by Jamie Beck
“After what?” Steffi prodded.
Ryan glanced at her, his shoulders drooping. “We lost our son . . . a late-term miscarriage. It was hard on us, especially Val. She wasn’t ready to try again, so I gave her space. Then our relationship steadily faltered. Maybe it’s a blessing that we didn’t have more kids, seeing that we’re divorcing. But for Emmy’s sake, I wish we did.”
She’d had no idea he’d lost a child. Having never been pregnant, she couldn’t begin to imagine that kind of grief. In the face of it, she didn’t know what to say, which was why she said something lame. “You’re young. You still have time for more kids . . . or you could adopt someone closer in age to Emmy.”
“I need to sort out my life before I add more kids to the mix.” He set his empty glass down and edged closer. “What about you? Is your biological clock ticking, or did you toss it out the window with that ugly old comforter?”
“It wasn’t ugly.” She shoved his knee, grinning while trying to ignore two undeniable truths. A, that comforter was butt ugly, and B, motherhood wasn’t something she’d given much thought to in her life. “Spending time with Emmy has been a fun peek into motherhood. But I wonder if I’d be any good at it.”
“From what I can tell, you’ll be a natural.” He clasped her hand. The warmth and invitation of his touch simultaneously grounded her and launched her heart into the air like a glitter bomb.
“Thanks.” She glanced at their hands, resisting the urge to squeeze or stroke or make any kind of movement that could cause him to let go, even as her skin grew damp. “Maybe I should consider adoption.”
He tipped his head sideways, and his mouth curved into a seductive smile.
“Or maybe you could become a mom the old-fashioned way.” He stared into her eyes as if he were searching her soul for all her secrets and fears and dreams and regrets. She felt her breathing hitch before she heard it. Then he said, “Under all the circumstances, we ought to take things slow. But I have to be honest, all I can think about right now is how much I want to kiss you again.”
She nodded in agreement because she couldn’t speak. Her gaze dropped to his mouth once more. He moved slowly, as if not to spook her, and cupped her neck before pulling her into a slow, deep kiss.
Tender but firm, his mouth slowly caressed hers . . . the familiar slide of tongues, yet somehow new and amazing and dizzying. He tasted like wine and pepperoni—the scent of his cologne lingered on his skin. Her body thrummed with anticipation, warming everything as she reached for this new chance to hold a piece of his heart. This time she’d be more careful with it . . . and him.
She laid her hands on his chest, her fingers grabbing his collar before sliding up and threading their way through his thick head of hair. Breathless with happiness, she held him close as he moved his mouth along her jaw to the tender spot behind her ear, yet deep inside, uneasiness threatened.
She tried to ignore it—nerves, doubts, whatever it was—determined to recapture some romance with the man she’d thought she’d lost forever.
“Ryan,” she murmured.
As soon as she uttered his name, he moaned, and his tenderness transformed into something hot and urgent. He tumbled her onto her back, the full weight of him pressing against her, and dragged his mouth up her neck. He moved his hands quickly, assuredly, tugging at her shirt—and she froze.
She couldn’t catch a breath. Spots danced before her eyes.
Gun.
Darkness. Filth.
Smoke, sweat, grunting.
Pain.
Live.
Breathe.
Live!
She became conscious that she was batting at and kicking Ryan while yelling, “No!”
He jerked back, hands in the air like a criminal, eyes filled with confusion and pain. “Sorry! I’m sorry.”
Her chest heaved as she fought for air, and fought to piece together what had happened. Her memory failed her, as usual. No distinct thought to cling to. Only nausea and a vague sense of menace lingered, pushing in against her chest.
They’d been kissing. His hair had felt like tufts of silky thread in her fingers. She’d been happy . . . and then she’d disappeared.
Ryan sat on the far edge of the sofa, rubbing his hands on his thighs again, this time with some agitation. He kept his gaze on the ground, brows pinched.
