Regret (Twisted Hearts Duet Book 2)

by Max Henry

  The edges are trimmed, the lawn clipped in perfect lines like you’d see at some fancy estate. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I continue down the side of the house toward the back. Sure enough, the whole rear lawn has been clipped in the same fashion: one light green stripe, followed by a darker one. Stripes that make the quarter-acre seem twice the size. He’s even gone so far as to remove some of the stubborn creeper vines off the fences that separate the yard from the paddocks beyond.

  “Did I do a good job?”

  “Holy shit!” I cry, a hand clasped to my chest as I turn to face him. “You need a goddamn cow bell or something.”

  “Says the woman who scared the bejesus out of me a couple of days ago.”

  “Touché.”

  Duke steps off the back porch, jerking his chin toward the landscaping he’s kept occupied with. “So?”

  “It looks amazing.”

  “Trick I picked up at an after-school job many moons ago.”

  I huff, crossing my arms as I do. “I wouldn’t have the patience.”

  He’s showered and changed since I saw him this morning, no doubt due to how sweaty he would have got doing all this in the unseasonal heat we had today. I push that mental image to the back of my brain, reminding myself he’s a hothead, and hotheads come second to douche exes who don’t deserve to be ogled anymore.

  “Wasn’t sure what you had planned for dinner, but I found some meat and whipped something up.”

  He needs to stop making me like him in this way. It’s not fair. “You’ve done too much, honestly.”

  “Nonsense.” He beckons toward the house. “Come inside and put your feet up. I’ll get you a drink.”

  I narrow my gaze on him as he leads us in the back door, wondering what he’s broken. “I’m not really thirsty. But thank you, though.” Men are only this overly nice when they either need to apologise, or they want something. I’m not sure which thought disturbs me more.

  “I spoke to Mum on the way home,” I say as I pause to throw my bag in the bedroom.

  “Yeah, she came over. She’s real nice,” he calls back from the living room. I walk in to find him kicked back on the sofa.

  “She’s nosey,” I correct. Even more so than I bargained for when I sent her over. I asked her to check on him, not meddle with me.

  Duke shrugs at my statement, lips twisted. “Not a bad thing. Means she cares, is all.”

  “Yeah …” The word trails off as I reminisce about all the times her sticky beak wasn’t helpful. “Did you complain to her about sleeping on the sofa?”

  He snorts a laugh. “No. That was all your mum. She’s concerned for my well-being.” The smartarse winks at me.

  I leave him with a huff, figuring I’ll go see what he’s murdering in the kitchen. “I told her not to worry about it since you sleep on the floor anyway.”

  Stone-cold silence surrounds me. I chance a look around the corner and find him staring at me, impassive. “You saw that, huh?”

  “You weren’t exactly trying to hide it.” The aroma of beef fills my nostrils, pulling my focus back to the kitchen. He’s found a small rolled roast I didn’t even know I had, and has it in the oven surrounded by vegetables that look positively mouth-watering.

  “I didn’t know I had all this in the freezer,” I call out, choosing to ignore his discomfort.

  “You didn’t.” Duke slips into what’s fast becoming his usual spot: the barstool. “Your mum brought some ‘real food’ after she panicked that what you had in your cupboards couldn’t ‘sustain’ a man like me.” He bops his fingers in quotations as he recites my mother’s words.

  “Busy body.”

  “Like I said, she cares.” His eyes follow my every move as I pull a wine glass from the cabinet and promptly fill it two-thirds with the half-drunk bottle that was in the fridge.

  “I don’t have any beer to offer you, sorry.”

  He lifts a hand, flashing me the palm. “All good. I don’t drink alcohol anyway.”

  Unusual.

  “So, Duke.” I set my glass down, sliding it carefully to the side so as not to knock it over. “Why do you sleep on the floor?”

  “Why is your second bedroom closed off?”

  He doesn’t miss a beat, this one. “Trade. You tell me, and then I’ll tell you.” My heart thunders at the offer, but hell, he’ll be gone in a week, and then it’ll just be me and my ghosts again.

