The Wonder of You

by Susan May Warren

  Roark set the bar on the rack, removed the twenty, and slid a thirty plate next to the forty-five on the bar—not even close to his max. He rounded to the other side and balanced the weight, then settled himself back on the bench and started in on a set of six reps.

  He couldn’t quite scour from his brain the truth that, for a blinding, triumphant moment, Amelia had used him to dig a knife into her lumberjack boyfriend, Seth. At first, he’d scored it a personal victory.

  Now that his brain had stopped the inner cheering, he could see it for what it was. Hurt over Seth’s accusation. Which should alert Roark to the fact that she cared, really cared, about Seth and their future. High school sweethearts were a far cry from a fling, and a smart man would recognize the writing on the wall.

  If Roark hadn’t been quite so blind or desperate, he might have seen that, instead of riding in to rescue a damsel who didn’t need him. Not anymore.

  He removed the thirty and found another forty-five plate, adding it and a ten to the bar, then balanced the weight before signaling to Sammy Johnson, the spotter on duty. A few more bodies grunted—athletes working with dumbbells and at the pull-up bar, another with his back to him, adding plates to the leg press.

  Sammy came toward him and Roark lay down, seeing the spotter move into place at the head of the bench as Roark eased the bar off the rack.

  He’d maxed out at over three fifty while at the gym in Paris, but two weeks without a nod to the weight room made him feel flabby. Or at least winded.

  He pressed through the first rep. Maybe he should just leave. Call the entire thing off, tuck his tail, and scuttle out of town before he made a mess of Amelia’s life.

  His triceps burned, a band of pain growing around his chest as he grunted through the last rep, spent. He was moving to replace the bar when a hand came out against it.

  “Mate!” he said, glancing up. It felt like he took a punch to the chest as he saw Seth the lumberjack standing by Sammy, his blond hair tied back in a black sports band, his oaken arms bare, his T-shirt sleeves ripped off.

  “I got this, Sammy,” Seth said.

  To Roark’s dismay, his spotter handed him over to his cohort in crime.

  “We need to talk,” Seth said, turning his attention to Roark. He didn’t remove his hand, and Roark’s body quivered, straining against the weight.

  “Talk, then,” Roark said. Sweat dripped down his face, into his ears, his heartbeat thundering.

  Seth smiled, all teeth. “I haven’t had the chance to officially welcome you to Deep Haven. You like the sights?”

  “Lovely. Especially the local wildlife.” His arms trembled, his grip loosening on the bar.

  Seth’s smile dropped. “Get out of my town.”

  “Or?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “What can I say? You wouldn’t be the first to disappear into the woods.”

  Roark wanted to roll his eyes, but the sweat could blind him. “Righto. Message received.” He waited for Seth to move his hand, but he held it in place. Roark’s arms began to shake. In a moment, all 245 pounds would crash onto his chest, and the fight between Seth and Roark would come to a swift and bloody end.

  “Just so we’re clear: I’ve been in love with Amelia since the seventh grade. I know her and she knows me. We’re meant to be together.”

  “Congratulations,” Roark ground out. “I’ve no doubt who the better man is here.”

  Seth’s eyes narrowed.

  From across the room, Roark heard, “Everything okay, Seth?”

  “Yep, fine,” Seth said, grabbing the bar with one hand and moving it to the rack.

  Roark heaved in breaths even as he pushed himself to his feet in front of Seth. He ignored the spinning of the room. “If you want to drop off that welcome basket, I’m living over the Java Cup. Nice little place. I’m going to paint the walls, buy a few plants, set it up. Maybe you can come round for a spot of tea.” He clamped Seth on the shoulder. “Nice chat; let’s do it again.”

  He turned, heading for the showers.

  Roark stood for a long time under the hot water, bracing himself against the wall, his pulse finally righting into a regular rhythm.

  Maybe he wouldn’t perish in the men’s locker room of the Y. But even as he got out and dressed, he heard Seth’s voice. I know her and she knows me. We’re meant to be together.