“Did I hurt you?” The tears she wouldn’t shed clogged her throat, making it sore.
“No.”
He glanced at her, his features contorted as he seemed to be trying to understand her inexplicable behavior. “I thought, I thought you were with me . . . thought you wanted—”
“I did. I do . . .” She reached for his hand, but he stiffened.
“Then explain what happened, because I’m lost. You’re giving me some pretty mixed signals, Steffi.” His voice sounded distant and doubting, like he’d awakened from his own lusty haze and remembered the past. Remembered that he could not trust her.
“I can’t explain it. I was with you . . . and then the next thing I know, I wasn’t.” Tears stung her eyes. This was the second time she’d hit him in mere weeks. Her confusion matched his, because she couldn’t think of a single reason why she’d sabotaged this perfect moment between them.
“You know I’d never hurt you. I’d never take advantage of you.” He stood and paced in a tight circle.
“I know.” She sniffled and pushed her hair behind her ears.
“Then why did you push me away again?” He raised his hands from his sides with a frustrated shrug. “Seems you’re not certain of me, or us.”
“I am certain.” She hugged a throw pillow to her stomach, hoping to quell the nausea. “Ever since you returned to town, I’ve been hoping for this chance with you.”
“I want to believe that.” He stood still, arms crossed. “But I can’t help my doubts, given our past, and your behavior . . .”
She reached for him. “Please sit.”
He took her hand and squeezed it, but remained standing. “It’s pretty obvious I crossed a line . . . or something else is off. Either way, the best thing I can do for both our sakes is to give you some space tonight. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Ryan, wait . . . don’t go. Not like this.” She followed him to where he’d laid his jacket. “I want you to stay. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please believe me. We can just watch TV and keep talking, but don’t go.”
He kissed her forehead. Her forehead. “I loved tonight, and really appreciate everything we got out in the open. If it was just about the two of us, maybe I’d be less cautious, but there’s Emmy. Everything that affects me also affects her one way or another. If this is anything less than ‘right,’ then I need to be more cautious. It’s been ten years. We don’t need to rush anything now, do we?” He swiped the tear that rolled down her cheek with his thumb. “Don’t cry. Let’s just hit pause on this date and talk tomorrow, okay?”
Ten minutes later, Ryan sat in his car and stared at his parents’ house. He squeezed the steering wheel to keep his hands from trembling at the horrible theory that had begun to take root on his drive home. Had her attack last spring been more than a mugging? Had it involved sexual assault? It would explain her jumpy behavior by the lake that night when he’d come at her from behind, and tonight, when she freaked out as soon as he became sexually assertive.
Was she afraid to tell him? Had she told anyone, or was she ashamed, like some rape victims who somehow blamed themselves? Victims who’d felt broken by the brutal violation—scarred inside and out. But Steffi wasn’t broken. She was vibrant. She’d started a business. She was physically fit and vital, with ongoing social relationships with friends and family. He hoped he was wrong . . . but his instincts were sharp, thanks to his experience with criminals and their victims.
Could her brain have blocked the memory? Was that why she couldn’t remember anything during the brief dissociative states?
He’d heard about this kind of thing from his colleagues—about rap
e victims whose minds protected them from traumatic memories. Defense lawyers loved it because spotty memories made victim testimony less credible. But the thought that Steffi might’ve been raped by two strangers in an alley made him gag. Somewhere out there, those two fuckers had gotten away with it and had gone on—possibly harming others—while she’d been suffering, most likely on her own.
In a roundabout way, he might be responsible for what happened—if not to Steffi, precisely, then to other women who’d been victimized by repeat offenders he’d helped put back on the street. It was always a risk, one he knew well. But until tonight, he’d been able to detach and justify his choices by wrapping himself in the protection of the constitutional rights of every citizen.
He released the steering wheel and dabbed at his eyes, praying he was wrong about all of it. That he was grasping at straws to avoid something else he’d rather not consider—the idea that he’d fallen for her again when she wasn’t sure she wanted him.
