“What now, Rocco?”
Rocco cocked his head as if weighing his options. She filled his travel bowl with fresh water and waited for him to finish lapping it up.
She sat in the driver’s seat without turning the key.
“Really, Rocco? You think we should?” Rocco groaned in response. “I don’t know. I’m not sure we should just stop by Mom and Dad’s house.”
After visiting with Miss Molly, Savannah had been left with the realization that though she’d never be whole again, there was a giant part of her heart that could heal. She had to admit to herself that her whole reason for coming here was to try to bring her mother back to good health. If Miss Molly was right—and considering the boxes Savannah had found in Mom’s studio, she had to be—Mom needed emotional healing as well.
Savannah had never considered the fact that her mother would have had to mourn the loss of her daughter, too. She always figured her mother would be happy to be rid of her. To not have a daily reminder of her son’s tragic death. To not have to look at the face of the person who should have been more careful.
Savannah had found nothing but acceptance since she came back to town. She had half expected to be chased out with pitchforks. Her mother hadn’t been warm and friendly, but could Savannah blame her? She had to be honest—Savannah hadn’t exactly been the picture of sunshine and joy herself.
The blood test results would be in tomorrow. Savannah would be heading back to her life, away from this place. She’d come back when it was time for the donation (if she couldn’t politely persuade her stepdad to allow her to donate from a distance), but her time here would be put behind her.
Before she left, she knew she had to do her best to make amends with her mother. To let her know that leaving ten years ago was Savannah’s own doing. To apologize for killing her only son. To beg forgiveness for not being there for the funeral.
And maybe—just maybe…
Savannah shook her head at the crazy thoughts flooding her head.
Maybe she could fix things enough to stay.
Maybe there was the tiniest of possibilities that she could have the life she had always dreamed about. With Quentin.
Savannah’s lap buzzed with an incoming text. Huh, her stepdad. They must have been on the same wave-length.
Savannah opened the text and clenched her teeth so tight that she bit her tongue in the process.
“Meet me at the hospital. Your mother was brought by ambulance.”
Immediately after reading that horrifying text, another popped up, this time from Quentin.
“Your mom is okay, but you might want to come see her. She’s being admitted to ICU. I can pick you up and fill you in if you want.”
Chapter Eleven
Savannah wiped her sweating palms on her shorts as she paused outside her mother’s room. She had parked in the shade and left the windows open for Rocco, but she knew she couldn’t leave him there long.
How could she go in there when this was all her fault?
She had no idea what medically had happened, but she didn’t think it was a coincidence that her mood had lifted just before her mother fell ill.
This was why Savannah needed to constantly punish herself.
Bad things happened because of her.
The bright fluorescent lights combined with her shallow breathing threatened to knock Savannah out cold. She leaned against the cheerfully painted yellow wall for support. Her stepfather was suddenly in front of her, his hands on her shoulders, concern in his eyes. She must have managed to convince him that she was fine, because as his face grew bigger and smaller and closer and farther, he kept talking. What was he saying? Oh, complications. Something about chemotherapy. Something else about expediting the donation process. He used big words that she couldn’t wrap her mind around. She felt like she was floating in front of him. She had no awareness of her feet—did she leave them somewhere?
Dad led her in to her mother’s bedside. Mom was connected to all sorts of beeping, humming machines. Sound asleep. A dried trail of tears on the side of her mother’s face cut directly into Savannah’s heart, making her wish she were the one in the bed instead.
Savannah kissed her mother’s head, still not feeling like she had any control over her body.
“I’ll give you a minute alone,” Dad said before leaving the room.
Savannah wanted to scream out to him—to beg him not to leave. Savannah couldn’t be trusted. But her throat was too tight and her mind too foggy to say a thing.
Words wouldn’t come, so Savannah sat in the chair by the bed and watched her mother’s chest rise and fall with each breath. She looked frail. Old. Beaten by life.
Not at all like the strong, stoic mother who had raised Savannah.
Savannah noticed her throat vibrating before she realized she had begun to softly hum. A silent tear leaked from her mother’s eye, running down to the sterile-white pillow and quickly absorbing into the cotton.
She was humming the same tune her mother used to hum while rocking Brandon. She couldn’t remember, but she thought her mother may have hummed it to Savannah when she was younger, too.
Savannah’s mother reached a hand out without opening her eyes. In a trance, Savannah met her partway. They linked their fingers together as Savannah continued to hum. She leaned forward and kissed her mother’s smooth knuckles.
Her mom tightened her grip. Almost immediately, the machines began to beep like crazy and a team of nurses came rushing into the room. Savannah was pushed to the side, and without waiting to see what happened, she ran.
***
Stumbling down the paved trail, Savannah tried to talk herself into going to the bar instead. This was a terrible, horrible, worst-ever idea.
She didn’t know the exact location of her destination, but she had a hunch.
Savannah hadn’t managed to shake the trance she had been in at the hospital. She felt like she was watching herself. Watching as she parked the car near the metal gate, leaving the keys in the ignition, the door wide open, and the reminder alarm dinging. Watching as she marched down the rolling hill toward the sunset. Watching as Rocco stayed close to her side. Watching as she passed old landmarks which told her she was heading to the right area.