  Not anymore.

  Especially since Amelia hadn’t once mentioned a boy back home in the five months they’d spent in Europe. Plus she’d kissed Roark.

  And like she said, she’d meant it.

  So welcome to Deep Haven indeed, because he did know exactly who the best man was in this threesome. Or at least who the best man could be, if he just figured out how to tell her the truth about himself.

  Roark threw his duffel over his shoulder, wrapped a towel around his neck, and headed out into the cool evening. The sun hung low in the west, flames of orange and red bleeding out over the horizon.

  Hiking up the rear stairs to his apartment, he didn’t look in front of him and almost walked right over her.

  Amelia. Sitting on his stoop. Holding one of the long-stemmed pink roses he’d sent her.

  “Hi.” She could knock him over with a smile, which she delivered slowly.

  “Hi,” he said, dropping his duffel and settling down beside her. “I . . . It’s good to see you.”

  She twirled his flower between her fingers. Sighed.

  “What is it?”

  She looked at him, and she was so beautiful, with the sunset lighting her hair, her eyes, that he nearly put his arm around her, nearly folded her to himself to finish the kiss they’d started in Paris.

  “I never really told you how grateful I was that you came out that night to find me in Prague.”

  That night. Oh . . . sometimes the memory of her voice at the other end of the line, tiny and shaking, jolted him awake, slid a cold finger down his spine. She didn’t need to know, probably, the danger she’d flirted with that night. Or the panic he’d hidden while searching for her, dreading the worst.

  Now he just smiled. “I’m glad I was there.”

  “That’s the thing. You were always there. You never let me feel afraid or alone.”

  “Of course—”

  “But see, that’s why I left Prague. It wasn’t because you broke my heart, but because, without you, I was stuck in my apartment. I was afraid to leave, to go to school on the bus or even take pictures for my assignments. Without you, Prague turned into a dark, terrifying place, and . . .” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “And that’s why I left.”

  “Because I wasn’t there.”

  “Because I was a coward.”

  “Oh, Amelia.” He reached up to touch her cheek, but she caught his hand.

  “Roark, I’m telling you this so you don’t have to feel guilty. I will probably never leave Deep Haven again. And you don’t belong here; I know this. You’re a world traveler, a guy who lives to explore, and I can’t give you that. I just . . . I’m not that brave.”

  She let go of his hand. Looked away. “You should find someone who isn’t pretending.”

  So she could, what? Stay here and marry Seth?

  The thought roared up inside him, and he might have even spoken it aloud because she turned to him, eyes wide. “What?”

  Oh. “You’re not a coward. The first day I saw you, you were hiking through Prague alone, taking pictures. You had a light about you, as if when you saw the world, it took on new shades, new depth. Seeing Prague through your eyes made it come alive, reborn. You dared to live beyond your expectations—”

  “Then I failed myself, Roark. And I don’t know how to get back to where I was.”

  He saw her then, not through the lens of Prague or the memories of her laughter as they shivered at the top of the Eiffel Tower, or even hiking along the river Seine, but huddled now in a sweatshirt and jeans, her hands tucked into her sleeves, her hair long and free, the red caught by the sun.

  A hot cor
d of realization ran through him. This was the woman he’d crossed the ocean to find. Not the girl whose heart he’d charmed and broken, the girl who’d kissed a near stranger on New Year’s Eve, the girl who made him believe that he could be a hero, but the woman who might understand what it felt like to carry failure, cowardice, in your heart and not know how to forgive yourself.

  The one person who might not despise him for his mistakes.

  He reached out his hand, holding it open. Amelia considered him a long moment before she took it, weaving her fingers through his.

  He stood, pulling her up with him. “Let’s take a walk. I have to tell you something.”

  “I never told you that I really grew up in Russia.”

