by Beth Andrews
She agreed with him but ever since the divorce, she’d had to deal with Brandon’s bad attitude and she hated never knowing what kind of mood her son was going to be in. What she was going to do or say that would put him into a full pout, make him sullen and bitter. She was tired of being the bad guy.
“I was so scared when I was pregnant. Scared and angry. Resentful. I’d messed up, yes, but I didn’t deserve to be saddled with a kid at eighteen, did I? To be stuck with one man for the rest of my life. I had plans. Big, huge, grand plans and with one missed period, with one positive pregnancy test, all those plans were ruined.”
“You considered terminating the pregnancy?”
Shame filled her, made her sick to her stomach. “I considered it, yes, but I knew I couldn’t go through with it. I told Greg and he proposed. God, we were so young.” Tori could still picture Greg’s face. He’d been shocked but had quickly told her he’d take care of her and the baby, that they’d get married and everything would work out. “Too young to have any idea what we were getting into. We got married the day after he graduated.”
“What made you decide to get married instead of having the baby and making those grand plans a reality on your own?”
Uncertainty. And the bone-deep fear that she couldn’t survive on her own. “Greg proposed. He loved me.”
And she’d known it was okay because she hadn’t loved him back, not the same way. Not desperately, not enough to lose herself or to risk being made a fool. Not like her father had loved her mother.
But she was stronger now. Smarter. She was making things happen and though today hadn’t quite ended the way she’d planned, she’d taken the first step toward a new life.
“I’d convinced myself marriage was the best decision,” she continued. “That I could be happy being his wife, being a mother in Mystic Point, that it’d be enough for me.”
But she hadn’t counted on wanting more for herself. On how disappointed she would be when she realized that the only person you could truly depend upon was yourself.
“When Brandon was born, I was terrified to have the responsibility of this little life on my hands. To realize it was up to me to care for him, twenty-four hours a day, to care about him every minute for the rest of my life. To worry and wonder if he was safe. Healthy. Happy. It was so scary…so suffocating. I wasn’t sure I wanted it,” she admitted hoarsely. “If I wanted him.”
“You were just a kid,” Walker said.
“I was old enough to have sex,” Tori said flatly. “Old enough to know the consequences of having sex and not caring about those consequences. Not enough. I took care of him, fed and bathed him and changed his diapers. For the first two weeks of his life, I didn’t know how to connect with him.”
She took a sip of the ginger ale in her cup to soothe her dry throat. “I’d made the decision to get married and to keep my baby. But I wasn’t ready to love him, wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready. But then, one night, Greg went out with his buddies before they all took off for college and it was just me and Brandon. And he wouldn’t stop crying. The sound seemed to amplify my doubts and fears, seemed to vibrate through my body. He was so stiff, so pissed off. I had no idea what was wrong with him, what to do.”
Walker stretched his legs out, leaned back slightly so that his elbow nudged her calf. “Babies cry. Parents learn how to handle it.”
“I didn’t want to learn, didn’t want to handle it. I was angry at Greg for deserting me. I knew he was out having a good time while I was stuck in our apartment with a screaming baby. I couldn’t call anyone. Greg’s parents hated me, blamed me for ruining their son’s life, and I knew Layne would only lecture me on how I needed to learn to take responsibility for my actions. For my mistakes.” Tears pricked Tori’s eyes. She blinked them back. “That’s what I thought of my son, even after he was born. A mistake. My biggest one. I felt trapped and helpless. I couldn’t do anything right. I couldn’t even make my own baby stop crying.”
She swallowed, tucked her hair behind her ear. “Then I said his name and he sort of hiccupped, went quiet, for the barest of seconds so I said it again. I talked to him, told him everything would be all right, though I wasn’t sure I believed it. But he stopped crying and just…looked up at me. Like I was the most important thing in his life. I was so worried, so scared I was going to screw up, worried I’d screw him up.” She forced herself to meet Walker’s eyes and admitted what she’d held in her heart for twelve years, what she’d never admitted to anyone before. “It’s still my greatest fear. That I won’t be enough for him. That I’ll make a mistake and damage him.”
“Is that how you feel?” Walker asked softly. “Damaged because of the mistakes your mother made? Because she left you?”
“No. But I pity her for not having that love for her children. Because after that night, this love for Brandon filled me and I knew I’d do anything and everything to make sure he was always safe. Always healthy and happy.”
She’d been relieved, so very relieved to have those feelings. To finally love someone, fiercely, fully.
“You’re not your mother,” Walker said, taking her face gently in his hands so she had no choice but to meet his eyes. “You’re Tori Sullivan Mott. You would never leave your child.”
“But I almost did. I almost left him and what would’ve happened to him then? He was so angry with me. How would he feel if I’d died and the last words he’d said to me were in anger?”
“Tori,” Walker said in slight exasperation, “Brandon knows you love him. You tell him and you show him. He’s a kid. They get angry, they say things they don’t mean.”
She sighed. Leaned back, her head starting to ache again. “You’re right.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Glad you finally realize that.”
She couldn’t help it. She smiled. “I can’t believe you actually made a joke.”
