by Ashley Logan
Always returning to her house knowing she would never be there again has been unsettling to say the least. One night after I'd put Ry to bed, I destroyed Mom's ugly apricot lampshade in a fit of rage only to be instantly flooded with remorse. Brad found me apologizing profusely as I tried unsuccessfully to straighten the wire framework.
Wresting it from my hands, he pulled me into his lap and rubbed my back until I fell asleep. Waking up on the couch several hours later, I found him upstairs packing a bag of clothes for both me and Ry. When I asked him what he was doing, he told me he was preparing a bag for each of us should we want to get out of the house for a while and stay with him.
I yelled at him. Again.
I've been yelling at him a lot. Too much.
Saying nothing, he just put the bags in the hall closet and went to the kitchen to wash up the dishes from the dinner his mom had dropped by for us earlier.
Brad helped me with Mom's funeral arrangements. He held me as I cried when offers of support from her church group became overwhelming.
The amount of casseroles in the freezer is almost embarrassing. I didn't know so many people liked my mother. It's been difficult to hear that she'd been so pleasant and charitable with them all when it's been so hard for me to live with her.
It seems I never really knew my mother at all.
Still deeply affected by the whole 'Barry' situation, I find myself frequently turning to Brad for comfort, only to become annoyed that I can't manage my own damn emotions. Completely destabilized by the fact that my mother had to invent a person to feel wanted, I swing from one mood to the next and end up pushing Brad away, but he never goes far. He seems to float between me and Ryan, being the steady support for whichever one of us needs it more.
He's the one that talks with Ryan about his feelings and his painting, because I've been utterly useless for anything. They've been painting a lot. The house is covered in paintings of everything Granny.
Ry seems far more balanced than I feel, so I know it's helping him, but it's hard not being the one who's comforting him.
It's harder still to be surrounded by fond memories of a woman who worked so hard to make me feel worthless. I'm so torn between love and hate that it's hard to know the truth of how I feel. When I factor in the idea that maybe none of her behavior was intentional because she was sick, I end up bowled over by yet another truckload of guilt.
"Let's get out of here for a while," Brad suggests, rolling closer and studying me with that look of concern that seems to have become a permanent fixture on his face.
I miss his smile.
Those dimples.
I'm ruining him.
"You should," I reply, standing up and leaving the room.
He follows me down the hall to the kitchen.
"I meant all of us. The sun's shining out there. It'd be good to get some fresh air. We could take Ry to the park. Or my mom's? She's been cleaning out my old sports gear, setting aside things that Ry might like. She'd love to see him again. And you."
"I'm not good company."
"I like you."
"Yeah, well everyone already knows you're crazy." Ashamed of myself, I keep my head down and make for the stairs.
Watching me climb from the bottom, Brad calls after me.
"Are you meaning to be hurtful?" he asks, making me pause. "If you want me to leave, I will. I've been staying to make sure you two at least eat and sleep, but if you need some space, all you have to do is say so. You don't have to be mean about it."
Sinking to sit on the stairs, I lean against the wall.
"Sorry."
"You're forgiven."
Scoffing, I shake my head. "That easy huh?"
Brad shrugs. "Pretty much. I kind of adore you, in case you hadn't noticed."
"I noticed. I've probably taken advantage of it for far too long. I'm turning you into a doormat."
"I'm hardly a doormat, Stace. I'm just not biting back when you lash out at me, because I know you're hurting and the big picture calls for me to take some flak."
"The big picture?"
"Us. Whatever you want to call us. Secret relationship, pretend relationship, loving relationship... the only non-negotiable word is relationship, because we have one. It might be a weird one right now, but things will improve with time.
"I'm no good for you, Brad."
"Says who? Your mom? Or you? Is this one of those 'it's not you, it's me' break up things? Because I didn't really like the last fake break up we had. I was kind of hoping we could avoid that kind of thing. Like... forever."
