Things We Never Said: A Hart’s Boardwalk Novel

by Young, Samantha

  “I don’t care about any of that. I didn’t know what was keeping you from me. Now I do. It was her. I know it was her … because you have never looked at me the way you looked at her. You have never sounded talking about me, not even at our wedding, the way you sound when you say her name.”

  Would Dahlia keep ruining things for him, then?

  Would she haunt him for the rest of his fuckin’ life, making it hard for him to connect with someone else?

  Because that’s what had happened, right?

  He’d kept Kiersten at arm’s length so she couldn’t pull “a Dahlia” on him.

  Sighing, he got out of his car, locked it up, and made his way into the building. Unlocking the door to his apartment, Michael stepped inside the airy space and tried not to process the emptiness. He hadn’t done much to make it a home. There was a couch, armchair, table with a lamp, and a TV in the living room. A table and chairs in the kitchen. A bed and bedside tables in the bedroom. It had a built-in closet, so he didn’t need anything else in there.

  Their Everett house was filled with all the feminine things that seemed like nonsense to Michael. Now he realized Kiersten had made that place their home. She was right.

  He slumped on his bed.

  He’d checked out on her.

  And she wasn’t even trying to make their divorce hard to get her revenge, even though he deserved it.

  He’d fucked over a good woman, the way Dahlia had fucked over him.

  Lying back on the bed, Michael groaned, hating the way her face invaded his mind. It was eleven years since they’d met. Eleven years.

  Still feeling like this … well, that shit wasn’t right.

  Jesus, his friend had told him he was dating his ex-wife, and still his thoughts went to Dahlia. It was her who caused this pain in his chest, like someone digging a small knife right above his heart and twisting it. He wished he had someone, anyone, even the redhead from the office who would normally be off limits, to fuck. To fuck until he’d stop thinking about her. Not Kiersten.

  Apparently never Kiersten.

  Always her.

  “Why’d it have to be her?” he murmured into the room. “Go haunt someone else.”

  The next morning Dad made me a champion’s breakfast of pancakes, eggs, and bacon, covered with a generous dollop of maple syrup. I couldn’t finish it.

  “You can eat more than that,” he protested.

  “Dad, I don’t eat like this anymore. I don’t know if you know this about women, but when we hit thirty, our metabolism decides ‘fuck it,’ puts its feet up, and decides it’s done a lifetime duty in twenty-nine years.”

  He chuckled. “Who cares? Men like curves.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I don’t care what men like, Dad. I care what I like.”

  Dad winked at me. “Good girl.”

  Shaking my head with a smile, I pushed my plate away. Then I snuck what had been on my mind since I’d woken up into the conversation. Okay, I didn’t sneak it in. I threw it in like a wrecking ball. “So, how do you feel about this separation, Dad?”

  His fork froze halfway to his mouth, and he cut me a dirty look.

  I smiled sheepishly. “I’m worried about you.”

  “Don’t be.” His voice had gone all gruff in that way it did when he didn’t want to talk about something.

  “Dad?”

  “What about you? You seeing anyone? What happened to that sheriff fella?”

  I winced. Why did I tell my dad everything? “That was years ago. You know that.”

  “He sounded like a good guy. Never understood what happened there.”

  He was lying. He knew what happened there. And it was mean of him to mention it. So, of course, I was mean back. “The sex was too good. I couldn’t take it.”

  Dad flicked me a dark look. “Dahlia.”

  Exasperated, I shrugged. “Why should I talk about my personal life if you won’t talk about Mom?”

  “Do you have a personal life?”

  “Dad!”

  “Well, do you?” He dropped his fork and looked me straight in the eye, which should have prepared me for what was coming but didn’t. “Mike’s getting divorced. He’s just waiting on it finalizing.”

  Pain and longing crushed my chest, and I looked away.

  “You’ve both been unhappy for a long time. You need to sit down with him and talk.”

