by Lena Black
“That’s not the only reason,” she confesses. “I’m afraid if I let him in, I’ll lose him too.”
“Me too, but that’s a part of life, Maya. We lose the ones we love. Especially parents. It’s the natural order of things. And if we’re lucky, that will be the greatest loss we’ll ever know.”
She stares blankly into the shadowed edges of the kitchen, a chill running down her spine. She almost resembles Caleb looking out into the chilly dark a few moments ago.
“I wouldn’t survive if I lost Chase.”
“I know. But that doesn’t mean we shut people out because we’re scared of getting hurt, does it?”
“No.”
“Oh,” Caleb mutters as he walks through the door, “I didn’t realize anyone was in here.”
I shoot Maya a look.
And she nods.
I pick up my plate and announce, “I’m just going to take this and head upstairs.”
I walk toward the door, glimpsing at them over my shoulder.
“Would you like a sandwich?” she asks.
“I would,” he answers, a look of pure gratitude in his eyes.
Christmas morning, Damian and I cook everyone a large pancake breakfast and then we exchange gifts. Maya and Caleb seem to have worked through some of their issues the night before. It wasn’t perfect.
It was better.
We fly home the next morning, greeted by Liam at the airport. He drives us back to Artemis, reporting the goings-on of the last few days. Luckily, nothing went awry while we were gone.
When we arrive home, Sloan is on the couch waiting for us.
“Can I speak with you both?” she asks, twirling the ends of her cherry red hair anxiously. She appears nervous, terrified even, her fair skin a nearly ghost white.
“Of course,” I answer, “you can always come to us.”
She tears up and lets out a shuddered breath.
“What’s wrong, red?” Hunt inquires with a furrowed brow, using his little nickname for her.
I walk over to her and take a seat beside her on the couch.
“I don’t know how to put this.” She tilts her head forward, and I toss my arm about her back.
“Please, Sloan, tell us. You’re really starting to scare me.”
“I-I came to a decision.”
“Okay,” I say in a way as if to suggest she further on her statement.
“You’ve both been so great with me, and my…situation. I can never repay you for all you’ve done.”
“There’s no need to worry because there’s nothing to repay,” Damian says, moving over to the other side of the C-shaped couch and taking a seat.
“You’ve given me so much and offered so much more. But…”
“But?”
“But I will no longer be a burden to either of you,” she sputters out finally.
I shut my eyes and shake my head, trying to make sense of her ramblings. “I don’t understand.”
“I have to agree with Gabrielle. I don’t quite understand what you’re trying to tell us.”
She takes a breath, steeling herself. “I’ve decided to give the babies up for adoption.”
I shoot Damian a terrified look. The saddened disbelief in his eyes and Sloan’s heartache is more than I can bear. We’ve come to love these unborn bundles, excited for their arrival into this world. And, now it will be a day of heartbreak.
“I would like your help deciding on a good couple to take them in.”
The thought of those beautiful babies taken away by strangers knocks the breath right of me, like a baseball bat to the gut. We’ve been there for them, Sloan and the babies, watching them grow, taking her to every appointment, and falling in love with them with each passing day.
Tears swell in my eyes, and my chest burns as hot lumps of emotion rise into my throat.
I turn to Hunt, my husband and Dom for assurance and guidance, but he seems to have fallen victim to the horrible notion as well.
“Damian,” I whisper with panic in my voice, pleading for him to take control, to fix this, to say something, anything.
I want him to make this better.
“We’ll help you with whatever you need,” he says, emotionlessly, and my heart shatters into a million tiny fragments.
Chapter Fourteen
Midnight City
New Year’s came and went, the promise of fresh starts and new possibilities. Yet, it’s felt like anything but since the announcement of the twins planned adoption. We found an agency to work with, and they’ve given us files of possible couples looking to start a family. A part of me feels for these people, in similar circumstances to my own, unable to bear a child for one reason or another. Deep down, I admire Sloan for making this decision. She’s giving one of these families something they can’t for themselves.
Even though Hunt is hands on in the process, he’s been distant the past two weeks. He isn’t moody or irritable or anything. Just distant. It kills me to be near him and feel a country away.
I’ve wondered if it has to do with Vanessa and the child they lost. He hasn’t mentioned it much past the initial conversation, but it’s clear it weighs on him.
Why else keep those pictures of her pregnancy hidden in the dresser?
Or is it me and my barren womb?
He is never vague in his opinion on kids. He always lit up whenever he talked about having them with me, a conversation we’ve avoided as of late. When we visit Bee and Cat, he turns into another person, someone I never see, someone childlike and free.
Perhaps the blow was one too many.
With Damian in Chicago on business and Sloan visiting her mother in the hippie turned yuppie district of Height & Ashbury this weekend, I step back from everything and stay with Maya and Chase at their little love nest.
Aka my old apartment.
A wedding gift from me.
Since Chase’s place isn’t in the most desirable area of San Francisco at night, I’ve allowed them to live here (rent free) as long as they like.
