by Cassia Leo
The Way We Rise
The Story of Us: Book Three
Cassia Leo
Contents
Copyright
About the book
Dedication
1. Patricia
2. Rory
3. Houston
4. Rory
5. Houston
6. Rory
Part 5
7. Houston
8. Rory
9. Rory
10. Rory
11. Houston
12. Rory
13. Houston
14. Rory
15. Houston
16. Rory
17. Rory
18. Rory
19. Houston
20. Rory
Epilogue
1. Rory
2. Houston
3. Rory
4. Rory
5. Houston
6. Rory
7. Houston
8. Rory
9. Houston
10. Rory
11. Houston
12. Rory
Thank you!
Acknowledgments
Also by Cassia Leo
Preview of Black Box
MIKKI - January 8th
MIKKI - January 3rd
About the Author
THE WAY WE RISE
The Story of Us: Book Three
by Cassia Leo
cassialeo.com
Copyright © 2015 by Cassia Leo
First Edition. All rights reserved.
Cover art by Sarah Hansen at Okay Creations.
Editing by Red Adept Publishing.
Copyediting by Marianne Tatom.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without expressed written permission from the author; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
All characters and events appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The highly anticipated conclusion to the bestselling Story of Us series.
With Liam’s fate no longer in the balance, Rory and Houston are poised on the precipice of a life-altering decision. When Rory’s father arrives in California to comfort Rory and make amends, Houston finds the decision becomes much easier to make.
When Houston suggests they take a break Rory thinks he must be joking. But he’s not. And his timing couldn’t be worse.
With Houston and Rory vowing to keep their new friendship strictly outside of the bedroom, their friends and family seize the opportunity to draw out the torture and surprises. Ensuring that Houston and Rory’s story has an ending they’ll never forget.
The Way We Rise is the final book in the The Story of Us Series.
For all the “Hannahs” who’ve encouraged me.
January 17, 2015
When you become a mother, it’s easy to believe your life no longer belongs to you. In an instant, your most pressing objective shifts. No longer does it matter whether your hair and makeup are perfect, not when you have to worry about whether the human being you brought into this world is hungry or sick or unhappy. It’s easy to lose yourself in the day-to-day needs of others when you become a mother.
It’s seven in the morning and I’m standing outside the six-story building where James has worked for the past five years, rain gushing over my umbrella, the smell of ozone and wet leaves saturating my senses. I can’t help but realize how I’m still putting Rory’s needs before my own. There’s beauty in selflessness. There’s honor in putting aside your fears to make sure the ones you love are taken care of. But I can’t help but wonder if that’s the only reason I’m here.
It’s true, I had my suspicions about James and Hallie. When you get to know someone as well as I knew James, it’s difficult not to notice the slight changes in mood and schedule. Showering more often. Working longer hours. Volunteering to do laundry. I knew what it all meant, but I didn’t know who he was having an affair with. Not until Rory’s RA called me on December 4, 2008, to tell me Hallie was dead and Rory was gone.
I enter the lobby of the high-rise building, which is conveniently near the courthouse downtown. The hefty gentleman manning the front desk looks more like a bodyguard than a concierge. He’s quite polite when he asks me to sign in before heading up to the sixth floor.
The moment I step inside the elevator, my heart pounds wildly. The way it did when James first smiled at me during our first class together at the University of Oregon. He was taking the Classics course to fulfill a general education requirement. I was there to soak in every word my professor spoke about Proust and Dostoyevsky. But he was such a distraction, the clean-cut boy with the dark hair and a smile that could light up the universe. And, oh, could he carry on a conversation.
He’d graduated from high school a year early, which meant I was a year older than him when we met. He was at UO on a full scholarship, though he refused to tell me his major, until I figured it out on our third date. As we sipped Coca-Colas and ate greasy cheeseburgers at a seedy diner in Eugene, James refused to back away from his position on the deindustrialization of the American workforce. He insisted it was good for America to move toward a more service-based economy, while I argued passionately for keeping manufacturing jobs in America. It was then that I guessed correctly he was going to be a lawyer. And a damn good one.
After twenty-eight years and countless disappointments, you’d think I wouldn’t give the slightest damn what my hair or makeup looks like on a day like today. Quite the contrary, I find myself utilizing the shiny steel elevator doors as a mirror to adjust a stray piece of silver hair on the left side of my head.
God help me. I’m a worse cliché than my philandering ex-husband.
The elevator dings as the doors slide open and I’m immediately hit with the strong scent of leather and kefir lime. The scent is like a knife twist in my gut. It’s exactly what James’s home office smelled like. Now that I know what happened in that office, it makes me sick to my stomach. The scent also reminds me of why I’m here, renewing my anger and determination. I almost feel like taking that piece of silver hair and pulling it out of place as an act of defiance.
Almost.
