by RC Boldt
Turning back toward his desk, Miller stared at the computer screen. Fingers suddenly flying over the keys, rapidly entering information, he saved the documentation before printing it out for Foster.
He needed to see Tate, needed to check on her and make sure she was okay, wanted to be there for her if she needed him.
And hell if there wasn’t a huge part of him that hoped she would let him.
Tate,
I don’t even know why I’m writing this. Pretty fucking stupid. It’s not like I’ll ever actually mail it off. You’ve made it clear where you stand.
Right now we’re camping out, dealing with some dumbasses who just set off some roadside bombs and took out a convoy of a bunch of marines.
I’m not gonna lie. There are times when I can’t sleep and I think about you. Wonder where you’re at, what you’re up to.
I know I shouldn’t have weak moments like this. I shouldn’t wonder why things happened the way they did.
I shouldn’t still fucking love you.
M.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
TATE GAVE A WISTFUL SMILE as she entered her house from the back porch leading out to the beach. The delicious aroma of food bombarded her senses and she knew that everyone had continued the tradition they had begun years before.
It still amazed her how they all had, somehow, known something was up the first year she had moved there, after she had become friends with Laney and Raine. She had quickly added Zach and Lawson to the mix, along with Foster, of course.
And every year, when this time rolled around, she’d come in from the beach to find her refrigerator stocked with food. Whether it was something from Momma K.’s kitchen, Raine’s famous apple pie, or Lawson’s contribution of her favorite sushi rolls from the best sushi restaurant in Fernandina Beach, her friends mysteriously dropped off food, obviously using a copy of the spare keys she had given to Laney and Raine in case she ever locked herself out of her house. The gesture was so endearing, her friends recognizing she was going through a tough time without her uttering a word.
Perusing the contents of her refrigerator, trying to decide what she was going to eat for her dinner, she heard a knock on her front door. Maybe it was one of them, dropping yet another dish off to her. She waited a moment, expecting to hear the key turn in the lock. But when she heard the knock again, Tate closed the refrigerator and padded over to the front door.
Hesitantly, she unlocked the door, opening it to see who was standing on her doorstep. And her breath caught in her chest at the sight of Miller Vaughn. God, no, she protested inwardly. She wasn’t feeling up to facing one of the individuals who had contributed to part of her heartache and devastation years ago on this particular day.
His dark blue eyes watched her carefully, as if gauging her expression. “I wanted to stop by, and … uh,” he ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it a bit before continuing with, “bring you this.”
Her eyes flew to his other hand, which held up a large container of chocolate peanut butter ice cream. Her favorite flavor.
Miller Vaughn still remembered her favorite flavor of ice cream. After all these years.
Her eyes met his and she swore there was a hint of uncertainty mixed with concern within them.
Face beginning to crumble, she whispered, “You remember?”
And then she promptly burst into tears.
* * *
Well, shit. He’d thought the ice cream would help. He certainly hadn’t expected it to make her cry. Shit, shit, shit. He was so far out of his comfort zone right now.
Hurriedly stepping inside, he set the ice cream down on the entryway table, kicking the door shut with his foot while simultaneously pulling Tate into his arms. Because this wasn’t just crying—these were gut-wrenching sobs coming from her. The kind of sobs that held so much pain it made your chest tighten, made it nearly impossible to breath.
“Shhhh, I’ve got you, T,” he attempted to soothe her. Instead, his words seemed to bring on more of the same painful sobbing, her entire body shaking as they ripped through her. He quickly bent to slide an arm beneath her legs, swinging her up into arms, cradling her body to his. Walking over to her couch, he sat with her, rubbing one hand up and down her back while his other hand smoothed over her soft, blonde hair. Her words, the expression on her face at the door were on a loop in his brain.
“You remember?” Yeah, he remembered. He remembered everything pertaining to Tate Elaine Donnelly.
Miller wasn’t sure how much time passed before Tate’s sobs finally began to subside. His shirt front was soaked and he was pretty sure it wasn’t all just tears, but he didn’t care. Instead, he desperately wanted to know what was causing her to be so grief-stricken. Because every single one of her anguished cries tore him to shreds, making him feel helpless at not knowing how to make her pain go away. Yet, a part of him didn’t want to break the silence, didn’t want to break the moment of being able to hold her tight to him without anyone or anything else intruding upon them.
“Sorry,” she mumbled softly against his chest. He had to strain to hear her, her voice was so soft. “I seem to keep doing this to you.” Tate’s laugh lacked humor.
He pressed his nose to her hair, closing his eyes as he inhaled her trademark mango scent. He didn’t respond, didn’t voice all the questions running through his mind, afraid to say something to break the moment. Miller simply wanted to hold her a while longer. Because if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that this was how it might be if they were still together. If nothing had thrown them off track all those years ago. That he would be the one who always comforted her.
“You’re probably wondering what the hell my problem is, huh?” Miller could hear a trace of self-deprecation in her tone.
He shook his head before realizing she couldn’t see him, her face still pressed snug against his chest. “I’m not prying, T.” But I’m really damn curious.
