by Alexis James
My numb ass is what finally pulls me out of my homework coma many hours later. Glancing at the large antique wall clock that looms above the table where I’m seated, I cringe. Somehow, in my need to finish as much homework as possible, the day has passed. My muscles are stiff, my neck aches, and my empty stomach is protesting loudly. Standing, I do a few stretches then power down my computer and gather my things together.
Food is first on the agenda. Then I might see if Charlotte feels like taking in a movie. She’s been a good friend to me, the perfect balance of overprotective friend and also a woman who knows what it’s like to have her heart broken. She never pushes me to talk about Caleb or my family. When I do have a moment of weakness and mention their names, she’s very careful to let me guide the conversation.
Dialing her number, I stroll out of the library and walk quickly to my car. She answers on the third ring, out of breath and laughing. “Hey, Soph.”
“Did I interrupt something?” You never know with Charlotte; she could be out of breath from yoga or panting because I interrupted a heavy petting session with one of the many guys she’s seeing.
“Nah. Just couldn’t find my phone. What’s up?”
“I’m just leaving school. Need to eat, but I wanted to know if you felt like seeing a movie later?”
“Absolutely. In fact, I haven’t eaten either. Where should I meet you?”
By the time she and I are seated in one of our favorite eateries, a funky little café that is known for its yummy gumbo, I’m dizzy with exhaustion and hunger. I should be used to this by now. It’s not anything new. I’ve been functioning on limited sleep and limited food for weeks now.
We chat while we wait for our meal, sipping sugary, caffeine-filled sodas like the good college students we are. Char has this firm belief that if we avoid diet beverages, we’ll think clearer. It’s a skewed opinion for sure, but I’m not one to balk. I need caffeine and sugar like I need my next breath. In order to live. In order to survive.
“Here we go, ladies,” the waitress says, flashing her white teeth and placing big bowls of steaming gumbo in front of us.
We mutter our thanks and when she walks away, I take a moment to close my eyes and breathe in the smell that is true New Orleans. The mixture of spices and shrimp teases my senses and my mouth begins to water. When I open my eyes, my hunger quickly fades and in its places is pain. Sharp, shooting, red-hot slices of pain radiating from my throat all the way down my gut then spearing right back up and centering in my heart.
Caleb’s dad is moving toward our table, a bright smile on his handsome face, blue eyes twinkling happily. My eyes dart around frantically, peering around him to the other tables, while my stomach shoots violently up into my throat. If Caleb is in attendance, I’m likely to lose my shit and start screaming.
“Hello, Sophia,” he says, reaching for my hand and elegantly dropping a kiss on it. I’ve always loved his swarthy, romantic ways. I’ve always marveled at how such a dear, sweet man could raise such a bastard of a son.
“Hello, Mr. Bonham.”
He looks me over and the smile starts to fade. “I’ve been worried about you.”
The breath catches in my throat as I struggle to respond. “Uh … I’m fine.”
He nods and turns his attention toward my tablemate, introducing himself. I’m stunned at the reappearance of this man in my life. A man I’d convinced myself I had to let go of in addition to the other man who deserted me. He acts completely the same, charming and witty, settling into the chair to my right and signaling to the waitress to bring his order to our table.
“Best gumbo in New Orleans,” he comments, pointing to mine and Charlotte’s bowls.
I nod. “Agreed, Mr. Bonham.”
He reaches for my clammy hand under the table, giving it a squeeze. “Ezra,” he reminds me, because we both know that’s what I always called him. Before.
Invisible hands clench tightly around my throat as I struggle to breathe. I can’t fall apart in front of this man. I can’t let him see how thoroughly his son has devastated me. I can’t tell him how much I’ve missed him or that I sometimes wonder how he feels about mine and Caleb’s breakup. I can only sit there pretending like everything is all right, pretending like the sound of his voice and his warm, weathered hand on mine isn’t tearing me in two.