But I had ulterior motives.
It gave me an excuse to come back to the place I considered home once upon a time.
Sunday night, I treat Maya and Chase to Chinese at my favorite restaurant in the whole city, The Golden Dragon, a hole-in-the-wall in Chinatown. I’ll never forget when Hunt brought it home for the first time. It’s become our place, a Sunday ritual when we aren’t traveling or at some boring function.
After we stuff ourselves blind, we head back to the apartment and relax on the couch and watch ‘It Happened One Night’ on TV. Once Gable and Colbert find happily ever after, we talk and drink some wine. Beer for Chase.
When the clock nears midnight, I receive a text and check my phone.
FROM: HUNT
Check the front door.
RECIEVED: JAN. 11, 2015 11:43PM
What?
Damian isn’t expected home until tomorrow.
I spring off the couch and skip-walk to the door, half expecting him to be on the other side when I open it. Instead, a box is sitting on the welcome mat. I pick it up and carry it to the counter that partitions the kitchen from the living room, ripping the lid off. It’s a pair of jeans and a delicate silk blouse neatly folded under fragile tissue paper.
My phone pings again.
FROM: HUNT
Meet me downstairs
in fifteen.
Wear the outfit.
RECIEVED: JAN. 11, 2015 11:45PM
There’s something strangely familiar about this scenario.
“What is it?” Chase asks.
“Clothes from Hunt.”
Maya leaps up and comes over to the box to peek inside. “He sends you gifts if you spend more than a few days apart? Lucky bitch,” she teases, grabbing the blouse and holding it against her torso.
Chase rolls his eyes and laughs. “It’s easy when you have mountains of money.”
“True.” I giggle and shrug. “He wants me to meet him downstairs wearing it.”
I snatch the garment from her sticky hands, scolding her with my death stare. She used to steal my clothes when we were teenagers. I’m pretty sure she still does. I’m missing more than a few pieces from my closet at home…including a ridiculously expensive white chiffon gown that magically disappeared before her secret wedding to Chase in Vegas.
“I could help you get ready,” she offers, “if you like.”
“Please.”
Once I’m dressed in my skintight jeans and creamy blouse, I say my goodbyes to Maya and Chase and rush down to the lobby and out to the curb. As if I’ve traveled back in time, Hunt is waiting on his shiny black motorcycle, decked out in leather and denim.
I nibble on my lower lip, fighting back the stupid smile creeping across my face.
“Well. Hello, Mr. Hunt.”
He holds a leather jacket and helmet out to me.
“Get on.”
I take the gear from him, shoving them on and hopping on the back of the bike.
I love our night rides when the streets are nearly devoid of any other life, and we’re free to be us without the public eye’s scrutiny. It’s thrilling and liberating. It almost feels like flying.
“Hey,” I talk into the microphone implanted in my helmet, “turn on some tunes, slick.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
The low keys of a piano seep through the speakers and into my ears. He revs the engine, and I enfold my arms about his firm torso, white-knuckling my fingers to the cool leather of his jacket, anticipating the rush when we take off.
It’s a clear night, perfect for a ride through the city. One of my favorite parts is never knowing where we’ll head next. Though I would never admit it to him, I love when he takes control and shows me a world I would have never known without him.
When so many men can’t decide on the simplest decisions, Damian stands out from the rest.
“Hold on tight, angel.”
He throttles the handle, and the bike leaps forward. I release a delighted squeal as we cut through the night air, my body pressing into his.
He laughs to himself.
My fingers grip to the leather of his jacket. My thighs sandwiching his hips clamp like a vise. My arms constrict around his waist. I rest my head against his back. He places his hand on the plump flesh of my thigh, running his thumb along its softness, and I wriggle against him, aroused.
We drive along Marina, the moonlit bay to our right, to the 101 and take the gate north out of the city. It doesn’t take long to figure out where we’re headed. The place he took me on our first ride together. Every now and then, when things start to overwhelm us and we can’t sleep, we pack a blanket and drive to look out at the water, the bridge, the lights of the city, offering us a chance to put everything into perspective, to breathe.
Except, when we arrive and pull off the road, there’s a blanket already lain out, a basket of goodies and a silver ice bucket with champagne sitting atop it, the moon and the illuminated bridge lighting the bluff golden glow.
It’s like the first night he brought me here.
“How did you manage this?” I ask as he helps me off the bike.
“I have my ways,” he says with a sly smirk, trying to create an air of mystery.
“Liam?”
He shakes his head and noiselessly chuckles before confirming, “Liam.”
“What’s the occasion?”
Holding his hand out to me, he says, “Our anniversary.”
My brows knit as I set mine in his.
“We married in July.”
“But,” he escorts me over to the blanket, “we met in January,” and assists me down onto my knees.