Watching as she found Brandon’s headstone.
Watching as she fell to the ground.
And then she could watch no more.
Hot pain shot through her gut, like someone had stabbed her with a searing fireplace poker. Vomit gathered in her throat. Her breaths came fast and shallow, forcing her shoulders up and down and her head to become even more lightheaded.
Trembling, she reached out and traced the letters on the stone. Her fingers recoiled at the coldness of the rock. Her ears rang with her tortured gasp.
Brandon would be so cold in there. In the ground.
Savannah wrapped her arms around the headstone, desperate to share her warmth. Maybe if she warmed the stone enough, the warmth would penetrate down. She pressed her cheek against the carved picture of her brother in his baseball uniform. In life, he had been full of vigor and joy. Etched into an eternal memory on this headstone, he looked like he could jump off and beg her to pitch the ball at any moment.
She clutched the stone tighter, ignoring the thorny bushes digging into her thighs. She didn’t care that the rough edge of the stone cut into her palms—she tightened her grip anyway.
The first sob surprised her as it shot out of her with the force of a caged-for-too-long lioness. As tears started gushing out of her eyes and trailing into her open mouth, she sobbed harder. No dam in the world could hold in this anguish—no amount of self-flagellation could stop this tsunami of emotion.
Rocco nudged at her arms, trying to get between her and what he must have assumed was the source of this uncharacteristic outburst. She could offer him no comfort—she was too lost. Too gone. She turned her head away so he wouldn’t see her tears and continued to release the emotion that had been turned off for so man
y years.
Her shoulders began to ache from clenching the stone, and her screams echoed off the surrounding trees and back to her, kicking her in the throat.
She should be in that ground.
Strong hands gripped her arms, carefully prying her away from the stone, pulling her to her feet, and turning her into a warm chest. She didn’t have the strength to pull away. She didn’t have the strength to hide her tears. The only thing she could do was clench his stiff uniform shirt and continue to bleed out her emotions.
***
Quentin held her as tight as he could—partly so she wouldn’t fall, partly because he wanted to squeeze out this demon she’d been carrying around for a decade.
He whispered words meant to soothe as she sobbed harder and harder, soaking his shirt and piercing his heart.
This was good. He had to believe it. She had come to the cemetery on her own. She had come face to face with her brother’s stone. She had to process the emotions in order to heal. He closed his eyes and prayed that he was right. He had listened to a whole lot of psycho-babble over the years, and never had anyone ever said it was better to keep emotions bottled inside.
She was releasing her sadness.
This had to be good.
At the moment, it felt like torture. Her quiet sadness and pain had been difficult. This was like being kicked in the nuts over and over.
None of his paramedic training had prepared him for this.
He had gone up to her mother’s hospital room, hoping to run into her. When Rick told him that Karyn had crashed and Savannah had disappeared, Quentin’s blood had turned to ice in his veins. Savannah was in too fragile of a state. Every terrible scenario he could imagine ran through his head as he had sprinted to his truck. He’d find her. He’d help her. He wouldn’t let anything bad happen to her again.
He didn’t know how he knew to come here. But as she clawed at his chest and poured out her anguish, he was so glad he did. She shouldn’t be alone at a time like this. She shouldn’t have been alone ten years ago. He never should have left her side, no matter how much she had pushed him away. He never should have given her the opportunity to leave town.
Quentin kissed the top of her head. She began to sink lower. He tightened his grip. He’d hold her up forever—she didn’t deserve to be in the mud.
“It’s all my fault.” Savannah’s muffled cries tore him to pieces. He felt tears gather in his own eyes as he relived the exact feelings he had experienced way back then.
“No. It was never your fault.”
“I should be in the ground, not him. I deserve to be in the ground.” She hiccupped and wailed, hitting his chest with feeble punches. He grabbed her wrists, stilling the motion.
“Savannah. No.” He kissed her knuckles. “Trading one life for another is not what anyone would ever want. Brandon certainly wouldn’t want that.”
“Brandon would want to be alive! He would want to run across the grass, not be buried beneath it!” Her anger dissolved as quickly as it came, driving more tears to the surface and making her gasp for air.
Quentin lowered them to the ground, pulling her onto his lap and cradling her against his chest.
“He never thrashed in the water. If I had known he was in trouble, I would have helped him. I didn’t know.”
“I know, baby. No one knew.”
“I didn’t know that drowning could be so, so,” She hiccupped. “So silent.”
“I didn’t either. Not until then.”
“Why didn’t anyone ever tell us? I thought I’d hear something. I thought there’d be a warning.”
He stroked her arm and showered kisses upon her head. He didn’t know how to help her. How to heal her.
All he knew was how to love her.
“I don’t know how to live without him. I can go through the motions of living, but I’m no more alive than the picture on his stone.”
Quentin led her hand to his chest, placing it on his beating heart.
“Feel that?”