Charlotte makes a big show of checking her phone. “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry, Soph, but I completely forgot that I’m supposed to meet my mom.” She gets to her feet, throwing her bag over her shoulder. “Lovely to meet you, Mr. Bonham. Soph, I’ll call you later.”
She’s gone before I can protest or call her out on the lie. I appreciate that she wants to give me and Ezra some time to reconnect, but I’m terrified what that will mean for my very fragile heart.
“Subtle,” he chuckles, following her escape with an amused expression, eyes dancing with laughter. “Not that I mind particularly. Though, it does this old man good to be surrounded by beautiful women.”
He’s such a total charmer. “Well, I guess you’ll have to settle for being surrounded by me.”
“My pleasure, beautiful girl.”
My throat closes and I gasp for breath at his words. Words his son used to say often when talking with me. I was always his beautiful girl, his sweetheart. And now I’m nothing more than some woman he spent some time with and fucked often.
“How can I help?” he asks, patting my hand. “Tell me how I can put a smile back on your face.”
I shrug and blink back the stubborn tears that threaten. “You can’t. My smile is tucked away for a good, long time.”
He considers my words, thanks the waitress as she places his bowl in front of him, then turns to me with a dark expression. “My son is a fool.”
“Yeah, well, there’s nothing I can do to change that.”
We eat in silence for a few long moments, but the food tastes like sawdust in my dry mouth. I shove it aside and take a hearty sip of my soda. I’m so grateful he sought me out, but I fear that by doing so he’s set me back weeks in my healing.
A laugh catches in my throat, the crazy lady making a brief return. There’s been no healing, no recovery, no bad memories put to rest. I’m as raw and damaged as the day Caleb walked out on me.
Ezra glances at me, wipes his mouth, and sits back in his chair. “Do you still love him?”
The answer comes quickly. Too quickly for someone supposedly trying to forget. “Of course I still love him.”
“Then get in there and fight for him.”
Anger surges to the surface. “He doesn’t want me, Ezra. He walked away. I can’t fight for someone who has no interest in being with me.”
He sighs. “Caleb is a complicated man.”
My eyes dart to his. “You think?”
He smirks at me. “He’s complicated. And a fool.” His fingers clasp together in front of him as he leans toward me. “He won’t tell me what happened. In fact, he won’t talk about it at all.”
Curiosity that I’m not entitled to rushes forward, but I quickly shove it aside. “He walked away. End of story.”
Ezra starts to chuckle, and as he does, I can see hints of his son in his mannerisms. The flash of amusement in his eyes. The smile that haunts me daily. Even the beard, though it’s longer and more tinged with gray than Caleb’s.
“You two are a perfectly matched set,” he states, reaching for his glass of sparkling water. “You’re perfect for one another.”
“Please don’t say that,” I whisper, because talking louder simply isn’t possible. The words and breath are locked up tightly in my throat, and the damn tears I keep trying to hold back race to the surface once more and spill down my cheeks in rivers.
“Oh, my sweet girl. I hate how he’s hurt you.” His hand palms my cheek, thumb catching the wetness that falls.
“I hate that too, but he made his choice. I’ve got to learn to live with it.”
My tears eventually dry, and slowly he returns to eating while
I sit there sipping my soda and wanting to hold tightly to every moment he lingers. I’ve missed him so. I’ve missed our talks, his gentle flirtations, and even the harsh way he’d go after Caleb when he felt I wasn’t being treated well enough.
That’s the thing though … I never needed romance and mushy words form Caleb. I needed his arms around me, his rare laughter, the whispered words in my ear. I needed his time, his precious time, that he willingly gave to me.
Until he didn’t.
With a sigh, I shove my glass aside and swipe my fingers beneath my eyes. “I should probably get going.”
He glances at my bowl that’s still full then back at me. “You need to eat. And sleep too, by the looks of it.”
Blushing, I tuck a wayward strand of messy hair behind my hair. “You could say that.”
“Come home with me. Let me take care of you.”
God I love this man. He’s so incredibly unselfish, unlike his bastard son. “I can’t do that, Ezra. It’s not … it’s not right.”