After a quick glance at himself in the rearview mirror, he scrubbed his face with his hands to rub away his discomfort. He opened the car door and jogged beneath the canopy of leaves to go inside. When he entered the house, the aroma of buttered popcorn told him his parents had watched a movie with Emmy.
“You’re home early.” His mom looked up from her knitting as Ryan tossed his keys on the entry table.
Ryan nodded at her and his dad, whose gaze barely strayed from the Blue Bloods episode playing at least ten decibels too loud. He needed to move out of this house before he went deaf.
“She’s got to be up early for work,” Ryan fibbed. He composed his expression, hoping to evade his mother’s hawkish instincts. “Emmy asleep?”
“She went up about half an hour ago.” His mom pretended to return her attention to her project even as she asked, “Did you have a nice time?”
“Sure.” He started toward the stairs. “See you in the morning.”
“Ryan . . . is that all you have to say?” His mom gaped at him.
“Molly, he’s a grown man, for chrissakes. Leave him be.” His dad patted her leg and waved Ryan away.
Ryan took advantage of the moment his mother glared at her husband to finish his climb up the stairs. No light emanated from beneath Emmy’s door. He slowly turned the handle, careful not to let it click, and then eased the door open to peek in on her.
“Hi, Daddy,” came a loud whisper from her bed. He should’ve known her elephant ears would hear him creaking up the stairwell.
He crossed the room and leaned down to kiss her head. She wrapped his neck in a tight squeeze. He didn’t let go for a long time, taking more comfort than he was giving tonight. “Did you have fun with Memaw and Pops?”
“We watched Frozen.”
“Nice.” He wasn’t sorry to miss a seventh viewing of that one. “It’s late. Get some sleep.”
She propped herself up on her elbows. “What did you do, Dad?”
“I ate pizza.” He hadn’t told Emmy about his date because he didn’t want her to get too invested before he even had the chance to see what might develop. As far as she knew, he’d simply gone out with a friend tonight. Not exactly a lie.
“That’s all you did?”
He was grateful the dark room hid him wincing at the memory of Steffi’s panicked response to his touch. “Pretty much.”
“That sounds boring.” She slumped back against her pillow. “You should’ve stayed home and watched the movie. We made popcorn.”
“Next time.” He kissed her again, grateful she was years away from the age when he’d have to really worry about her becoming the victim of some kind of sexual assault. “See you in the morning.”
He closed the door and went to the bathroom. His innocent gums got a harsh scrubbing as more unpleasant thoughts wormed through his mind.
If Steffi had been sexually assaulted, she didn’t owe him the truth about something so deeply personal. But a little part of him—the part that she’d hurt when she’d shut him out before—smarted. Another part knew that the failure of both of his love relationships grew from a lack of true intimacy. He couldn’t accept less than that this time around, which made it a tricky situation.
Steffi stonewalled him anytime he brought up the incident. How could they rebuild anything worthwhile on half truths and a lack of trust? How did she expect to work through her painful memories—the ones that commandeered her mind and body from time to time—if she never told anyone what had happened? Never talked about it? And if she didn’t remember, then she needed therapy . . . no excuses.
His work had shown him that those who attended counseling had the best shot at recovery. But Lockwoods didn’t talk about their feelings, especially not with shrinks. Convincing her to seek help would be harder than getting Val to drop her alimony demand.
At this point, he knew only one thing with certainty: he couldn’t help Steffi if he didn’t have the facts. He didn’t know what lines he might cross to get at the truth, but he suspected he would be willing to do things he’d never before approved.
He’d disdained the justifications people used to do whatever they wanted. Until now. His thoughts veered toward Billy’s hacking skills—the ones Ryan warned him not to use for official investigations. Pulling that string would be a gross invasion of Steffi’s privacy and also put both Billy and him at professional risk.