  Amelia nodded, waiting for him to go on. Roark walked beside her, spilling out stones with his footsteps, pressing indentations into the beach. Seagulls rode the waves that lapped the shore, and a chill hung in the air as the sun bundled up for the night, leaving only a tufted gathering of brilliant clouds, like the jet stream blaze of a rocket.

  “I thought you lived in Brussels.”

  “I did, but only after we came home from Russia. See, my parents were missionaries.”

  He smelled sweet, fresh, as if he’d just stepped out of the shower, and she could admit that his still-wet hair made her want to ring one of the curls at the nape of his neck around her finger. He wore thick stubble—very rugged European—a pair of track pants, and a hoodie that clung to the frame of his body. He looked impossibly young and as he kicked stones out in front of him, if she didn’t know better, a little afraid.

  Most of all, he held her hand like he couldn’t bear to let it go.

  “We moved to Brussels when I was twelve so my dad could work for my grandfather. But all my childhood memories up to that point were of Russia—far east Russia. We lived in a tiny village, in a tiny three-room house, with a water pump out in the yard, gas lighting, a coal furnace, and an old four-door Lada my father had to hand crank. My brother and I ran the dirt streets with the other kids, attended a detski-sod, then a grammar school, and spent the summers helping our parents run children’s camps.”

  She could see him even as he talked, young, wiry, and strong, his dark hair short for summer, running barefoot, causing mischief and wearing a smile that could charm all the girls in the village.

  “My father was a church planter and later on helped raise money for orphanages in the region. I loved helping him visit the orphanages. We’d show up with a shipment of medicines or clothing, and for that day, that moment, we were heroes. My brother and I would go out to the yard with a football—a real football, not the eggball you play here. We’d teach them how to play, or if they had a basketball court, we might shoot some hoops. Everyone loved my father. He played the guitar, and sometimes when he’d sit at the edge of our yard playing, people would wander down the road just to hear him. He spoke Russian so well, one of the town officials asked him how he’d managed to snag a British wife. I thought for a long time that I was actually Russian and that the family we had back in London might be distant relatives.”

  He stopped at a boulder, settled on it. She slid up beside him.

  “I was so angry when we left the field. They sent me to boarding school, where I managed to fight my way into the headmaster’s office more than once. Thankfully they’d outlawed caning before I arrived, but my father gave me a decent birching when he came to visit. Not a happy memory for me. Especially since he seemed deeply shaken afterward, even though I’d deserved it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I sorted it after that, managed A’s, and that summer, begged my parents to take us back to Russia. They took us to Spain instead, a vacation by the sea. My brother, who’d attended a different school, seemed changed. He hadn’t loved Russia or the mission field like I did, and suddenly I realized that I was the only one who missed it. Back in Brussels, Mum had fixed up our new flat, and they were laying plans for me to change schools, maybe get a fresh start. The family seemed to be embracing our new life, while I mourned the one we’d abandoned. We were staying at a cabana on the beach, and I snuck out for a swim, furious that they could so easily turn away from our life. Our good, happy life.”

  He closed his eyes, his breath tremoring out. Amelia gave in to the urge to take his hand in both of hers, not sure why.

  “I heard Mum’s scream as I was walking back to the cabana. It was late, stars were out, and at first I thought it might be someone having fun on the beach. But when I came up to the house, I heard fighting, whimpering, and then another scream.”

  His face glistened now, but he didn’t wipe it.

  “I . . . saw my father wrestling with someone. He was big and wore a ski mask. My only coherent thought was of the kitchen knives. So I ran around the side of the cabana and went in through the kitchen.”

  He swallowed. “I found my brother in a pool of blood on the floor. It slowed me down long enough to see my father fall in the next room, to see the intruder climb on top of him, a knife in his hand.”

  She sat perfectly still, her breath cold inside her. No—

  “I was terrified. And I did nothing. Just . . . nothing. Just stood there and watched as he stabbed Dad a couple times. Or more; I don’t want to remember. But he finished and got up, and I knew . . . My father had stopped moving. And Mum had stopped whimpering. I . . . I knew I was next. But still, I couldn’t move.”

