by M. O'Keefe
We’d lost Ben last year. He’d gone into remission after the chemo three years ago. And Dylan had a real good eighteen months with his father.
They fixed a lot of cars together.
But frankly, I think Ben staying alive as long as he did, and fighting as hard as he had, was because of Dylan.
Family. Love. Forgiveness. Those were powerful things.
Bedrock kinds of things.
Dylan found Smith for me, brought him back to me on a private jet for my birthday. I’d fallen into Smith’s arms and wept and apologized and wept some more. He forgave me. I was still working on forgiving myself. Smith still lived in Wyoming. He said he needed the sky and the space. But we went to visit, and he came to us at least once a year.
Dylan’s phone beeped, and he fished it out of his handsome new suit jacket and checked the text. I straightened his tie. It was a pretty purple tie that reminded me of spring and new beginnings and hopeful stuff. He’d put up a fight at first, but in the end he wore it.
He had a hard time saying no to me, something I tried not to exploit. But it was difficult when a man like Dylan would pull down the stars for me. And my man did look good in a suit.
“Is it Max?” I asked, because my handsome man in a suit was frowning.
“No. Not Max. Max…” He trailed off and shook his head. Right, we wouldn’t talk about Max.
“Has Blake—”
“Gone out of his mind? Yes. As per usual. But it’s Margaret telling me to get to my seat. She and Smith are getting dirty looks from people who want my seat.”
He slipped the phone in his pocket but didn’t move.
“I suppose it’s time,” I said, looking around for the clipboard lady.
“I got you something,” he said, reaching into his pocket.
“Yeah!” I clapped my hands. Because I did like it when Dylan got me things. He wasn’t extravagant, having figured out who I am and what I like. So, when he got me something it was usually small and always perfect.
He took my hand, pressed a kiss to my palm, and then with his wide, rough fingers carefully draped a gold bracelet over my wrist and struggled with the tiny clasp.
“You want some help?” I asked.
“I got it,” he muttered.
Finally, on the third try he succeeded. And he dropped his hands. It was a bracelet with a delicate gold chain, but in the center there was a wide flat gold section.
“It’s engraved,” he said, and I leaned down to see the words.
You and Me was etched into the gold.
“The other side, too,” he said. Carefully I turned the bracelet and on the back it said, in big block letters, sturdy and implacable. Undeniable, even:
BEDROCK.
You and Me. Bedrock.
Perfect.
I clasped my wrist and that perfect, perfect bracelet to my chest.
“How did we get here?” I asked, full of wonder and love.
“You pulled me out of the darkness,” he said. “I had no choice.”
But the truth is never that simple. There was darkness in both of us. And light. I could not claim to have saved him. I could only say that the moment I answered that phone, we began to save each other. Over and over again, in big and small ways.
The truth, our truth, was complicated. But it was beautiful. And it was real.
Love was a choice and we made it every day.
Bedrock.
This one is for Andy, Allycia, and Pillen.
For the sun-soaked Florida days. For the card games. The Margaritas. The walks on the beach. This week every year fills my soul.
Acknowledgments
I thought a lot about community while writing this book, and I have three very large communities that I could not live without.
The Truth About Him would never have been written without the parents of my kids’ friends, who took my kids away on weekends and picked them up from school when Adam and I couldn’t get there. Who fed me wine and dinner when I needed it, and who have become my very dear friends. Thank you to: Jenny, Eedit, Leslie, Lizzy, Emmi, Lorna, Leanne, Shawna, Tory, Sarah, Jennie O, Elaine, Alaine, Katy, and Ginette.
And to my writing community. The authors who inspire me, who keep me honest, who push me to try new things, to write better and harder. Who have provided hours and hours of reading pleasure. Whose books are on my keeper shelf, who I’m just so privileged to know. Thank you.
And to the readers who blog and tweet and review, and those who don’t, but pass their favorites on to friends and family. Thank you for sharing so enthusiastically your enthusiasm about romance novels.
BY M. O’KEEFE
Everything I Left Unsaid
The Truth About Him
WRITTEN AS MOLLY O’KEEFE
THE BOYS OF BISHOP NOVELS
Wild Child
Never Been Kissed
Between the Sheets
Indecent Proposal
CROOKED CREEK NOVELS
Can’t Buy Me Love
Can’t Hurry Love
Crazy Thing Called Love
About the Author
M. O’KEEFE can remember the exact moment her love of romance began: in seventh grade, when Mrs. Nelson handed her the worn paperback copy of The Thorn Birds. It wasn’t long before she was filling up notebooks with her own story ideas, featuring girls with glasses and talking cats. Writing as Molly O’Keefe, she has won two RITA awards and three RT Reviewers Choice Awards. She lives in Toronto, Canada, with her husband, two kids, and the largest heap of dirty laundry in North America. When she’s not writing, she’s imagining what she would say if she ever got stuck in an elevator with Bruce Springsteen.
molly-okeefe.com
Facebook.com/MollyOKeefeBooks
@MollyOKwrites
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