He sat at the edge of the bed, staring at his phone. One call to Billy and he’d have an answer by Monday. He stared some more before reaching for it. How could he invade her privacy when trust was such an important issue to him? Then again, if he was right and therapy could help her, didn’t he owe it to her to find out before she hurt herself or anyone else?
He hesitated, then made a different call.
“Ryan?” Steffi’s muffled voice sounded wary or tired, or possibly both.
“Did I wake you?”
“No. I just didn’t expect to hear from you tonight.”
Ryan scooted up against the headboard and stretched his legs out on his mattress. He closed his eyes and pictured her face. “I wanted to check on you, and to say good night.” He paused, hoping the thousand questions swirling through his thoughts would quiet. “Despite how things ended, I had a good time tonight. Getting stuff in the open was a welcome step forward for me and, I hope, for you . . .”
“It wasn’t as hard as I expected.”
He frowned. “Was I always hard to talk to?”
“Well, you’ve got some black-and-white opinions about the ‘right’ way to view things.”
“Do I?” If she believed that, she’d never be comfortable sharing anything important or controversial with him. “I’ll work on that. But you trust me, right? You know if you told me something in confidence, I wouldn’t judge you.”
“Thanks, Ryan.”
His feeble attempt to coax her confidence did nothing, so he resorted to small talk. “What time will you be banging on the walls here tomorrow?”
“No more banging. I’ll be applying drywall mud and tape. I’m sure Emmy will want to help me mix the mud.”
“I’ll keep her out of your hair.”
“I don’t mind her company. She’s respectful when I ask her to let me focus.”
“I’m not sure how I feel about my daughter becoming more handy than I am,” he joked, faking some humor while he tried to shake off his negativity.
“Welcome to the twenty-first century,” she teased. They both fell silent, then she sighed. “Ryan, I have a question.”
“Yeah?” Maybe this would be the opening he needed.
“Did I totally blow everything tonight?”
The ache in her voice matched the one in his chest. “No. You didn’t blow anything.”
Did she think he’d blame her for something she couldn’t control? Never. Especially not now that he thought he could be onto the cause of her blackouts.
“Good.” Relief brightened her voice. “Actually, I’d hoped if tonight had gone well that we might take Emmy t
o Oktoberfest on Sunday. We could do it as a friend thing. I mean, I understand why you need to protect her until we see where things lead . . .”
“It’s not personal. She can’t take more loss, that’s all.” He wanted to accept the invitation, but Steffi’s unpredictable behavior gave him pause. Until she got that sorted out, perhaps he should limit the time she spent with his daughter outside this house. “Let me think about it. I have no idea if she’d be up for that; plus, I need to do a little work. But if we can’t make it, let’s you and I can grab dinner one night this week.”
“Okay.” Her dejected tone caused him to close his eyes with regret. “See you tomorrow.”
“Sweet dreams, Steffi.” He hit “Off” and set the phone on the nightstand, and then folded his hands over his stomach. Drawing a deep breath, he stared at the ceiling as if the answers to all his questions were hidden beneath the paint.
Chapter Seventeen
“Steffi? You up?” Claire tapped on the bedroom door.
Steffi struggled to open her eyes, blinking against the bright sunlight coming through her window. “Come in.”
Claire cracked open the door and poked her face inside. “Are you sick?”
“No, why?” Steffi yawned and rolled onto her back while she stretched. She’d spent most of the night awake because the hurt look on Ryan’s face when she’d struck him had replayed every time she’d shut her eyes. The last time she’d looked at the clock, it’d been 5:20 a.m.
“I thought you were going to Molly’s this morning.” Claire stepped inside with her coffee. She’d already showered and dressed for the day. The bold pink-and-gold pattern on her skirt threatened to give Steffi a migraine.
“I am.” She yawned and arched her back into a stretch.
Claire lowered her cup. “It’s already ten thirty.”
“What?” Steffi bolted upright and grabbed for her alarm clock. “Crap! I must’ve hit the alarm and rolled right back to sleep.”