by JM Stewart
Becca checked on her for him, though, so he knew she was okay, physically at least. Unfortunately, his sister also told him Ceci wouldn’t talk about anything outside of polite conversation. It killed him to think about what she was going through and that he couldn’t be there for her.
He rolled onto his back and flung his arm over his eyes. Watching her read the article had been the hardest moment of his life. Regret had twisted in his gut then and did so again now. It shouldn’t have come to that. His decision to keep the truth from her only succeeded in leaving her hurt and confused.
He’d screwed up, plain and simple. He’d once again let his emotions rule his head, something it seemed he had no control over when it came to her. He dragged his hands through his hair, the need firing through him, knotting every muscle. With a muttered curse, he gave in to the desire and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He didn’t care what time it was or if she might be sleeping. For nine days he’d given her space. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He had to see for himself that she was okay. She’d probably slam the door in his face, but at least he’d know.
His cell phone rang, the jingle jarring him from his reverie. Unable to stop his heart from pounding with hope, he snatched it off the nightstand before it could ring a second time. “Morgan.”
“I need you.”
Ceci’s voice drifted across the line small and meek and trembling. He froze, his senses on high alert. She didn’t call him in the middle of the night unless something was wrong, which sent his mind spinning in directions he didn’t want to think about.
“Are you okay?” He spoke with as much calmness as he could muster. Before he could draw his next breath, he moved around the end of the bed and strode toward the closet in search of pants.
“Just come over.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes.”
He hung up his phone and reached into his closet, pulling out the first thing his fingers found. Turned out to be a pair of old sweats. After pulling them on, he shoved his feet into his sneakers, managing to get himself out the door in under a minute. As he pulled into her driveway and around to the back of the house a few minutes later, he scanned the perimeter. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Save a single light shining on the second floor, her house was dark, like the rest of the houses in the area. The yard sat in shadow as well, quiet and serene. The extent of her fear most likely came from memories. At least she’d called. Even then, he couldn’t help but wonder. Considering how upset she’d been when she left his apartment, how bad off did she have to get before her resolve broke?
He exited his car and trotted up the back porch steps but didn’t get the chance to knock. He barely lifted his hand before the door flew open. Ceci stood within the darkness of the foyer, quiet and still. In black leggings and a long white T-shirt that glowed bright against the darkness, she fidgeted, as if she could barely stand still. She kept shifting from one foot to the other, one minute twisting her hands, the next clasping them tightly. She reminded him of a frightened rabbit who hadn’t yet decided to run from the danger.
A slew of overwhelming emotions filled his chest. Relief flooded him first. Physically, she looked okay. The need to hold her grabbed him next, along with a healthy dash of good old-fashioned joy at being able to stand in the same space with her. “Are you okay?”
Tears shimmered at the corners of her eyes, and she shook her head. “I feel like I’m coming out of my skin.”
“What can I do?”
That was all the invitation she needed apparently, for a breath later, she stepped across the threshold and threw her arms around his neck. Her body trembled against his, and she didn’t just embrace him. She clung to him.
The worry that had had him exceeding the speed limit to get there hit him full force, and his arms closed around her, tightening to hold her as close as possible. She buried her face in his neck, her slender body like a second skin. He waited, holding her, until her shaking began to subside; then he loosened his hold enough to sweep her into his arms and carried her inside. After kicking the door shut behind him, he headed down the hallway into the living room. He took a seat on the sofa, depositing her on his lap. She let go, but only long enough to wrap her arms around his waist; then she buried her face in his throat again.
“Ceci, you’re scaring me, honey.” He stroked her hair and caressed her back, attempting to soothe her. “You want to tell me what happened?”
She was silent for a moment before lifting her head. Their gazes met, and, for the first time in nine long days, that familiar connection pulsed between them. Not as strong as it had been two weeks ago, but still there. To see it in her eyes gave him hope.
“I’m sorry.” She gave a slow shake of her head, her gaze full of misery. “I couldn’t stand it anymore. Being with you makes me feel safe.”
“It’s okay. I’m here.” He cupped her cheek in his palm, a vain attempt to keep her focused on him and not the hurt screaming at him from the depths of her eyes. “Tell me what happened.”
“I remember.” She released the words on a harsh whisper, a shudder sweeping through her. “I’ve been remembering all week.” She laid her head on his shoulder and reclaimed her hold on his waist. “Mostly little things.”
He didn’t need to ask what. Guilt seized his chest.
“God, I’m sorry.” He hugged her to him, squeezing tight for a moment. If it were possible to take someone else’s pain, he’d gladly take hers. That look on her face ripped his guts out. It shouldn’t be like that for her. “I never wanted to be the one to bring that back for you. Want to talk about it?”
Her warm breath blew softly against his neck every time she exhaled, providing a distracting but welcome sensation. He hadn’t been able to be there for her when she needed him most, and he hated himself for it.