The receptionist is young, as expected. Her blonde hair is pulled into a neat updo and her blazer fits well, though she seems to have missed a spot with her lint brush this morning. Maybe she has a young child who was screaming to be fed while she was trying to get dressed.
“May I help you?” she says, her voice smooth and congenial.
“I’m here to see James Charles,” I reply.
“Do you have an appointment?”
I smile, though I try not to look too smug. “I don’t think that’s necessary. I’m the ex-Mrs. Charles. I’m here about our daughter.” I place my hand on the chest-high desk and lean forward as she reaches for her phone. “And, dear, I’d appreciate it if you’d not tell him I’m here.”
She flashes me a tight smile. “Of course.” She points behind her with her thumb. “Just behind this wall, you’ll see a couple of paralegals and two hallways. Take the one on the left all the way down to the end. If he’s not in his office, you can just come back here and I’ll try to find him.”
“Thank you… I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
She smiles as she reaches her hand toward me. “Hailey.”
I swallow hard as I take her hand and give it a light shake. “Nice to meet you, Hailey.”
I take a few slow, deliberate breaths as I make my way around the wall bearing the firm’s name, Talbert, Charles, and Associates, in large silver letters. I find two paralegals, just as Hailey said I would. A young man in a dark-gray suit nods at me and I attempt a smile. My skin must look as translu
cent as my resolve because he instantly stands from his desk.
“Ma’am, are you all right?”
I nod adamantly. “Yes, yes. I’m fine. Take a seat, young man.”
He cocks an eyebrow as I head toward the corridor on the left. He probably hasn’t been called a young man or told to take a seat since high school, and he’s clearly in his late twenties or early thirties. Still a young man to me. He could be one of my old students from my days teaching high school English. Age seems inconsequential in this situation, but I suppose the number of years a person has lived—or not lived—is the reason I’m here.
If Hallie were thirty-five when she’d had an affair with James, she probably would have shouldered more of the blame. As it was, she was a child. A child pretending to be a woman to seduce a man.
I don’t blame Hallie for the affair. Quite the contrary, I actually thank her for exposing a gaping crack in the foundation of my marriage. I’m also a realist.
I don’t think James would have pursued her had Hallie not pursued him first. I’m not saying he wouldn’t have strayed. All signs pointed to James’s discontent, not just with the marriage, but also with himself. If Hallie had never pursued James, he almost certainly would have betrayed our marriage vows in some other fashion. And if he had not given in to the feminine wiles of a confused eighteen-year-old girl, Hallie might still be alive today. It takes two.
Yet, only one person survived this affair, and it’s time for him to repent.
When I reach the end of the corridor, James’s office door is open. I can hear him before I see him. I try not to recall my past with James often, but it’s hard not to when it comes to his voice. James has the kind of voice that sets a person at ease and commands attention all at once, the clear, resonant timbre carefully layered over a soft grittiness. It used to be one of my favorite things about him, watching him argue a case in that voice.
I approach the doorway slowly and find him leaning back in his chair, his phone pressed to his ear as he talks to someone about filing a habeas corpus petition.
“If they didn’t Mirandize him or allow him to see his lawyer, then he wasn’t officially under arrest. File the habeas and I’ll accompany you to the hearing tomorrow…” He finally looks up to see who’s standing in his doorway and his mouth drops. “Uh… I’ll have to call you back.”
He sets the handset down on the receiver and blinks a few times as if he can’t believe his eyes. “Patricia.”
“James.” We stare at each other for a moment before I continue. “Can I come in?”
He stands up quickly. “Yes, of course. Come in,” he says, waving me in as he rounds the desk to close the door behind me. “It’s good to see you.”
I roll my eyes as I watch him head back to his chair. “No, it’s not. I’m probably the last person you want to see here.”
“That’s not true. I’ve been hoping to speak to you about Rory, but I’ve been swamped with death-row cases and—”
I hold up my hand to stop him. “Please don’t patronize me with lackluster excuses, James. I’m not here to chastise you for being a substandard father for the past six years. I’m here to make you an offer.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “I guess there’s no need for niceties.” He shakes his head as he takes a seat and waves at one of the visitor chairs for me to follow suit. “What are you offering me today, Patricia? A one-way ticket to hell? A free grammar critique of my latest brief?”
I smile as I take a seat across from him. “That’s the James I used to know and love.”
He shrugs. “Well, you created him, didn’t you?”
I sigh as I attempt to take this insult in stride, but he still has the power to eviscerate me with such precision. “Yes, we molded each other into the people we are today. The difference between you and me is that I can acknowledge you made me a better person than I was before you.”
His eyes widen at this response. “I’m… I’m sorry. I can’t help but feel a bit defensive. But you’re right. You’re a better person today. A much better person than I am, that’s for sure.”
“No. I will not allow you to hide behind self-pity or self-deprecation. That is not an excuse to continue being a bad father.”
His gaze is fierce and unwavering as he considers my words.