Forever.
Dropping my face into my hands, I close my eyes and pretend that none of this is happening.
My mom's not dead, Brad isn't weirdly confessing his love to me, Ry doesn't adore the man, and neither do I.
"I'm sorry. Brad, I... Would you mind giving me some space? Please. I think I need a few days to pull my shit back together, and I can't do it with you looking at me like I'm broken all the time. It just makes me feel more broken."
"I'm not looking at you like you're broken. I'm just wishing I could make you stop hurting so bad."
"Same thing, isn't it?" Rubbing my face and running my hands through my hair, I pull a face at how greasy and tangled it feels. "I need a shower."
Smiling, Brad illuminates the room with his dimples. "You noticed! I was going to give you until the end of the day before I just dragged you in. I've been telling you to shower for two days, but if you can see it for yourself now, maybe you don't need me to stick around." Waving a hand at me he shakes his head. "Go. Shower while you have a mind to. I'll let Ry know where you are, then I'll get out of your way."
Hesitating as he rolls away, his smile fades. "Will you call, or message me to let me know that you're eating? A couple of times a day would be good. I'll worry."
I fold my arms over my stomach as it aches with some sort of emptiness. "We'll be fine. Thank you for all of your help."
Brad gives me a tight smile. No dimples. No emotion. "Anytime, Stace."
ONCE RY'S IN BED, I collapse on the couch. Brad's blanket is still folded up neatly on the other end and I purposely avert my eyes, staring straight ahead.
The incessant ticking of one of Mom's many annoying clocks counts away the seconds. It seems to be getting louder. Pushing off the couch, I move to the clock on the mantelpiece until I'm standing face to face with it.
How many times would my mother have referenced my late arrivals with this clock over the years? Or the lack of time I spent in her home, or with her? Did she listen to its ticking, hearing her own demise creep closer with every jump of the hand?
Shuddering, I wipe a thin coat of dust from its surface. Mom always kept it wound. I will have to do it now.
The clock ticks in agreement.
My immediate thought is to let it die with her so I don't have to hear an echo of her in every announced second of the day, and chimed out even more loudly on the hour, but the idea of wanting to be free of the woman only invokes more guilt. As if my mother being gone isn't terrible enough, here's me wanting to banish any memory of her.
Turning the clock around, I twist the little key in the back, unsure of when to stop. How long will it keep time? What if I don't wind it enough, or forget to wind it? What if I lose sense of time altogether?
It suddenly seems very important to keep the clock ticking. To never let it die, will be a continuation of her legacy.
The head of the little metal key breaks off in my fingers and all at once, I know I've gone too far. It doesn't re-attach and my shaking fingers set it next to the clock. Taking a step back, I wonder if the clock is counting the seconds more quickly. My pulse seems to have synced with it and I feel light-headed.
Stumbling backwards to the couch, I fall back onto it as I stare at the clock. Pulling a cushion out from under me, I feel around for something more secure to hold on to. My fingers find the folded blanket and I pull it up over me. I catch a note of Brad's masculine scent and snuggle into it, unabl
e to deny that I miss the man. Before long, I'm crying again and with it comes the anger.
Tossing back the blanket, I head for the kitchen.
The dirty dishes from our re-heated casserole dinner lie in wait on the counter, ambushing me with reminders that my mother is gone, and I've pushed away the man that would help me recover from the loss.
Gritting my teeth, I push up my sleeves and slam the faucet on full bore, shoving a plate beneath it. The water sprays back at me, but barely lifts the streaks of casserole gravy dried fast to the dish. Leaving the plate to soak in the sink, I reach for another, but it slips from my inattentive grasp and falls to the floor shattering into several pieces.
The water blasts on as I stare at my mother's plate. Broken on the floor. If she were alive right now, she'd be scolding me something wicked for being so careless and disrespecting her property. If she were still alive, I would have felt one deep breath away from shattering another just to spite her, but I would never have done it. I always liked the bright, but dainty roses that decorated the edges of her dinnerware.