“I found a key hidden in the jewelry box on Gran’s dresser. Turns out it went to this little cubbyhole in the attic. I’d seen it before. It looks like a kitchen cabinet, but she always kept it locked, and I’ve always been afraid to go up there. I wasn’t even sure what I’d find in there or that the key would even fit, but that drawer you keep your gun locked inside made me curious. Turned out, I was right. Inside was all this stuff, things I’d never seen before. Each one brought a different memory. There was a backpack with my name on it and a doll with big blue eyes, a jewelry box, and a letter from Gran. Turned out the backpack was full of schoolwork and a newspaper, from the day that article was printed.”
She pulled back, extracted a necklace from under the collar of her T-shirt, and held it out so he could see. Three silver stars hung on a simple gold chain. Beautiful in a simple sort of way, a lot like the woman who wore it.
“I found this inside Gran’s jewelry box.” Her eyes closed again, and she clutched the necklace in her fist, as if the memory played through her mind. “It makes me remember the sound of my mother’s voice. Soft and lilting. I didn’t remember at first, but after I found all the stuff, it began coming back, little by little. I remember the day my mother gave this to me. She told me I’d always have a piece of her with me, that all I had to do was look up at the stars and know she was there.”
When she opened her eyes, she stared almost through him, as if searching for something. A breath later, she averted her attention to the space between them, her fingers tracing one of the letters on the front of his T-shirt.
“She used to sing to me at night when she tucked me into bed. ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.’” The corners of her mouth twitched with the barest of smiles. “And we had a cat named Fluffy, a big, gray hairball. I even remember I liked to climb trees and she always used to tell me not to.”
The image formed in his mind, and he couldn’t stop the low laugh that escaped. “Doesn’t surprise me a bit. Half my memories are of you up in some tree.”
She lifted her head, a half smile easing across her mouth. “Like you weren’t up there with me. Climbing up in those high branches and scaring the life
out of me.”
“If I remember correctly”—he playfully narrowed his eyes—“you were the one who dared me to do it.”
Her breathy laugh echoed through the quiet of the house but faded as quickly as it came. Her smile melted away. Confusion and a dash of pain flashed across the depths of her eyes. She sat staring at her lap for a moment before resting her head on his shoulder again. “It’s a bit fuzzy, though. I can’t really see anything so much as I know it’s there. I can feel it, like an instinct. Things kind of . . . pop out of nowhere.”
He made a sound of acknowledgment at the back of his throat. “According to the psychologist I spoke with, that’s normal. It’ll come back in bits and pieces. You may not recover all of it. Plus, you were pretty young. I don’t remember everything that happened when I was five or six.”
Her head rocked against his shoulder, but silence fell over her. The stiller and quieter she became, the more her body tensed. “I remembered everything about that night. Everything. I was in Gran’s room this morning, searching through the papers I found in the backpack, and it hit me, like a flood. I remember someone bursting into our house and men shouting. The fear in my mother’s voice when she dragged me out of bed and told me to go hide. She was shaking. The fear in her eyes makes my blood run cold. She was terrified, Kyle.”
The deep, shuddering breath she drew in then seemed to reverberate through her, and he knew on instinct the grisly, ghostly images played in her mind. The thought of her remembering something so ugly and the havoc it must be wreaking within her twisted like a knife in his gut. In an effort to soothe, he gently stroked her back.
“My father had a hidden panel in the wall, behind this big picture. It was really hard to get in there, and my muscles ached after a while. My parents used to tell me over and over if bad men ever came, I was to go hide and not come out until either they or Detective Morrison came to get me.”
Kyle squeezed his eyes shut against the pain that seized in his chest. She needed to get this out, but every word shredded his insides. By telling her, he’d invariably brought these ugly memories. No matter how much he now knew she deserved the truth, he hated himself for it.
“I’m sorry you had to go through this alone.” He caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers, unable to resist touching her. “I should’ve been here for you. I wanted to be; I hope you know that.”
She didn’t say anything. In fact, she went eerily still, and the need to ask the question that had been on his mind this last week gripped him. He couldn’t push. Instead, he sat in the darkness and waited. He was here now. That was what counted. The tiny silence filled with the sounds of the night. Crickets chirping, frogs croaking. The grandmother clock on the fireplace mantle chimed the half hour.
He reached up and stroked her cheek. “How are you doing, dealing with these memories?”
“I’m . . . dealing with them. It’s not easy. The nightmares have increased, and I find myself afraid of my own shadow. Every little sound makes me jump.”
“That’s normal, if it helps at all. It’s the PTSD, just stuff coming up. I know you’re angry with me right now, but I’m always here. So is everybody else. You’re not as alone as you likely feel.”
Again, she didn’t say anything. Instead, her head rocked on his shoulder, her fingers picking at nonexistent fuzz balls on her pants. “You were right, you know.”
The deliberate change in subject made his chest ache. Would they ever get back what they’d had? Nevertheless, he went with the flow. The last thing she needed right now was him pressuring her. This wasn’t about him. “About what?”