“You’re a good father, James, under all those layers of guilt and self-righteousness and misdirected anger. And that’s why I’m here, to give you a chance to shed the nonsense and do the right thing for your daughter. She needs you now more than ever.”
His gaze falls to the top of the desk where his left hand rests, the hand that used to bear his wedding ring. I can’t help but notice the tan line and ridges we once thought would be permanent have faded.
“I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but I haven’t forgiven myself.” He looks up, his eyes glistening with unspent tears. “How can I expect absolution from Rory if I don’t think I deserve it?”
“Simple,” I reply. “You give mercy in order to get it. Take mercy on Rory and stop withholding your love, and she will have mercy on you.”
January 17, 2015
Skippy’s body twitches and the sound of his tags jangling on his collar wakes me. I glance at the alarm clock on the hotel nightstand and sigh. It’s just past eight in the morning. I’ve slept a whole ninety minutes.
I tighten my hold on Skippy’s stout Labrador body and he whines. Then he turns to me and begins loudly licking my face. He needs to go potty. He’s spent the past five hours locked in my arms as I soaked his black fur with tears and snot. And he still loves me enough to kiss me when his bladder is ready to burst.
More tears come as I realize how I came so close to losing Skippy just five months ago, before he was diagnosed as diabetic. It would have been the second time I’d lost a best friend. And by some odd twist of fate, Houston was there with me when Skippy almost died. I hadn’t seen Houston in five years, and yet there he was, suddenly and unexpectedly.
He was there when Hallie died and he was there when Skippy almost died. And now, he was there when Liam died. If I didn’t know better, I’d wonder if maybe Houston is my unlucky charm. An omen.
“I’ll take them out.” Houston’s voice is clear, not an ounce of grogginess, as if he’s been awake for a while.
I look down at Skippy and his chin is resting on my pillow next to my shoulder, waiting patiently for me to let him out. Then I look at Sparky, Liam’s shepherd mix, lying on the chaise in the corner of the bedroom in our master suite at the Four Seasons hotel.
“I can take them out,” I reply, without turning around to look at Houston.
Houston slides out of bed before I can even pry my arms out from underneath Skippy’s seventy-pound body. The sound of Houston’s feet on the hotel carpet prompts Skippy to leap down. Sparky jumps off the chaise and begins stretching his hind legs. I watch silently from the bed as Houston pulls on the same shirt and jeans he was wearing last night. He hooks the dogs’ leashes on their collars and casts one indecipherable glance in my direction before he leaves.
I consider pulling the covers over my head and going back to sleep, but I know better than that. Sleep will not come easy today.
When Hallie died, I slept for hours. After Houston and I had sex for the first time later that night, I slept another twelve hours. The day of her funeral, I fell asleep at seven p.m. My mind seemed unable to cope with reality then. Now, I feel as if I can’t escape reality.
My mind refuses to shut down. As if Liam’s ghost is somewhere near me, haunting me, whispering in a voice I can’t hear, but nonetheless refuses to let me rest.
This is your fault.
I drag myself out of bed and the same force that weighed me down after Hallie died propels me toward the bathroom. I turn on the hot water and undress, then I sit down on the marble floor of the shower and wait.
I don’t know what I’m waiting for. A plane to crash into our hotel. A moment of clarity where all of this suddenly makes sense. Housto
n to find me and save me, again.
A moment after this thought crosses my mind, Houston enters the bathroom. I want to look up at him and see that beautiful face. Look into his fierce blue eyes and see the strength I know I need. But I don’t want him to see me like this, grieving over the man I left him for.
He stands there a moment longer, but when I don’t look up he leaves without saying anything. He probably doesn’t know what to say. He can’t say, I know how you feel. And he probably doesn’t even care that Liam is dead. Why should he? Almost all he’s ever seen of Liam were his worst traits: the jealousy and anger and duplicity.
He didn’t know that Liam was a good person with a good heart, and the worst taste in music. He never saw Liam fall asleep on the sofa with Sparky in the middle of the day. He never heard Liam talk about his older sister as if she were his idol. He never caught Liam taking selfies in a Santa suit.
I wash up quickly in the shower and put on the clean outfit I brought with me when we went to pick up Sparky at three in the morning from the house Liam and I shared for the past month and a half, until yesterday. I open the bathroom door and Houston is sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs as both dogs lie at his feet.
He looks up as I come out of the bathroom and manages a weak smile. “How are you feeling?”
I sniff loudly and let out a deep sigh. “Never better.”
“Don’t do that, Rory,” he says, beating me to the doorway before I can leave the bedroom. “Don’t shut me out.”
I stare at his chest and wonder what’s going on inside there. Does his heart ache even a tiny fraction as much as mine does right now? Does he feel even the slightest bit of remorse for what happened last night?
I swipe my hands down my face then wipe the moisture on the front of my jeans. “I can’t. I can’t talk to you about him. It’s just… It’s not right. I’m sorry.”