  My dad: matchmaker. “Dad—”

  “He’s a good man, Bluebell. I care about him. I’d like knowing you had someone like him at your back.”

  Michael was a good man. But he wasn’t my man. “He’s not for me.”

  “I want you to be happy.”

  Staring at my plate, I smiled. “I am happy, Dad.”

  “And maybe if I hadn’t known you your whole life, I’d believe that.”

  Getting up, I wandered over to the coffee machine, determined to change the subject. “What time is your shift today?”

  “Two this afternoon. I finish at two in the morning. What are your plans?”

  Relieved he was going with the subject change, I leaned against the counter and smiled for real. “I think I’ll go into the city. I’ve missed it.”

  “Don’t suppose you’ll be going anywhere near Bova’s?”

  I chuckled. Bova’s was my dad’s favorite bakery. “I guess it’s not far from Quincy Market. I think I can make the trip. Anything in particular you want?”

  “You choose.” He grinned boyishly at the prospect.

  Laughing, I shook my head. “You know you’ll have to hit the gym to work off a trip to Bova’s.”

  “Worth it.” He stood up. “You want to take a walk around town with your dad before I have to get ready for work?”

  I couldn’t think of anything better. “I’d like that.”

  And so we did walk around Everett, and wave after wave of nostalgia washed over me as we walked. We talked about the past, about almost everything and nothing. What we didn’t talk about was Mom or Michael. I thought that meant Dad was letting it go. But I should have known that if I wasn’t letting it go about Mom, Dad definitely wasn’t letting it go about Michael.

  * * *

  Bailey had called that morning, a call I returned as soon as Dad departed for work. My friend was understandably worried about me, and I kept her on the phone for two hours while I caught her up on what had gone down with my brothers and sister. She spent a good fifteen minutes cursing and being pissed at Dermot for what he’d said.

  I was trying to calm her down when a deep, cultured voice asked in the background, “What on earth is happening?”

  It was Vaughn.

  Bailey stopped yelling. “What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to see you,” he answered dryly. “I see now that was a terrible idea.”

  “Ha.” She sniffed haughtily. “I’m on the phone with Dahlia.”

  “And that constitutes using every curse word known to man? It’s an odd friendship you have there.”

  I smirked at his sarcasm.

  “You know, you’re very pretty when you don’t open your mouth,” my best friend replied.

  “I know for a fact that you prefer when my mouth is open and working.”

  “Okay, best friend can hear everything!” I yelled.

  Bailey chuckled. “Dahlia can hear you.”

  His tone changed. “Is she all right?”

  He sounded concerned. That was nice.

  “She’s fine. However, her brother Dermot makes Vanessa look like an angel.”

  “Not true,” I disagreed, feeling the need to defend Dermot against that accusation despite his reaction to my reappearance. Vanessa was a demon hellhound in a woman’s body.

  “Would you like me to have him killed?” Vaughn sounded worryingly serious.

  Bailey answered, “Let’s see how the visit goes. I’ll get back to you.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’ll let you go.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “No, I’ve had y
ou on the phone for two hours, and it sounds like Prince Charming wants to work his mouth.”

  Bailey chuckled. “I wish he could hear you right now. On second thought, he likes a woman with a smart mouth. He might fall in love with you.”

  “Not possible,” I replied. “I’ll call you later.”

  “You better.”

  We hung up, and I found myself alone in the house.

  Just like that, it felt like the walls were coming in on me. I couldn’t get out of the house fast enough. Not only did I pick up a box of baked goodies from Bova’s to take home, I spent hours in the city. I didn’t get a bus home until ten o’ clock, and I took myself to bed as soon as I got home.

  The house was cold and lonely without Dad in it.

  Thankfully, after hours of walking, sleep came quickly.

  * * *

  The next morning, Dad surprised me by getting up at nine, early considering he usually didn’t get home until around three. I knew it was because he wanted to spend as much time as possible with me before I went back to Hartwell. No decision had been made yet about when that would be.