Turning off the water that's been rising up the sink, I drop to my knees to pick up the shards of crockery. I try to reassemble them on the kitchen floor, sucking the finger I've managed to cut on a sharp edge.
It's no use.
Too many tiny pieces are missing and the larger fragments refuse to come together without them. Ignoring the tears, I stack the bigger pieces in a tidy pile and sweep any little slivers into my hand, adding them to the top. For several moments I stand above the open trashcan, torn as to whether or not I can live with the guilt of throwing away my mother's plate.
"You're being fucking ridiculous," I scold myself. "It can't be salvaged. You checked. You can't bring her back or change the past by keeping this plate. You're going fucking crazy."
The broken crockery rattles as my hand begins to shake.
"Just drop the fucking thing."
I lower my hand, but still the debris remains in my grasp.
"Just get the fuck on with it."
Opening my fingers, I let the broken plate drop into the trash, letting the lid close quickly behind it. Breathing hard, I look about the kitchen, telling myself it'll be okay. Even with the plate gone, there is still so much of her left.
Too much.
Feeling her all around me, my difficult breaths come even faster.
Opening the trash, I put all of the dirty dishes in there instead of the dishwasher, and rush out the door.
The hallway is no better.
Taking down her pictures, I set them on the floor, having turned them all to face the wall. But even when I can't see the pictures, they still make my hair stand on end.
Escaping to the living room, I'm met with the tick... tick... tick... of her judgment. I want to break it; break everything, but the smallest, sanest part of me speaks the loudest.
Don't wake up Ry.
Part of me knows I'm going fucking crazy and that my son should be kept out of it.
Ripping the clock from the mantel, I spin around, searching.
Shoving it down the back of the couch as far as it will go, I cover it with every cushion available, stomping them down for good measure.
Leaving the living room, I glance briefly at the backwards frames before heading through the rest of the house. I pull down everything I come to, kick over the hideous over-sized vase that holds her umbrella and spare walking stick. I leave every room with less reminders of a woman I wanted to love more.
It isn't until I'm holding one of Ry's paintings that I stop. I've torn it in half and the realization of what I'm doing suddenly smacks me in the face. I look around to see that I've destroyed more than the one in my hands and a strangled moan escapes my throat as I sink to my knees.
Ry's going to wake up and see what I've done. He'll be so upset.
Fear strikes my heart as I think of the morning ahead. I look at the destruction I've left in my wake. Not one room has been left untouched except Ryan's.
Trembling, I pull myself off the floor and force myself to walk back through it. I tidy the path from the front door to the stairs, righting everything I've toppled and re-hanging every picture frame I've thrown down. I pick up every piece of broken glass, collecting a few more cuts along the way.
Fingers covered in Band-Aids, I head up the tidied stairs to Ryan.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
BRAD
The banging comes again as I switch the lights on and wheel to the door. This is no regular knocking. It's more like someone is kicking my door down. Taking a deep breath, I grip the baseball bat with one hand and open the door with the other as Stace raises her foot to kick it again.
"Shit." Dropping the bat, I hold out my arms and she lowers Ryan into them.
Stirring within his blanket cocoon, Ry's eyelids flicker against the change in light and I push us backwards towards the light switch, watching as Stace drops the bags I'd packed for them both, shuts the door and leans against it a moment before sliding down to the floor.
I flick the hall light off, leaving my open bedroom door to bathe the hall in a softer light.
"I'll put him next door to mine," I say quietly. Stace shows no sign that she's even heard me. Looking down at Ryan's blissfully unaware face, I take a deep breath and take him to the little bed in one of my spare rooms, tucking him in with the blanket he's already wrapped in.
"Nigh-Bran," Ry mutters as he settles in.
"Night Ry. See you in the morning."
Backing quietly out of the room, I pull the door closed most of the way.