His blue eyes narrow. “There’s nothing right about any of this. But I care about you, Sophia. I’ve come to love you like the daughter I never had. And it kills me to see you so hurt by what’s happened.”
I’ve had many flashes of loneliness the past month, but never more so than at this moment when I realize just how alone I really am. I have Charlotte, but she’s not family. And she’ll never be able to give me what I so easily tossed away when I walked out on my siblings and parents.
I no longer have anyone by my side, and that’s partially my own doing. I’ve lost most everyone that mattered and now it’s up to me to move on. Alone. “Thank you for the offer, but I … I … just can’t.”
He nods. “I understand. I don’t like it, but I do understand.” He shoves my hand aside when I start to pull money out of my pocket then drops some cash on the table and turns to face me once more. “Please do me a favor. Call me if you need anything. Our friendship has nothing to do with what happened between you and my son. I care about you, Sophia, and I worry.”
“I care about you too.” We stand next to one another, and he gently pulls me into his arms. I drink in the familiar smell of Old Spice and savor it while I can.
“Take care of yourself, you hear?”
“I will,” I lie. I leave him standing there watching me as I make my escape, praying that the tears can be held back until I return home. He is just another person that’s been taken from me.
As I drive toward home, I have to wonder what’s coming next. Will Charlotte somehow find a reason to walk away too? Good lord … really? Is this what I’ve become? What happened to the tough-talking coed who managed to snare herself the hottest teacher on campus? What happened to the girl who would fight like hell to get what she wanted, the girl who got in her car one summer day and drove toward a new life in another state? What happened to the optimist in me, the confidant woman I’ve become the past few years?
Has he taken all of that away too?
I’m done letting Caleb Bonham control me and my happiness. To hell with him. It’s his loss. Maybe one day he’ll actually realize what he walked away from and that I’d have given him anything … everything … he ever asked for.
I’ve learned a lot these past weeks. I’ve learned that I’m resilient, and yet I’m not nearly as strong as I should be. I’ve learned I need to forgive, even though that forgiveness may not come for a long, long time. I’ve learned I can love well … really, really well … and that not being loved the same in return is quite possibly the most agonizing thing to accept.
A favorite quote of mine skirts through my mind as I park the car in front of my building. Eleanor Roosevelt was one smart, sassy lady, especially when she popped off with something like “The giving of love is an education in itself.”
I suppose it’s doubtful she wrote that for me, but the words are still shockingly accurate nevertheless. I have learned a lot by loving Caleb, but sadly most of it is the “I’m not going to make that mistake again” kind. I don’t ever want to regret what we had together. I do regret how it ended. I regret the weeks I’ve wasted wallowing in sadness, moping around like some teenage girl. I’m not a girl, I’m a woman, and as such I need to get it together and start really and truly living my life.
Slamming down the office phone, I sit back in my chair and close my eyes. Every day it’s the same. Same bullshit from up above, same crap from my students. My new TA, some sophomore the dean insisted I had to have because I’m weeks behind in grading, chatters on her phone in the outer office, which only heightens my fury. I didn’t want her in the first place, and since she started a few days ago, I’ve done nothing but get further and further behind. She requires constant supervision, and I’ve had to remind her too many goddamn times not to use the school’s computer for her social media updates.
Apparently my warnings have merely cleared the outer rims of her pea-sized brain, because through the door I can hear a video that she’s pulled up. She’s cackling away as if she has nothing better to do.
Fuck this. Fuck the dean and anyone else who tries to control what I do. Rising, I stalk toward the door, fling it open and growl, “You’re done. Don’t bother coming back.” I don’t wait for words of protest or, God forbid, the pleading and tears. I throw her another dark look and slam the door in her face. If she has any doubt about my intentions, she’s wise enough not to breach the confines of my office. Thankfully, a minute or so later, I hear the distinctive sounds of her muttered, “Fuck you,” before the outer office door is slammed shut.