  I guess when I was certain Dad was going to be okay.

  What I didn’t realize was that Dad was equally determined to make sure I was okay before I went back to Hartwell and as good as his intentions were, he went about it the wrong way.

  That day we went to Angie’s Diner, and Winnie, the sixty-year-old owner, and Angie’s daughter greeted me like I’d never left. I thought that was nice. Part of my fear of coming home was how everyone else, not only my family, would react to me. Dad and I hung out there, and we talked more about life. He told me stories about Leo and Levi that made me laugh, and I grew more excited than nervous about meeting them at dinner the following day.

  My time with Dad that day was peaceful, and I was lulled into a false sense of security.

  Everything went to shit at seven o’clock.

  “Dress nice, we’re having steak,” Dad had said later that afternoon.

  I hadn’t thought anything of his comment. Or the fact that he’d asked me to set the dining table, even though it was only him and me. It was kind of a tradition around here to dress nice and eat in the dining room when we were having steak to show our appreciation for Dad’s favorite food and gratitude for being able to afford it.

  When the doorbell rang at seven, I knew I’d been extremely naïve.

  “I’ll get it,” Dad said before I could question him.

  My stomach roiled slightly with unease when the doorbell rang. I think my body knew before I did.

  The murmur of masculine voices sounded from the living room, and as they grew closer, I began to recognize the voice that didn’t belong to my dad.

  I’d recognize that voice anywhere.

  Dad came through the kitchen doorway, his expression wary but stoic, and I braced myself.

  Michael stepped inside behind him and jolted to a stop in shock.

  Shit.

  Not only had my dad invited him for dinner, he hadn’t told him I’d be there.

  The whole world seemed to disappear, and it was like my body had abruptly awoken from a very long sleep. My heart was pounding, my fingertips tingled, and my blood pumped through me with restless, voracious energy. Michael was here. Michael was standing right there. Alive and vital and masculine and … everything.

  His dark eyes met mine and I saw the muscle jump in his cheek as he tried to figure out what the hell was going on. The beard he’d worn the last time I’d seen him had been shaved off and now the lower half of his cheeks and jaw were covered in a layer of sexy stubble.

  The urge to cross the room and clasp his face in my hands so I could feel that stubble prickle my skin was overwhelming.

  Thankfully, I managed to curb the urge.

  “What’s going on, Cian?” Michael’s gaze never left mine.

  I wondered if it was impossible for him to look away. It certainly was for me.

  God, I’d missed him.

  Longing crawled across my chest and dug its sharp fingernails in through my bone and flesh. An impossible, aching weight.

  “Look—” My dad stepped between us, his expression determined. Still, I saw a flicker of wariness in his blue eyes when he turned to Michael. “Mike, I didn’t tell Dahlia you were coming either. I thought we should have a meal together. I’m not suggesting we sit and hash things out. Let’s sit, have steak, and catch up.”

  Michael shot him a look of disbelief.

  Oh, Dad, this was a bad move.

  And I feared it was only going to end in my tears.

  “C’mon.” Dad put an arm around Michael’s shoulders and led him out of the kitchen, presumably to the dining table.

  The air rushed out of me and I reached for a kitchen chair to steady my trembling legs.

  Dad returned, trying to hide the fact that he was worried, but I knew him too well. I shook my head at him. “Dad.”

  “Take him a beer, and I’ll get the stuff to set another place at the table.” He reached into the refrigerator for a bottle. Then he paused, shooting me a look. “Shit, I didn’t think.”

  Frowning, I didn’t quite understand at first, and then it dawned on me. “Dad,” I said, lowering my voice, “I haven’t had a drink in nine years and I’m good with that. One of my closest friend’s bar is our regular hangout spot.” I smiled. “I can take a beer to someone.”

  He crossed the room, kissed my forehead, and handed me the Budweiser.

  As soon as my hand curled around the chilled bottle, I began to tremble again.