Savannah’s swollen, red-rimmed eyes stared at their joined hands. She nodded slowly.
“I’m alive.” He placed their joined hands over her heart. “You’re alive.” He cupped her chin and raised it toward him. “Our love is alive.”
He kissed her gently, not wanting to distract her from her mourning—only wanting to reassure her that he was here for her.
“I don’t know how to be happy.”
He wasn’t sure he heard her right. Her words were small, quiet, faint. But they replayed over and over in his head until he was certain.
“Let me help you.”
She relaxed into his embrace and fell fast asleep.
Chapter Twelve
Savannah awoke to a raging headache and a crook in her neck. Apparently all that crap she had heard about crying being a cleansing release was BS. She didn’t feel better—she felt like a gang of giants had danced across her forehead and eyeballs.
She didn’t mind the crook in the neck, though, since it was simply a side effect of sleeping in her hero’s arms.
She smiled up at his scruffy chin, then pushed herself onto her elbow so she could get a good look at him sleeping.
Yesterday had probably been the worst day in recent history, but today was off to a great start.
Once Quentin had assured her that her mother was okay, she had been able to relax a bit. Seeing Brandon’s stone and finally allowing herself to grieve had helped in some small way—though she wasn’t sure she’d admit it to anyone.
Maybe Miss Molly’s worry jar thing had some sort of magical property after all.
Quentin woke up under her perusal, catching her staring. He smiled and mussed her hair, then pulled her in for a bear hug. Nose pressed against his chest, she fought for a breath. How did he manage to smell so delicious? Even pre-shower. If she were to die of smothering, this was definitely the way she’d want to go.
His hands began to massage her back, finding the pain in her neck immediately. She moaned into his touch, amazed at his ability to sense pain and heal it.
She thought she’d be more embarrassed to have had him see her cry. But he never made her feel bad about herself.
“Hey, Quentin.”
His slow, seductive smile awakened her in a completely different way. Her body pressed closer to his. His hand moved down to the curve of her ass, stroking, swirling, teasing.
“Yes, my Peaches?”
“Thank you.”
He rolled over so she was pinned beneath him, his body—his eager, ready body if the poking in her hip was any indication—pressed to hers.
“You have absolutely nothing to thank me for. I’m the one who is thankful here.”
She put her hands on the sides of his face. Was there any man more perfect?
She knew the answer. She had met plenty of men. None were as selfless, giving, loving, accepting. Never mind the fact that he was built like a male stripper. His lean, muscular physique certainly didn’t cost him any points in the “you-can-be-every-month-in-the-hot-guy-calendar” department.
Her hands drifted into his hair. She loved the way he closed his eyes when she stroked his head. She tugged his ears to bring his lips to hers. He didn’t put up a fight.
His kiss had the power to make the world spin. Though scientist might disagree, she knew for a fact that what he did to her was the single reason the planet continued orbiting the sun.
His tongue played with hers, swooping, stroking, waltzing. He nipped her bottom lip playfully, and she punished him with a hair tug and a deeper kiss.
He moaned, clearly approving of her punishment.
He adjusted himself so his hand could roam down her body—meandering over her curves and finding a resting spot on her hip. He massaged deeply as his tongue continued to wreak havoc with hers.
His fingers danced lower, to the top of her panties. He must have removed her pants before they went to sleep last night. She sighed. She moaned. With her hips thrusting upward, she invit
ed him to enter without knocking.
He continued teasing, letting his fingers skim her lower abdomen. His kisses trailed off to her ear, then her neck, all while his fingertips grazed the top of her private hair line. She shivered at the delicate intrusion, wanting him to plunge lower.
Quentin’s tongue danced over her collarbone while his hands pushed her shirt up, revealing her bra. His hot breath shot through the thin fabric, pebbling her nipples immediately. She arched and moaned, which made him laugh and tease even more.
What was she telling herself about him being the perfect man? Because as soon as she became capable of forming a coherent thought, she was so changing her mind!
The man tortured. And he delighted in his torture! The nerve!
His laughter came to an abrupt halt when she managed to get her hands down the front of his pants.
“Not so funny now, huh?”
Quentin grunted and groaned and thrust himself into her hand. She squeezed as he lost himself to the feelings she had been dying to give him.
He pulled her hand away without any warning, then pinned both of her arms up over her head. He kissed her arm, nuzzled her neck.
She was going to die from the flame he lit in her. Dammit, he should have been a firefighter so he could put her fire out with his hose.
“Give me your hose.”
Oops.
He stopped mid-nuzzle and studied her face with the most quizzical and comical of looks. Why did she say that? How did he manage to break her filter?
“I’m sure you think you heard me say something really crazy, but I assure you it was not me.”
“Really, now? So it wasn’t you who was asking for my hose? ‘Cause I gotta tell ya, that’s not a request I hear often.”
She cursed herself for blushing. Blushing! Like a thirteen-year-old being given her first kiss.
Savannah didn’t blush—not at times like these. She was a master seductress. Or something like that.
Not Over You (Healing Springs, Book 1) Page 12