable to make her body move. Eventually, she closed the door. The air seemed hot and heavy, burning her lungs even as she strained to suck it in. Logan was home, in the apartment she’d redesigned. Did he like the personal touches?

  She grabbed her bag and went to the kitchen in search of snacks. Unpacking Peyton’s visit—and hug—would require chocolate and salt.

  Dazedly, she plugged her phone into a charger, then rummaged her cabinets. Twix bars and milk would have to suffice. She poured a small glass and tore into the candy wrapper, then went to see what other messages she’d missed this afternoon. Right now she’d do anything to avoid thinking about Peyton’s lecture.

  Logan. His name appeared on the screen as if in boldface. She snapped off a gigantic bite of the Twix with her teeth and opened the email, heart thudding with each line of text she read. When she’d finished, she clicked on the attachment, stunned by the portrait of herself captured through his eyes.

  He’d sent it almost two hours ago. Was he waiting for a reply even as she sat there rereading the note? A love note. After all the secret love letters she’d written to him and stuffed under her bed as a teen, Logan Prescott had finally sent her one.

  She glanced at the clock, then whirled around and went to the bookshelf to retrieve the scrapbook he’d discovered weeks ago. Her heart raced, pumping hope and life through her limbs. She felt so full of them she almost forgot to grab Rosie on her way out the door.

  Logan woke with a start. Neither hot nor uncomfortable, he blinked, stretching out against cool sheets. It took a disoriented second to remember he wasn’t in Lesbos or Greece but at home, surrounded by the comfort of air-conditioning and potable water. Within the next few seconds, he became aware of a presence—a sound—that didn’t belong.

  Someone had entered his apartment.

  With limbs still heavy from an incomplete nap, he slid out of bed and crept toward the open bedroom door, then froze.

  Claire stood at the kitchen island with her back to him. She’d set something on the counter, then turned and noticed him. “Hi.”

  “Claire.” His heart slowed, and he was grateful he had the doorjamb to lean against. After so many weeks away, his greedy eyes scanned her from head to toe as hope boiled over. “Your hair! It’s your normal shade.”

  She ran her hand through it uncertainly. “I decided to just be myself.”

  “I like it better.” He hesitated, somewhat unsure of how to proceed. “You came to Manhattan alone?”

  “Apparently miracles happen.” A smile flickered, then she held up a key, which she set on the counter. “We still had this from doing the work.”

  He stepped into the living room, wanting to rush to her, but he’d already pushed Claire enough this spring. He had to let her set the pace. He gestured around the room. “It turned out even better than your drawings. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She stayed frustratingly still at her spot by the island. Her expression seemed conflicted, even as her gaze studied his face. He kept staring, searching for a hint of her intention. “Did I wake you?”

  “It’s fine. I’m glad to see you.” His heart pulsed in his throat. Screw it, he had to say what he felt. “The one thing that was missing from this place is finally here.”

  Her breath caught and she licked her lips. “I got your email . . . I had to come . . .”

  He didn’t wait to hear more. He crossed the room in a few quick strides and pulled her into a kiss. The kiss he’d been dreaming about for weeks. One that would tell her everything he hadn’t said but should’ve. Everything he felt and had only recently begun to understand. Everything. Everything. Everyt
hing.

  They broke apart to catch a breath, but she held him tightly, her cheek pressed to his chest. “I missed you, Logan. I thought of you every day. Cursed myself for how I walked away.”

  “Don’t do that. You were brave and honest about your feelings. I was the coward. You’d tried new things for me, but I never once bent for you. Never told you what you deserved to hear. You were right to leave me standing on that patio. If you hadn’t, I might not have realized what I’d lost. And, Claire, I don’t want to lose you.”

  He dabbed a tear trailing from her eye.

  “Honest, but not brave. I’m getting better, though.” She turned away and grabbed the binder she’d brought—the catalog of gun violence. “And to prove it, I thought maybe we could get rid of this and buy a new scrapbook, like you’d suggested. One to fill with new ideas and adventures that we do together.”

  “I love that plan.” He tossed the old binder to the floor, letting its heavy thud reverberate throughout the apartment. He cupped her face for another kiss, then said, “I already bought one thing that can go on the first page.”

  Holding up a finger, he then went to the kitchen cabinets beside the stove and opened his junk drawer to withdraw an envelope. He waved it overhead before tossing it on the counter and walking back to Claire. “Tickets to the US Open.”

  “From the auction?” Her mouth opened in surprise.

  “Guess I was being optimistic.”

  “And planning so far ahead—not just in the moment.” She smiled widely.

  Apparently, his subconscious had been ready to make a commitment long before he could say the words.

  “Thank you.” She touched his face. “But there’s one thing we should discuss before we decide to move forward.”

  He didn’t like the question mark her statement implied. “What’s that?”

  “On the train down, I kept thinking about how this would work. I like my life and my business in Sanctuary Sound. I like living near my parents and knowing all my neighbors. But I know you’d be stifled there. Trapped.”