There was a beat of silence before she spoke, the tiny, vulnerable quality of her voice making him uneasy. He had no way of knowing just how much she’d rock his world with her explanation.
“My parents died … were killed on November twelfth.”
He felt himself go still, as though time paused. Because of all the things Tate could have said, that was the ultimate last thing he would have predicted. His head fell back against the couch, eyes falling shut.
Laurel and Blake Donnelly had been the epitome of the doting, supportive parents. They had struggled to conceive and had referred to their daughter as their very own miracle. The three were an extremely close-knit bunch, so much so that he had often envied their relationship. It had contrasted greatly with his mother, who had continuously attempted to run his life, and his father, whose career had taken precedence over his own family.
“Tate,” was all he managed to say, his own voice sounding guttural. There were no words to describe how upset, saddened he was by this revelation.
It came back to him then, a flash of remembrance of her words from the night that their fragile truce had been established. The way she had spoken of her friends.
“They’re my family, Miller. They’re all I’ve got.”
Shit. She had meant it in the most literal sense.
“Baby, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I … had no clue.” The words felt like they were sticking in his throat.
Her shoulders moved slightly in a shrug. “Why would you? You stopped responding to my letters a little while before that.”
What? It was like the record needle skipped and dragged across it, the sound echoing in his mind. What the hell was she talking about? His entire body went still, stiffening. Because he sure as shit hadn’t been the one to drop off the face of the earth back then. There was no way in hell she was pinning that on him.
But, just as his lips parted to speak, Tate spoke again. “I didn’t say that to make you feel bad. It’s in the past. I know that. It just sucked to go to your house and have your mom be the one to tell me that
you didn’t want anything to do with me. And then, minutes later, driving down the road to find my parents dead.”
Miller’s mind was reeling, Tate’s words washing over him, trying to digest everything. She had gone to see his mother? His mother had told her that he hadn’t wanted to be with her? He just couldn’t wrap his mind around it—couldn’t believe his mother would ever say that. She, of all people, had known how much he had loved Tate. That he had planned on spending the rest of his life with her. Sure, she had been the typical protective mother, not wanting her son to settle down too early, but she would never have done something like that.
“Mom would never do that, Tate.” He shook his head dismissively. “You must have misunderstood her.” He looked down at the top of her head, adding softly, “And I never got any letters from you. Not one, the entire time I was gone.”
Tate abruptly reared back from him, stumbling in her haste to move from his lap. Staring back at him, her words were laden with hurt and disbelief. “You think I’m lying?”
Before he could form an answer, she threw her hands up in the air in exasperation before storming down the hallway toward her bedroom. “He thinks I’m lying to him. What. The. Hell?”
Miller remained on the couch, staring down the now empty hallway where Tate had disappeared. Within moments, she returned to the living room, holding a large, rectangular box that had most definitely seen better days. And it was burgeoning with … envelopes?
Tate stomped over to him, barely keeping her hold on the box that appeared as if it would give way at any moment, spilling its contents all over the hardwood floor. Her light blue eyes were filled with fury, cheeks flushed, and his breath caught in his chest because … well, even angry as hell, she was breathtaking.
“Get up.” The commanding nature of her words had him quickly standing. Tate practically shoved the large box at him, his hands automatically grasping at it. She backed away and pointed to the front door.
“You need to leave. Now.”
“But—”
“Now.” Her tone was clear; it was not up for negotiation.
Giving her a curt nod, he walked out of her house, hoping the box wouldn’t decide to give out anytime soon, and made his way to the Jeep.
He had no way of knowing that the contents in that box would be the equivalent to a complete and utter mind-fuck.
Or that it would be just the beginning.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
OF COURSE, THE RINGING OF his cell phone came at the worst possible time. It had begun to ring just as he’d been walking up the stairs to his house, carrying that damn, awkwardly large box in his arms, silently praying it would make it through the door before the sides gave way.
“Fuck me,” Miller grunted to himself as he unlocked the door and entered, rushing to set the box on the dining room table before reaching into the pocket of his khakis for his phone.
Glancing down at the caller ID, he saw that it was his mother and quickly answered. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hey, honey.” The hairs on the back of Miller’s neck stood up, prickles running down his spine. Because, although his mother had only spoke two words, he knew well enough that something was wrong from her tone alone.
Something was terribly wrong.
“What’s wrong?”
She let out a little sigh before responding. “Miller, honey, I’m actually in town. I wanted to see you.” After a brief pause, she added, “If that’s okay, of course.”
His entire body froze. His mother was here? In Florida? And without any notice, she’d just hopped on a plane from Ohio? On a whim?
Uh-uh. Nope. Not a chance.
“Mom. What’s going on?”
“Can you, uh, pick me up from the airport?”
Wearily running a hand over his face, rubbing the bit of scruff that had begun to form, he asked, “Which airline? I’ll jump in the car and come pick you up. With traffic, it might take me about thirty minutes.”
“Southwest. Take your time and be careful, honey.”
Miller picked up his keys, Tate’s box sitting on the table, long forgotten, and rushed out of the house to head to the airport.
* * *
“I can’t wait to meet this roommate of yours. Kane, right?”