  “Maybe you should take it to him after all,” I whispered.

  “Get it over with, Bluebell. Like a Band-Aid, remember.”

  Reluctantly, I nodded and pulled my shoulders back. It was like I was preparing to march into war.

  Little did I know.

  At first, I strode out of the kitchen, but my strides slowed with my anxiety as I turned left into the dining room.

  Michael wasn’t sitting at the table. He had his back to me, staring at the framed photographs that covered the wall. I took the opportunity to drink him in. His broad back filled out the fitted dark-brown leather bomber jacket he wore. The fact that he hadn’t taken his jacket off wasn’t a good sign.

  “Did you know you’re not in any of these photos?” He made me jump a little with his abruptness.

  Instead of answering, I walked toward him. I wanted to stand closer to him. Just a little closer. Catching me out of his peripheral, he turned his head from the photos to watch me approach. The chill in his eyes made me slow to a halt, and I gingerly held out the beer to him.

  He flicked a disgusted look at it, not reaching for it.

  I lowered my arm, bracing myself for what was coming.

  “Well?” he asked.

  Realizing he was still talking about the photos, I looked at the wall. The fact that my mother had erased me from the dining room wall was something I didn’t like to think about. In fact, the deep-seated pain it caused was like a huge splinter under my skin. Some days it hurt for hours, the pain worsening the more I tried to work it out. The days I didn’t think about it were the days it laid painlessly beneath layers of toughened skin.

  “I know.” I stared unseeing at the photos. “My mom kind of erased me.”

  “Do you blame her?” he bit out.

  Fuck.

  I was horrified that he’d think her erasing my existence was understandable.

  Something flickered in Michael’s expression, and he wrenched his eyes from mine. “Jesus fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Everything okay?” Dad walked into the dining room carrying a plate and cutlery for Michael. It certainly took him long enough.

  “I’m not staying, Cian,” Michael announced, the words heavy with his fury. “If I stay, I’m going to say shit I can’t take back.”

  Dad sighed heavily. “Mike—”

  “No.” He cut him off. “You cannot expect me to sit down and eat steak with the tw
o of you like nothing ever happened.” He turned to me again, imprisoning me in the dark ire of his gaze. “You didn’t just leave, Dahlia, you fuckin’ took off and wouldn’t let me know where you went. For nine years!”

  I flinched as he raised his voice, incensed. And rightly so. However, I’d thought, or I’d hoped, that him having married someone else meant he’d moved on. That he didn’t care anymore. As much as that idea had ripped me apart, I realized it was better than this heaving lividity beneath his words. Michael had never been an angry person, even with all the issues between him and his dad.

  God, had I changed him?

  I guessed it was another crime to lay at my feet, huh.

  “Where have you been and why are you back?” he spat.

  “Mike, calm down.”

  “Dad, it’s okay.” I shook my head at him, and then, even though it was difficult, I forced myself to meet Michael’s gaze. “I’ve been in Hartwell.”

  His nostrils flared. “Your friend said you were only there on vacation.”

  “She … she knows who you are. She was covering for me.”

  “Jesus Christ,” he said, disgust flattening his expression. Somehow it was worse than the anger. “I never met such a coward.”

  “That’s enough,” Dad cautioned.

  “Yeah, it is.” Michael curled his upper lip. “Yeah, it’s definitely enough.” He moved toward me and stopped. “Get out of my way.”

  Reaching for the numbness that had gotten me through the bad days this past decade, it eluded me as I sank back against the wall, trying to meld with it so Michael could walk past without touching me.

  His expression was stony as he stormed by me and a few seconds later, we listened to the front door open and then slam shut.

  Pain shuddered through me, and I gasped for breath.

  All these years … all these years and he was still so mad at me.

  “Do you blame her?”

  “Bluebell,” Dad said. “I am so sorry.”

  I shook my head, staring at the floor. “He hates me.”