“Who’s joking?” he asked in his gruff way, but the corners of his mouth twitched. He stood. “It’s getting late.”
It was. She was tired. But she didn’t want to be alone. Not yet. “Would you… Do you think you could stay? Just for a few more minutes?”
He seemed ready to decline, to make up some excuse. But then he exhaled heavily and sat back down. “I could stay.”
* * *
BRANDON WAS HOVERING.
Tori had been released from the hospital yesterday to much fanfare—well, as much fanfare as one single mom could expect. She’d been discharged before lunch and had spent the rest of the day surrounded by her loved ones. Brandon, of course, had stayed by her side, as if reassuring himself she really was okay. Greg and Colleen had come, and Colleen had even offered to bring her and Brandon dinner.
That woman really was too good to be true.
Luckily her sisters had been there and had told Colleen her offer—while sweet—wasn’t necessary. They’d ordered in Chinese since neither Layne nor Nora cooked. Or at least, cooked often, or, to be honest, particularly well.
Celeste had come with Tori’s father and they’d stayed most of the day, not leaving until Uncle Ken and Aunt Astor arrived, which put quite the strain on the day. Tori worried the rift between them would remain for the rest of their lives. And poor Nora was smack-dab in the middle of it. Fortunately her baby sister was handling it well but Tori reminded herself to speak to Layne about ways they could help mend their father and uncle’s relationship.
Even Anthony had showed up but had only stayed a few minutes when he saw that Jess and her boyfriend, Tanner, were playing a board game with Brandon.
Yes, Tori certainly was lucky to have so many people concerned about her welfare, so many people who loved her. She hadn’t had five minutes to herself since she got home.
She wondered if she could somehow sneak back into the hospital. Just so she could get a few hours of rest in peace.
Her body hurt and the ache in her head seemed to be constant; she wasn’t sure it’d ever go away. And Brandon kept asking if she was okay. If she wanted m
ore soda or a sandwich or a pudding snack or anything else.
Peace and quiet seemed a harsh answer to that last question when her boy was so worried about her, was being so solicitous.
The movie they’d been watching—the movie Brandon had been watching as she’d dozed on and off because she couldn’t stand one more viewing of Transformers without wanting to do some serious damage to Shia LeBeouf—was only half over when someone rang the doorbell.
Brandon paused the movie and answered the door as Tori struggled to sit up on the end of her couch.
A moment later, Brandon reappeared in the living room. “That guy’s here to see you.”
Tori looked behind her son but the foyer remained empty. “What guy?”
He lifted a shoulder in a move she knew was reminiscent of her own ill-natured shrug. “That cop guy who was at my football game.”
Tori’s heart stopped only to resume beating triple-time. Which was stupid. She did not get gaga over guys, over any guy. Not even her husband. She kept her cool, kept her wits and, most importantly, kept her heart and emotions to herself.
If you gave someone your heart, they’d stomp on it.
“Well, did you tell him to come in?” Tori asked in exasperation as her son stood there, the sun streaming through the windows to highlight his hair.
“You always told me not to let strangers into the house,” Brandon said petulantly.
And, of course, this one time he listened to her while she was certain every other bit of motherly wisdom she’d tried to teach him over the past year had gone in one ear, been turned into incoherent mush, and then slid out the other the ear.
“He’s not a stranger,” Tori said. “Let the man in.”
Brandon rolled his eyes then stomped back to the door and opened it. “She says you can come in,” Tori heard her son mutter.
So pleasant, those preteens.
And then, there he was, Walker, in her house again, all big and broad shouldered and capable. If her stomach flipped, if she felt just the slightest unease, if some sort of anticipation skimmed along her nerve endings, no one had to know but her.
“Detective. Hello,” she said. “What brings you by?”
“I was in the neighborhood,” he said so solemnly she couldn’t tell if he was serious or not, “and thought I’d see how you were doing.”
She shifted and cursed herself for pulling her hair back with a soft headband instead of washing it. Wished she had on some cover-up or at least mascara and lip gloss. A woman needed her armor, after all, when faced with such a worthy opponent.
“As you can see, I’m in good hands here,” she said, gesturing to her son, who sat down and pointedly ignored them while he resumed his movie.
Walker glanced around, seemed so out of place in her house, so nervous, which somehow made her own nervousness ease. “Good,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “That’s good.”
“What’s for dinner?” Brandon blurted.
Tori raised her eyebrows at him. “You just ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich half an hour ago.”
“I’m hungry.”
“What else is new? Isn’t there any leftover Chinese in the fridge?”
“I ate it for breakfast.”
She’d slept in, hadn’t taken her pain meds or anything to help her sleep because she’d been worried about being out of it when Brandon was around but still, being back in her own bed after being surrounded by well-meaning people all day, she’d slept like a log.
“Oh. We could order pizza or—”
“I’ll fix something,” Walker said, taking another step into the living room.
Tori frowned. “What?” she and Brandon both said at the same time.
“I’ll fix dinner. What do you want?”