It was killing Miller to keep up this casual conversation with his mother. However, he figured she wanted to wait until they got back to his place before diving into the real reason for her impromptu visit.
“Yep.”
“He sounds like a nice young man.”
His eyebrows rose. “There’s a good chance you might change your opinion after you meet him.”
He pulled the Jeep into the driveway, where he noticed Kane’s truck was parked. “Looks like he’s home so you’re in luck.”
“Wonderful.” His mother clasped her hands together excitedly. Miller glanced over at her, not missing the weight she had lost, had noted the dark circles beneath her eyes before she’d quickly covered them with her sunglasses.
Something definitely wasn’t right.
Parking and turning off the ignition, he exited the Jeep and headed to the back to remove her suitcase and carry-on, not wanting his now frail-looking mother to be carrying any of it. He looped the strap of her carry-on over his shoulder and grasped the handle of her suitcase in one hand as his other grasped her arm, gently guiding her up the stairs.
“Oh, Vaughn, Vaughn, Vaughn. You’ve got some ’splaining to do,” a voice called out as they entered through the front door. “What the fuck were you thinking to send all these ba—”
Kane stopped abruptly, noticing Miller wasn’t alone. He flashed them an apologetic smile, rising from his seat at the dining room table, coming over to them.
“Ma’am, I truly apologize for my language when you entered. I thought Vaughn was all by his lonesome.”
Miller rolled his eyes at the southern charm Kane was pouring on. His friend took his mother’s hand in his own, pressing a kiss to the top. “I’m Kane Windham. I like long walks on the beach, barbeques, music, and lovely women with gorgeous dark hair and blue eyes.”
Miller watched, disgusted, as his mother blushed and giggled—giggled, damn it—before he snatched her hand from Kane’s grasp. “That’s enough, Romeo.”
“Well, if you need me, I’ll be over in the kitchen making my famous brownies for this gorgeous guest we have in our home.” Kane started for the kitchen and Miller groaned as he recalled what he had promised.
“Hey, man. Do you think you could make another batch?” Please don’t ask why. Please, don’t fucking ask me why.
His friend eyed him curiously. “Why?”
Fuuuuck. Rolling his lips, he tried to think of how to phrase his answer to not come off like the biggest pussy in the world. And promptly came up with … nothing.
He tried for nonchalance. “I, uh, need to give them to Noelle.”
“Oh?” A mixture of amusement and curiosity lit Kane’s eyes. “And why do you need to give Noelle my brownies?”
Knowing he was failing miserably at casual nonchalance, he decided to pull a page from his childhood—throwing words together rapidly in hopes that they wouldn’t register with the other person.
“BecauseIhadtobargainwithNoelleforinfoaboutTate.”
He watched as Kane stood there, slowly crossing his arms over his chest, leaning against the wall, lips pressed together in a barely contained smile.
“Oh, really?”
“Did you just say ‘Tate’?” He and Kane both turned at his mother’s question. Noticing her pallor, he was about to answer but Kane beat him to it.
“Yes, ma’am. Tate Donnelly.” Kane, eyes not missing anything, appeared to pick up on the fact that the name had importance. He focused on Miller’s mother, tipping his head toward Miller. “This guy here, apparently, returned all of the poor girl’s letters she sent him back in the day.” His friend’s eyes found his. “Dude, that’s some heartless sh— Stuff.”
“What are you talking about
?”
Kane gestured to the dining room table, to the box still lying there but now with the lid off, rubberbanded stacks of envelopes spilling out of it onto the mahogany surface. “I’m talking about those. Poor girl poured her heart out to you and you returned her letters, unopened. And I’ve only read one from the earlier dates and one of the last letters she sent.” He shook his head. “Hell, it even managed to make me sniffle a little.”
Turning around to the dining room table, Miller walked closer, picking one of the bundles of envelopes. It was postmarked from the month and year he had left to join the Navy, a glaring, red “Return to Sender” stamped across it. Shell-shocked, he stood there, eyes darting from one stack of letters to another, to another, to yet … another. Frantically, he pawed through the stacks, checking the postmarked dates until his hands landed on the final bundle. This one was considerably thinner than the rest.
It contained the last letters Tate had attempted to send him. She had started sending them the August he had shipped out and she had kept at it until June of the following year. Nearly a year’s worth of letters, of her words, were lying there on that table.
What. The. Hell? Why had they been returned? His mother had promised to gather up all of his mail and ship it to him periodically in one big care package, once he was permitted to receive mail.
“She was telling the truth.” He uttered the words under his breath, dazed. Tate had been telling the truth. Whipping around to face his mother, he looked at her accusingly.
“Why?” Judging from her expression, the guilt evident in her eyes, she knew exactly what he was asking.
Why had his own mother told him Tate had come by the house, shortly after he’d shipped off, to leave a message that she was through with him? That she couldn’t bear to tell him herself?
“I’m so sorry, Miller. I just—”
Abruptly, he cut her off. “How could you? I loved her!” Tossing the letters down, he ran both hands over the top of his head, fisting in the short strands of his hair, eyes falling closed. “Fuck!”