  His brow sets in a hard line as he leans forward, clasping his hands with his elbows rested on the counter. A heavy breath exits his nose as he seemingly weighs the proposition up. “You ready for this, Cammie?”

  I pinch my bottom lip between my teeth and smirk. “I can take whatever you’ve got to throw at me.”

  “I wasn’t talking about what I’ve got to say,” he counters. “Are you ready to pull back the covers and reveal what you’ve kept stored away?”

  Fuck him. Fuck him and his unwavering sensibility. He’s not afraid of recounting what it is that keeps him on edge; he’s worried about me. And rightly so. My pulse doesn’t throb painfully in my neck for no reason; my body temperature isn’t elevated because I’m cool, calm, and collected. I’m freaking out, and I haven’t voiced a goddamn thing yet.

  “Just start before I change my mind,” I snap, reaching for the wine.

  He leans back with a long and laboured sigh as I down half the glass. “The short and sweet version is I was near crushed to death. A mortar took out the building I was in, and I came this close to losing my leg.” He holds his fingers a hair’s breadth apart. “The explosion killed two of my best friends, and the damage done to my lungs from the dust I inhaled in the aftermath means even the slightest chest infection has the potential to put me in hospital.”

  I was wrong: I was totally unprepared for that. Unprepared for how coldly and clinically he states the facts. How detached he is as he recounts the things that nearly killed him.

  “Do you feel guilty?” Every story I’ve read that involved a returned serviceman always ends in the guilt they feel at being the one who’s home, the one who made it back.

  He nods. “A little, yeah. But mostly, frustrated.”

  “Why?”

  “I never got a chance to fight back.” His fingertips beat an urgent rhythm against the counter. “Our camp was attacked between patrols. After the unharmed dragged those of us still breathing out, we were immediately transferred to a safe medical facility. Some fuckhead blew half a dozen of us up, and I never even lifted a gun to retaliate.”

  So much concealed rage … No wonder he fired up when I asked about his life in the army. He resents the fact he’s not still there.

  “You regret coming home.” I round the counter to take the seat beside him.

  Duke shrugs, his face blank as he stares vacantly at the counter. “I regret a lot of things.”

  “Holding on to that anger will only destroy you,” I say quietly, almost as though I might spook him back into silence if I speak too loudly. “It’s not healthy.”

  He turns his head, his shoulders hunched as he regards me. “What is it you’re holding on to, Cam?”

  I lift a finger, waggling it at him as I set my glass down again. “Nuh-uh, mister. You haven’t actually answered my question yet.”

  “Why I sleep on the floor?”

  “Right.” I set my hands on my thighs and patiently wait him out.

  Duke runs a finger along the patterns in the counter top, his lips twitching as he seems to think it over. “The short answer is nightmares. I don’t know why, but when I’m on the floor, I feel more secure, as though there aren’t as many points of vulnerability.”

  I rest an elbow on the counter, and prop my head in my hand. “What happens in your nightmares?” What makes him feel as though he’s constantly open to attack?

  “Stupid shit.” He laughs bitterly.

  “Duke …” I reach out with my free hand and cover one of his. Interestingly, he doesn’t pull away. “It’s not stupid if it bothers yo
u that much.”

  “It is when the things don’t even make sense.” His thumb touches the side of my hand. “I dream of random crap, like my dead buddies sitting point on the slabs that pinned me down, shooting anyone who tries to get me out. I dream of faceless men smothering me until I can’t breathe. An endless desert with a mirage of a cargo plane on the horizon that I can never seem to reach, no matter how long I spend dragging my broken body towards it.”

  “Guilt,” I whisper. “They all signify what you told me—that you wish you could have done something to fight back, to have helped.”

  He swallows, jerking his shoulders as he slides his hand from under mine. “Doesn’t change anything, knowing, does it?”

  “What about help now you’re back?” I ask, before downing the last of my wine and rising to pour another. “Mental health facilities? Surely you get some sort of assistance?”