Stace hasn't moved.
Approaching her carefully, I move the bags out of the way and come to a stop in front of her. Her eyes lift enough to see the hand I'm offering, but she doesn't take it.
"I trashed the house," she says quietly, dropping her eyes to the floor again.
Resting my hand on my leg, I lean back in my chair.
"Did you burn it down?"
She almost laughs. "No."
"Then everything will be okay. I've trashed houses many times. You'd be surprised by what survives - sometimes it's whatever it was that pissed you off to begin with. Which can be very annoying, considering that's what you actually wanted to break."
Looking up at me as her tears roll silently down her cheeks, her face crumples.
"I ripped up half of Ry's paintings."
I reach down to lift her straight into my lap and holding her close, I rock her gently as I rub her back.
"It'll be okay. He won't love you any less. He knows you're sad."
"I've gone crazy."
Shaking my head, I soothe her sobs. "If you know you're going crazy, then you're not really crazy. Insight is a very powerful savior. You're grieving. It's normal to go a little crazy when you lose important people. You know all this. Stop being so hard on yourself."
Crying a little harder, she buries her face in my chest. I kiss her head as I stroke her silky hair. It smells of berries again.
"You had a shower, and you washed and brushed your hair. You're actually doing much better."
"I'm not! I need help," she says miserably.
"And you don't want to need help. I know. See? You are doing better. Actually admitting out loud that you need help is a good thing." I kiss her head again, pulling her in even closer. "And you know where to find help, because here you are at my door at four in the morning. It was a good plan to come. You want some ice-cream?"
Sniffing, she nods, keeping her face tucked close to my chest.
"Me too." I roll to the kitchen, alternating which arm I use to hug her with each push of my wheels.
Getting out the ice cream and a spoon, I look down at Stace and then roll a little further down the counter to grab the roll of paper towels.
"You going to blow your nose in my chest hairs, or you want one of these?" I ask, flexing the pectoral muscle she's pressed against to get her attention.
Sniffing again, she raises her head and wipes her eyes.
Taking the offered paper towels with a groan, she rips one off and blows her nose. Using another to mop her eyes, she blows her nose again and sits more upright.
Looking at me properly for the first time since she arrived, Stace sweeps a curl back from my forehead.
"Sorry I woke you."
I toss the paper towels back on the counter and remove the lid of the ice-cream.
"I would much rather you wake me at four in the morning than any other possible thing," I reply, collecting French vanilla onto the spoon and holding it up for her.
Her full lips close over the ice-cream and she watches me as it slips into her mouth before her tongue flicks over her pout.
I shake my head. "Don't go looking all sexy when you do that. I'm not taking care of you like that tonight."
Her brows twitch. "Why not? It'll help me forget; make me feel better."
"Then you'll feel worse for wanting to and you'll run away from me so you won't do it again. We've been through the push and pull thing a few times already and each time I back off before you get a chance to do it permanently. I don't want you to push me away. I want you to understand that I'll be here for you. No matter what."
"I know that you're here for me."
"Yeah, but you don't want to trust me always. You showing up tonight isn't due to a realization about us. You just scared yourself and needed to feel safe. If you're honest, you'll find that you actually feel a bit better having trashed the place. You've probably already formulated a plan in your head that you'll stay here the night, figure out a way to tidy up the house tomorrow before Ry can see it, and get the two of you back there asap so you can start moving forward." Running a hand down my face, I scoop up some more ice-cream and offer it to her. "I'm happy to watch Ry tomorrow while you tidy, if that's what you need from me. I also know a couple of guys that are pretty good at tidying up those sort of messes too, if you'll need help. They're very discreet."
Staring at me a moment, Stace says nothing, but takes the ice-cream from the spoon.
"I thought maybe Ry could go back to kindergarten tomorrow," she says eventually.
Lowering my eyes to the ice cream, I don't let her see that her words hurt me.