Once we’re both seated, he picks the bottle of champagne and two flutes up, the delicate stems tucked between his strong fingers, and pours the sparkling golden liquid. He hands me a glass, and we clink them together, staring into each other’s eyes, and then take sips of the bubbly, our visual connection never breaking. I swallow it down, and he leans into my mouth and kisses it tenderly, his tongue tasting the drops off my lips.
“Strawberries and champagne,” he moans into my mouth.
He wraps his arms around me as our mouths part, and we look onto the city, brightly twinkling beyond the Golden Gate.
“This is perfect, Hunt.”
I slump my head on his shoulder with an easing sigh, and he kisses me on the temple.
“Yes, it is.”
We sit and watch our home glisten in the distance before driving back, ripping through the stillness of the evening.
I haven’t questioned what brought on this sudden change in attitude from him.
We zip past our turn, my head turning to the street sign hanging over the intersection until the letters become unreadable.
“Where are we going, slick?” I ask into the mic in my helmet.
“I want to show you something,” he says, setting his large hand over mine, locked across his wide chest.
We continue south to the Westwood Highlands area, turning onto a quiet residential street lined with a blend of different style homes. It’s a family neighborhood, with well-manicured lawns, where kids ride their skateboards in the street, and everyone’s inside by the time the lights come on.
We make a few more turns, losing ourselves in the maze of suburb streets, streetlamps the only thing awake at this hour, and pull up to a modest Craftsman with sage green paint and white accents.
We take off the helmets, and Damian hangs them on the handles of the bike. I jump off the back and stand on the sidewalk, staring at the house with my hands on my hips and my head tilted to the side.
“Where are we?”
When I’m answered with silence, I glance over my shoulder. His chin dips, and his eyes shut until the lids disappear from him squeezing them so tight. He’s pained.
It isn’t out of the ordinary for him to regress to his introverted ways. But this type of silence leaves an awkward energy in the air, makes your stomach turn and your palms clammy.
“Ever since my parents’ deaths,” he says, looking toward the house and dismounting the bike, “I wondered if I’d ever have a family of my own. I knew it wouldn’t change them being gone,” he steps onto the curb, “but maybe I could give my family the love I was never able to share with them,” gazing down at me with a look full of love, devotion, appreciation. “You changed that for me, angel. You gave me a reason to love, to believe, not only in myself, but in others, to be the best man I can be. You gave me the world, Gabrielle.”
“That’s beautiful, Damian. But why are we here?”
He offers me a hand and leads me up the stone walkway to the pale green house. Reaching the porch, he dips a hand into his coat pocket and retrieves a key.
“You bought it,” I state.
“No.” He squeezes my hand. “It was my parents’ home.”
“Damian.”
I set my other hand supportively on his large arm.
“I brought you here because I’m ready to say goodbye.”
I love that he’s willing to let me into his mind—his past.
“I’m here for you.”
“I know,” he says softly.
He inserts the key to unlock the door, and we step into the dark entryway. Hunt switches on the lights, revealing an inviting space, nothing like I expected. For some reason, whenever I envision this place, it always seems cold and a bit eerie. It’s likely a reflection of Hunt’s sad memories here, but he never talks about the good times.
I guess it’s easier to remember the bad over the good.
“I haven’t been in this place since they died.” He walks further into the house, rubbing his hands together as if he’s trying to warm them. “But every year, on the anniversary, I come here and sit outside on the front steps, thinking about how different my life might’ve been if they were here, wondering if they would be proud of the person I became.”
“They would be incredibly proud of you, Damian. Look at all you’ve accomplished. Y
ou’re thoughtful, brave, loving, successful. You’re an outstanding husband, brother, and son. There’s no way they could be anything but proud.”
“Marshall would feel the same about you, angel.”
I smile up at him, even though the mention of my father still aches.
“I think so too.” I realize something he’d just said. “You come here on the anniversary of their death?”
“Yes.”
“You come here on your birthday? Why would you want to spend your birthday at a place that caused you so much pain?”
“It’s fucking stupid.”
“You couldn’t do a stupid thing if you tried.”
He walks over to the stairs and takes a seat on the second from the bottom.
“I come here to spend my birthday with them. It’s the last place I saw them, the last place I spent time with them, the last place they were alive and happy. I suppose I’ve always associated this house with them…It’s ridiculous,” he mutters, snickering and shaking his head at the self-proclaimed idiocy of his yearly ritual.
“You’re wrong.” I move to the staircase and sit next to him. “It’s actually beautiful and a little sad.”
He releases a slow breath through his flared nostrils, giving the immediate area a onceover.
“You know, before you threw me one, the last birthday party I celebrated was here.”
“Yeah, that one turned out real swell,” I tease, rolling my eyes. “I’m curious. Didn’t Vivian and Pierce ever give you a party?”
“If there’s a holiday, milestone, or major event, they throw a goddamn party. They asked me a few times, but respected my boundaries.”
“They’re wonderful parents.”
“They really are,” he agrees.
“Thank you for including me. It means everything to me.”