  “I do.” He follows me to the fridge, pulling a bottle of water out after me. “Got myself a referral to a counsellor. Not sure if it’ll help, but gotta try something, you know? First session is in two weeks.”

  “Sometimes an outside perspective helps. Like, they see things you can’t because you’re so used to viewing them the same way.”

  “Maybe.”

  I stand with my new wine in my hand as Duke casually uncaps the bottle and chugs half the contents. He’s really got to stop doing that around me, otherwise I’m not going to be held responsible for the inappropriate things it causes me to do, like, I don’t know, lick his neck? Seriously … the way that throat works …

  “You okay?” He smirks, clearly aware I’m embarrassed that he’s caught me staring.

  “Fine.”

  “So.” He re-caps the bottle and puts it back in the fridge … with the others.

  Ugh. Keep it separate when it’s been drunk from. Always separate. “So?”

  “I told you mine …”

  Shit. So he has. My palms slicken with sweat as my heart threatens to crush my lungs in its escape from my chest.

  Duke’s smile fades, his eyes softening. “Hey, look. If it’s too much—”

  “No.” I throw back the glass of wine, setting the empty vessel in the sink. “Let’s do this.”

  Who better to face this with than a guy who doesn’t know me, can’t judge how I react based on who I was before? Somebody who’s not as emotionally invested as the people I’ve slowly pushed away over the years: my mum, Dad, even Jared.

  He still appears apprehensive, as though he’s not entirely sure what he’s set in motion as I walk past. Hell, I’m not sure what he’s set in motion. I’ve stayed out of that room for close to two years now. I’ve avoided it at any costs, all while fiercely protecting its contents.

  I stop before the door, my chest thick with regret as I reach for the handle. My fingers make contact, yet before I can turn the old brass knob, a warm, calloused hand covers my own.

  “I’m serious, Cammie. If you’re not ready, don’t do it.”

  “I’m ready,” I whisper, wriggling my hand to indicate he should remove his.

  Duke’s warmth envelops the length of me, his chest brushing against my shoulder as shifts his weight. “Then why are you crying?”

  Shit. Am I? Shit, shit, shit.

  I wipe under my eye with the side of my finger, careful not to smudge my most likely ruined makeup. I already look crazy, getting so worked up over a room; there’s no need to look as if I’ve completely lost the plot.

  “Sorry. I … shoot.” I glance to the side, catching his presence in my periphery. “It’s second nature sometimes.”

  He takes a step back, nodding slowly. “Like I said, when you’re ready.”

  No time like the present.

  Before I have time to form a conscious protest in my mind, I twist and push, opening the room up to the rest of the house for the first time in years. Stale air hits me first, the smell something I could only describe as dusty. But what comes second on the undertones damn well breaks my heart all over again.

  Strawberry: the tangy artificial kind that’s synonymous with all little girl’s toy cosmetics and dolls.

  I don’t even try to hold back the tears, pretend they’re not a part of who I am when I think of my baby. The salty drops track across my cheeks, a badge of honour for the love I felt toward this tiny human. Proof I once succeeded in life.

  “Taylah,” I whisper. “Her name was Taylah.”

  Duke slips into the room behind me, his hand brushing mine as he ventures farther in to inspect her toy chest, her bed, and her lowboy still covered in her favourite plushies.

  “How old was she?”

  He doesn’t say it, but the words hang in the untouched innocence of her haven: when she died.

  “Four. She was six weeks shy of her fifth birthday.” I let out a sad laugh, folding my arms across my chest as though it can save my heart from this pain. “We bought her school uniform already, had her enrolled. She was excited, ready to go and make new friends. You can see it if you open her wardrobe.”

  Duke stops by the window, using a single finger to edge the sheer curtains aside. He’s probably working out how he didn’t notice the contents of the room from the front of the house, how I manage to camouflage the fact that this was a family home once, that it is a family home.

  “That the reason you split with your ex?”

  “Yeah,” I say on a sigh, daring to reach out and pinch her teddy’s ear between my fingers. “Jared blames me. He couldn’t look at me the same after.”