“That’s not necessary,” Tori said. “Really. It’s just as easy for us to order—”
“I make excellent spaghetti and meatballs,” Walker said. “You like pasta?” he asked Brandon.
Her son glowered. “It’s okay,” he muttered.
“I’ll run to the store, get what I need,” Walker said, already palming his car keys. “Anything else you want me to pick up?”
Tori was too stunned by both the males in the room to do more than shake her head.
Walker inclined his head and then left. She turned to Brandon.
“You love spaghetti and meatballs,” she reminded him. “You love all Italian food. I should know as I’ve made some version of pasta every year for your birthday, the first and last days of school as well as New Year’s because that’s all you ever request.”
“I like your pasta. His will probably suck.”
“His will probably be jarred sauce which you’ve eaten before and survived. And it’s awfully hard to screw up spaghetti—you boil water, cook the noodles and drain them. You’ve done it yourself.”
“Why did he come here?” Brandon asked, his face flush, his tone accusatory.
And here we go again, she thought. Back to normal. Too bad, she was so enjoying having her sweet son back, if only for a few days.
“You heard Walker. He stopped by to see how I’m doing,” she said with what she considered a huge amount of patience considering what she’d been through the past two days.
He snorted and sent her such a disbelieving look, her heart broke, just a little, to realize that part of him came from her. That inability to trust, to always be on his guard. “Is he your boyfriend?”
She laughed, a small burst of air. “What? No. I’ve only known him a few weeks, Brandon. We’ve never even been on a date.”
But they had been alone together, the night at his room then here at her house. At the café when he’d kissed her. The other night at her hospital room when he’d listened so patiently to her.
“So if he’s not your boyfriend, why’s he cooking us dinner? What does he want?”
And there was no way she could tell him that deep inside, she was afraid, no…she was positive…she knew exactly what Walker wanted. What all men wanted from her.
That deep inside she was so afraid sex was the only thing she was good for.
“He wants to cook us dinner,” she said. “What’s the matter? Don’t you like him?”
And how weird was having this conversation? She’d been on more than a few dates since her divorce was final. Men were always asking her out, always had, even when she was married. But, unlike her mother, she’d been faithful to Greg.
She took great pride in that.
Tori had never figured on having to introduce Brandon to any of the men she went out with because she kept her relationships simple and without strings. She never went out with the same man more than three times, always kept things light. She didn’t want to be involved with another man, didn’t want to count on another man to take care of her when the two men she’d counted on had let her down.
“He’s okay,” Brandon said after a moment. “I mean, he didn’t arrest me after the fight and he stopped Mr. and Mrs. Nash from trying to get me into more trouble.”
“See? He’s not so bad.”
“But he’s trying to get Aunt Layne into trouble.”
“Aunt Layne will be okay because she didn’t do anything wrong.” She hoped.
He sighed. “Fine. He can cook for us but that doesn’t mean I have to like him.”
“No,” she said slowly, “but he’s going through the trouble of fixing us a meal so you’ll be polite, do you understand?”
Brandon rolled his eyes.
“Is that some sort of new way you crazy kids have of saying ‘Yes, Mom, whatever you say, Mom, you’re the most awesomest, coolest mom ever, Mom’?”
His lips twitched. “There’s no such word as awesomest.”
“There should be. And my face should be listed under the definition of it in the dictionary.”
“You’re so weird,” he said, but he settled back down close to her.
She put her arm around his shoulder, ridiculously pleased when he snuggled clos
e to her side. She smoothed his hair back. “Don’t I know it.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE KID WANTED to chop Walker into tiny pieces and feed him down the garbage disposal.
Or at least, kick him out of his house.
Brandon had been unfailingly polite ever since Walker returned—if you called being laconic polite. He said “yes, please” and “no, thank you” in a way that Walker knew he was really saying, “Eat dirt and die!”
Brandon’s dislike for him was obvious and heartfelt. The kid wore his resentment on his sleeve, his anger on his face. He didn’t want Walker near his mother, watched him warily as if Walker was a jungle cat and was about to pounce at a moment’s notice.
Brandon loved his mom. He may not like her at times, may wish she was different and may, most times, be mad as hell at her but he loved her. It was good to see, especially after everything Tori had admitted to Walker the other night at the hospital.
“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Tori asked, standing in the doorway in a pair of baggy sweats and a sweatshirt that fell off her shoulders showing the wide strap of a tank top. Her hair was pulled back from her face by a wide band and her face was clean of makeup, the scratches already fading. Her complexion was still pale and her mouth was tight with pain when she moved too quickly.
She was beautiful.
She made his breath catch. Made him want.
He shouldn’t be there, should never have given in to the urge to check on her, but once he had and he’d seen that she needed help, that she’d needed him, he hadn’t been able to walk away.
He should’ve let them order pizza.
“I’m sure,” he said, more gruffly than necessary as he sprinkled breadcrumbs on top of the ground beef he’d put into a bowl. “I’ve been making this since I was Brandon’s age.” He faced the kid who was sitting at the table sulking because Tori had insisted he stay in the kitchen with them instead of finishing his movie. “You know how to cook anything?”