  She held her breath.

  “Then he looked up and saw me.”

  Oh—

  “I fled. Just lost my mind and ran out into the night, crying, as far down the beach as I could until I threw myself into the woods. Then I curled into a ball, choking back my sobs, praying he wouldn’t find me. But by this time, others had heard the noises and the police were arriving.”

  She couldn’t speak. Just held his hand, letting his fingers tighten around hers as he released a long breath.

  Finally, softly, she scraped up words, shaky, broken. “I’m so sorry, Roark. Did they ever find the man?”

  “No.”

  Tears brimmed her eyes. Then she got up, stepped in front of him, and pulled him into her embrace.

  He closed his eyes, leaned against her, wrapped his arms around her waist, his shoulders rising and falling.

  After a moment, he looked up, and the pain in his gaze could steal her breath. “So you see, Amelia, I understand what it means to fail yourself. To loathe your own cowardice.”

  Oh, Roark. He’d always been the Eiffel Tower at night, glittery and mysterious, captivating and exotic, but in his story he’d become real. Vulnerable.

  A man who needed her as much as she needed him.

  “You weren’t a coward.”

  She didn’t understand the face he made. Half confusion, half disagreement. “Yeah, I was. I never told the police what I saw. I was . . . I was too afraid he’d find me.”

  “You were a kid.”

  “I was the only witness. And I ran—frankly, I kept running. I went to live with my uncle and escaped into a new life, not looking back.”

  He took her face in his hands. “But it wasn’t until I met you that I stood still and felt it all drop away—the failure, the haunting regret. You made me feel like I wasn’t a coward. With you, I could be . . . your hero. Brave. The person who doesn’t hide in the woods.”

  She pressed her hands to his. “You were my hero, Roark. Every day.”

  His thumbs caressed her face. “And you were mine.”

  Words were written in his eyes, a question that formed in his tender expression, and it brought her back to that moment in Paris on New Year’s Eve, when he’d caught her eyes with his, the fireworks popping behind them from the balcony like a hallelujah to the moment when he saw her as more than a student.

  With everyone cheering, celebrating around them, the night had dropped away, and he’d moved toward her, where she stood against the wall, each step stirring through her an electricity she’d tempered since meeting him on the bridge. />
  He’d braced his hand over her shoulder, touched her forehead with his. “Happy New Year,” he whispered.

  “Happy New Year,” she mouthed back.

  When his gaze dropped to her lips, her heart jumped in her chest. “Kiss me,” she said before her courage failed her.

  He met her eyes one last moment before he obeyed. Leaned in and pressed his lips to hers, achingly tender, nudging them to respond.

  She dug her hands into his lapels and brought him closer as his kiss deepened, becoming urgent with a fire that suggested he’d wanted to do that for weeks.

  Even now, seeing his hungry expression, with the waves cheering behind him, Amelia could taste the memory, the added passion as he’d wound his arms around her, pulled her against himself. Could hear the little noise in the back of his throat, something that sounded like an ache set free.

  He might have seen the memory play in her eyes because he swallowed. Released a shaky breath. “Wow, I want to kiss you right now.” He dropped his hands from her face. “But I’m afraid you’ll only think it’s a fling. So I’m willing to wait until you know I mean it.”

  Until this moment, she hadn’t realized how her accusation—and her leaving—had wounded him.

  She reached out and wiped his cheeks. Smiled. “How would you like another shot at meeting my family? We have a campfire tomorrow night, and I’d love for you to join us.”

  “Will I need armor?”

  “You’ll have me.”

  His smile was eclipsed by a piercing light cascading over them and out into the dark, inky lake.

  Amelia held up her hand to block the light, squinting as she heard a car door slam, then, “I can’t believe this!

  The voice yanked her out of Roark’s hold, made her scramble up the rocky shore. “Seth! What are you doing here?”