“My trust fund.” She lifted her head, searching his eyes, confusion in the depths of hers. “There’s a couple million dollars in there. What am I going to do with all of that? I have no need for that kind of money. It’s not who I am, not who Gran raised me to be.”
The hidden meaning in her words spoke to him. She still had trouble assimilating everything.
“You do what you want with it.” He shrugged a shoulder, gently stroking her cheek. “It doesn’t change who you are.”
“What if I don’t know who I am?” Confusion filled her eyes, her voice wobbling.
“I do.” He picked up her hand and gently threaded their fingers. “You’ll always be my Ceci.”
Tenderness flashed in her eyes, and, for a split second, their bond shined between them. He released her hand, unable to resist reaching up to stroke her cheek or letting his thumb graze her lower lip. A shiver ran through her, and the need to lean in and taste those lips seized him, to regain the closeness they’d lost. Although he was damn lucky simply to be here with her, the almost intimate moment brought back those questions. This time, his aching heart demanded answers.
He took her hand again, stroking his thumb across her soft knuckles. “Does this mean you’ve forgiven me?”
In the span of a breath, tension rose like a barrier between them. Her spine stiffened. She remained silent for so long he wasn’t sure she’d answer. Or that he should’ve asked. He was pushing.
“I’ve been asking myself the same question. How could I ask you to come over when my emotions are still tangled?” She laid her head on his shoulder, her forehead resting against his neck, and slipped her arm around his middle. “All I knew was that I needed you. I didn’t want to be alone tonight, and you were the only one I wanted to be with.”
“That’s okay. I’m just glad you called. I’ve been worried sick about you. And I missed you.” He rested his cheek against the top of her head and tightened his hold on her, relishing the small intimacy she bestowed on him. She hadn’t given him the answer he’d hoped for, hadn’t told him everything would be all right between them, but it was a step in the right direction.
***
Cecelia woke the next morning alone in her bedroom. Beyond the window lining the wall behind her, rain pitter-patted against the side of the house, the dismal day filling the room with muted light, adding shadows, despite the clock telling her it was after eight. After their conversation, Kyle had taken her up to bed and wrapped himself around her. They hadn’t talked anymore once he brought her up here. She’d fallen asleep in his arms, luxuriating in the safety his presence gave her.
She turned her head but knew what she’d find even before her gaze connected with the other side of the bed. Though the indented pillow proved last night hadn’t been another figment of her imagination, the bed beside her lay empty, and the house was silent. Doubt flooded her chest, bringing with it a touch of disappointment. He wouldn’t have left, would he?
She pulled herself upright and got out of bed. After a visit to the bathroom, she headed for the stairs. As she reached the landing at the top, signs of life drifted from downstairs—the telltale creaks and groans of someone walking over old, weathered floorboards and the sucking noise her refrigerator door made when it closed. So, Kyle hadn’t left.
The sounds sent a confusing array of emotions pounding through her. The thought of seeing him this morning, of simply being in the same house with him, had her heart hammering a giddy beat. Warmth bloomed in her stomach. Nine days was a long time to go without him. Falling asleep in his arms last night had been . . . bliss. It had been a peaceful night’s sleep. No more nightmares had come after that, because in his arms, she was always safe.
Except she had yet to make a decision about their relationship. He’d no doubt have questions she didn’t know how to answer. Over the last week she must have gone through every emotion known to man. She grieved for the life she’d lost. Raged about being kept in the dark all this time. Cried in confusion and even out of sheer loneliness sometimes. The tears came at the drop of a hat, along with the overwhelming fear. The house only seemed to make it worse, echoing around her, empty and cold.
She’d gone through a million questions as well. Would her life have been the same if her parents had lived? Would she have even met Kyle? Should she still be angry with him? Did she even want to forgive him? Could she?
Needing to see for herself that she hadn’t imagined last night, she trotted down the stairs, coming to a stop in the kitchen entrance. Across the room, in front of the stove, wearing a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, Kyle cracked eggs into a bowl. A small frying pan heated on the front burner to the left.
Seeming to sense her presence, he turned his head. Surprise lighted momentarily in his eyes, and then he drew his brows together. “You’re not supposed to be awake yet.”
Drawn to him, by the giddiness bubbling inside her, she moved farther into the room. “What’re you doing?”
“Making you breakfast.” One corner of his mouth curled. “I’m afraid you’ve ruined the surprise.”
She cocked her head to the side as his words slid home. “You were going to bring me breakfast in bed?”
“I was.” He grabbed a wire whisk off the counter, picked up the bowl, and beat the eggs. He poured the contents into the skillet, the mixture sizzling in the heated pan. The delicious scent of warm butter and cooking eggs made her mouth water and her stomach rumble. As he pulled a spatula through the eggs, he darted a glance at her. “I thought you could use a little pampering this morning.”
Tenderness shined in his eyes, his voice every bit as gentle.