With a heavy sigh, I resume my seat and shove the heels of my hands into my eyes. I’m so tired I can hardly think straight. The lingering hangover from the night before isn’t helping. The scholar in me knows that alcohol is not the answer, but the man in me couldn’t give a fuck. I need to feel numb. Hell, I need to feel nothing, which is what I strive for night after night to no avail.
My cell buzzes and a number that looks somewhat familiar flashes across the screen. I’m not exactly feeling sociable at this moment, so I consider ignoring it and letting it roll to voicemail, but then the “what ifs” start. What if the call has something to do with my father … or, God forbid, Sophia. This odd panic I have could be a result of my lack of sleep, but it’s pestering enough to push me forward.
By the fifth ring, I’m sliding my thumb across the glass and growling, “What?”
“Nice. Real nice.”
The voice, like the number, feels oddly familiar, but I’m beyond having any patience to be cordial. “Who the hell is this?”
“I own a very dull knife. Ring any bells?”
Ah … hell. “Hello, Amita.” The only reason she could be calling me is to remind me what an asshole I’ve been. Like I need reminding.
“I warned you.”
“Yes, I’m well aware of that, Mrs. Moran.” Maybe she should follow through with her earlier threat. Maybe that pain would take away the one that’s got my heart in a vise. “Other than cutting my dick off, was there a reason for your call?”
She sighs heavily. “We can’t reach her.”
The vise tightens considerably, but somehow I manage to sound droll when I murmur, “Not my problem anymore.”
“We call her, text her, and she never, ever calls back.” She sighs. “I’m worried. We’re all worried.”
“What is it you expect me to do?”
There’s a long, silent pause, and when she finally speaks again, her voice is raw with emotion. “Did you ever love her?”
“Why the hell are you asking me this?” On my feet again, I start to pace the length of the office.
“I have no idea. I guess I need to know if you walked away from her because you’re a total and complete idiot or if you felt forced to do so.”
“What the fuck do you think?” My feet halt and the hostility in my voice increases. “There was no point delaying the inevitable.”
“So you’re telling me that if my husband and his brother h
adn’t threatened your ego, you’d still be with her?” She mutters a long chain of expletives that make me smile. She’s such a ball-buster. I’d feel sorry for Marco if I didn’t despise the man so much.
“I’m not telling you one damn thing. It’s over. Let it go.”
Another long pause, there’s a strangled, “Have you?”
Fuck … don’t ask me that. “Was there a point to this phone call? I have things to do.”
She doesn’t answer my question, simply barrels forth as if I’m expected to listen. “The thing I love most about my husband is his undying loyalty to his family. All the Moran men are that way. They can also be incredibly self-centered and are always certain their opinion is the right one.” She sniffs, which proves to me she’s not as removed from the situation as she tries to be. “But you can’t fault someone for being protective or for wanting only the best for someone they care about.”
“I sure as fuck can,” I growl.
“Regardless, wouldn’t you rather she be protected and watched over than ignored and unloved?”
“That’s ridiculous question.”
“Marco and Cruz are guilty of a lot of things. They were quick to judge. They were incredibly rude to you. But they love her. They love her so much.” She clears her throat. “Look, Caleb, they are human. They made a mistake. Please don’t take that out on her.”
I see no point to this conversation. All she’s done is plead the brothers’ case, which in my mind doesn’t really need defending. I can’t fault them for protecting their sister. I can only fault myself for thinking I was entitled to love her.
“I’m not taking it out on her, Amita. In the long run, she’ll be grateful I set her free.”
A very distinctive sound of a muffled sob echoes through the phone. “She loves you.”
“No. She loved me. It’s not the same.” Tearing my hands through my hair, I state, “Look, I appreciate the phone call, but we both know Sophia and I were wrong right from the start. I’m fifteen years older than her. I doubt your family would ever accept that.” My throat tightens with emotion. “I want only the best for her. I want her to be happy, to go on and have a successful career as a teacher and to have a future with someone more deserving of her than I ever was.”