  As predicted, Duke’s brow furrows, his eyes dark as he scowls. “That’s shit, Cam. That’s just shit. He was your husband, right?”

  I nod.

  “Then he should have fucking stuck by you. He should have been there for you as much as I bet you were for him.”

  The tears come faster, harder, as I try to focus on this poor confused man before me. “I don’t blame him, Duke. I don’t fault him for leaving me.”

  “Why the fuck not?”

  I smile, rolling my eyes as I sigh and try to gather myself a little better. “Because he’s right.” My chin crumples as I smile through the pain, just as I always do. “It was my fault. If it weren’t for me, she wouldn’t have died. I killed her.”

  SIXTEEN

  Duke

  The fuck she talking about? She killed her daughter? What the hell is this, The Twilight Zone? Because this sleepy town full of friendly people seriously hides one fucked up secret.

  “Come again?” I step a little closer, as though that’s going to help me understand what she just said.

  “It was my fault, Duke.” She storms from the room, leaving me to chase after her to hear what she says next. “My negligence meant she died.” Cammie swipes a tissue from the box in the bathroom drawer, wiping her eyes. “If I’d paid more attention, thought about it, I could have prevented the whole damn thing from happening.” She talks to me, although it’s herself she stares at angrily in the mirror as she wipes away her smudged makeup.

  “Tell me what happened.” I take a seat on the side of the tub. “Explain it to me so I can make up my own mind if you’re to blame, because, Cam, I don’t think you could be.”

  She sighs, her hands on the vanity as she hangs her head between her shoulders. “How long has the roast got to go?”

  Fucking woman. “Don’t ignore the question.”

  “I’m not,” she snaps before sighing and repeating the words a lot softer. “I’m not. I’m just hungry, and quite frankly, this whole thing is upsetting enough; you don’t want to add ‘Hangry Cammie’ to the mix.”

  Damn woman makes me chuckle, as much as I’d rather not. “Fair enough. Let’s go check.”

  She fluffs around, fixing her eyeliner or some shit while I head back to the kitchen and check the rolled beef. Sure enough, the thing’s ready to go—too much longer and it would have been tough as an old gumboot.

  “So?” Cammie asks as she finally re-joins me.

  “You were right to
ask. It’s ready.”

  She gives me a smug rise of one eyebrow, and then moves across to the far side of the living room as I pull the stainless-steel tray from the oven and set it down on top of the sink. After what feels like an hour of searching in what I thought would be the obvious places, I give up trying to locate a carving fork and use two knives: one stabbed through the roll to keep it in place, and one to cut it.

  All the while, Cammie ferrets around in the sideboard cabinets, pulling things out in her mad search for something. I keep a cursory eye on her as I plate the meat and vegetables, transferring the tray to the stovetop to make gravy from the juices.

  The look on her face when I set the plates on the table makes every ounce of the effort worth it.

  “I should keep you on,” she says with a smile, despite the fact her eyes are puffy and red, her pinked cheeks giving away how she really feels. “I thought you said you couldn’t cook?”

  “Cook? No. Can’t add anything together without it tasting nothing like it should. But make a mean as roast? Easy.”

  “Says you.”

  I chuckle as I pull out her seat.

  Cammie takes her place at the table graciously, reaching up to set some papers on the surface beside her place setting. I take my seat opposite her, and indicate for her to start.

  “I don’t usually say grace or anything,” she announces as she slices into the meat. Straight for the best parts. “So I hope you’re not offended.”

  “Neither.” I take a mouthful of roast potato drenched in gravy and groan. I haven’t had a roast in what feels like forever. “Damn that’s good, if I do say so myself.”

  Cammie nods in agreement, her eyes closed. “Mm-hmm.”

  I wait until she’s looking at me again and jerk my chin at the papers. “What are they?”

  She pops a carrot in her mouth and then sets her knife down to unfold the top sheet. With her palm flat over the contents, she slides it across the table to me, gesturing for me to read it as she picks up her knife and continues to eat.