by R. C. Martin
Without another word, she leaves me alone again.
I should be relieved by her decision to stay away from the press. That was the plan. That was the best case scenario—to save my career from being cast in the shadow of a scandal that’s a distraction from the job that I was elected to do. Yet, there’s something dishonest in keeping it all in the dark.
Here, in the darkness, I can’t help but feel as though I long to be in the light.
Only secrets are kept in the dark.
I’m so tired of secrets.
Blaine
IT’S A FEW minutes after five on Friday night when my phone alerts me to a new message. I jump, like I do every time it sounds, and search the kitchen for a towel. I just finished meal prepping for dad, and I’m elbow deep in a sink full of soapy water. Remembering that I threw the towel over my shoulder, I’m quick to reach for it and dry my hands before pulling my phone from out of my pocket.
My heart leaps at the sight of My Forever lit up across the screen.
I need to see you.
When? Where?
My stomach is in knots. I’m so anxious to see him. It’s been a week since dad’s heart attack, and I haven’t seen Michael since he saw me home Saturday morning.
Tonight. Wherever you are.
I smile as I type my reply, the urgency in his need matching my own.
I’m at dad’s. But I can meet you at my place, if you want. Just tell me when.
No, I’ll come to you. Send the address. I’m on my way.
I do as he asks right away, and then hurry to finish up the dishes, sure that it’ll take him at least thirty minutes to get here from the Capitol. Twenty minutes later, I’m racing up the stairs to take a quick look at myself. I flip on the light in the bathroom and glance at my reflection with a grimace. My hair is a mess, having been thrown up without the assistance of a mirror before I started cooking, and I look like I haven’t slept in a week.
Coming to the conclusion that there’s only so much I can do in the next few minutes, I take out my hair-tie and re-do my messy ponytail. I tug out a few strands around my face and then reach for my tiny makeup bag on the sink. I pull out my lip gloss and apply a thin coat, rubbing my lips together as I replace the cap and then smooth down my t-shirt. This one says: Classy. But I cuss a little. I’m wearing it over a pair of black sweatpants—sweatpants I have a mind to change out of right as the doorbell rings.
My eyes widen, and I rush out of the bathroom, racing down the hallway as I shout down to dad, “I’ll get it!”
“It’s my door, Lulu. I can answer it.”
“No, dad, really!” I insist, my bare feet slapping against the steps as I take them as fast as I can.
“I’m up.”
“Sit back down!”
I’m slightly breathless when I reach the bottom of the stairs at the same time he does. He scowls at me and grunts, “I’m not an invalid, Lulu. I can answer the door.”
“I know, it’s just—”
I don’t get a chance to finish my sentence before he’s turning away from me and walking the short distance to the front door. I hold my breath, trailing behind him, all the while wondering why Michael insisted that we meet here.
When the door swings open and reveals Michael standing on the porch—his suit jacket nowhere in sight, his shirt sleeves hugging his huge, beautiful biceps and cuffed at his elbows, and his hands buried in his pockets—I forget to breathe for a second.
I’ve missed him so much.
I snap out of my thoughts when dad looks at me from over his shoulder, quirking an eyebrow at me. I try to hide my I told you so smile, but it slips a little as I murmur, “Well—are you going to let him in?”
Feeling far too impatient, I don’t even wait for his reply before I squeeze between him and the door, unlatching the screen and opening it wide. “Come in.”
Michael offers me no more than a small smile as he holds open the screen and extends his opposite hand toward dad. I try not to read into his subdued demeanor as I watch him properly introduce himself to my father.
“I’m glad to see you’re recovering well.”
“Thanks,” dad huffs, accepting Michael’s hand.
“I’m Michael. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“John.” Dad shifts his eyes toward me, then back to Michael, and then drops his hand to his side. “Well, come in, if you want to.”
“I appreciate the offer,” Michael starts to say with a nod, “but I can’t stay for long.”
My heart sinks, knowing instantly that something must be wrong. As if Michael can hear the descent of my heart in my chest, his eyes meet mine before he extends his hand toward me.
“May I speak with you for a moment?”
I nod, afraid to say a word as I slip my palm into his. He closes his fingers around mine, leading me out onto the porch, and I let the screen shut behind us. We both look toward the house when the latch of the front door clicks softly, signaling that dad has left us in private. Sure that we’re now alone, I can’t help myself. I launch myself at Michael, pressing up on my tiptoes and circling my arms around his broad shoulders.
“I’ve missed you so much!”
When he pulls me close, his arms locking around my waist, I relax in his hold. With my face buried in his neck, I pepper kisses across his skin.
“Angel—”
“Whatever it is you’re going to say, I don’t want to hear it yet,” I whimper, squeezing him tighter. “Please? Will you please just hold me for a minute?”
I feel his chest expand as he takes in a deep breath, his arms crushing me against him as he exhales. Still, the foreboding I sense in my gut, it won’t go away. I hate it that he hasn’t told me that he missed me too, or that he loves me, or anything that makes this feel like the hopeful reunion I was yearning for.
“Blaine, we need to talk.”
“That sounds bad,” I whisper, still refusing to let him go.
“Come on,” he encourages, gently pinching the back of my neck. “Sit with me a minute.”
Reluctantly, I let him go. He takes my hand and laces our fingers together before we sit side my side on the top step, leading down to the walkway.
“Baby, what’s happening?”
“I’ve made a mess. A mess I don’t even know how to begin to clean up.”
He looks at me with sad eyes, and mine start to burn as we stare at one another.
“Veronica left this morning. She’ll be staying with her parents for a while. The paperwork for our divorce should be drawn up soon.”
“Isn’t this—isn’t this what you wanted?” I ask, my voice soft and timid.
“Angel…” he sighs, furrowing his brow at me in what appears to be regret.
I let go of him, my heart breaking as I interpret all that he’s not saying.
“Are you—are you—oh, my god,” I cry, covering my mouth with my hands.
He’s quick to comfort me, cradling the back of my neck as he presses his lips against my forehead. “I need some time. That’s all. I need for us to push the pause button.”
“No. No!” Dropping my hands, I argue, “We’re supposed to be together. You promised me—you—”
Lifting his head away from mine, our gazes collide. The sight of his troubled, deep blue irises swimming in his own tears causes a sob to erupt from within me.
“Shhh, baby,” he hushes gently, touching a whisper of a kiss against my lips. “It’s going to be okay.”
“You’re leaving me! You said you loved me—you said—”
“I do. I do love you,” he states, his voice adamant and strong. “I want to be with you. If you think that I want to be apart from you, then you’re wrong.”
“Then don’t,” I plead, resting my hands against his chest as I lean into him. “I’m right here. We can be together right now.”
“I can’t.” He closes his eyes, and as tears trickle into his beard, the pain inside of me intensifies. “I have devastated my family. I’ve sha
ttered a woman’s heart—I barely recognize myself. This is not who I am, Blaine.”
Closing my fingers around his shirt, I cling to him as I admit, “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“I want to be better.” He opens his eyes to look into mine and repeats, “I want to be better—for you. I want to be a man that you can be proud to call yours. I want to be a man who’s worthy of you.”
“You are—”
“I’m not,” he mutters, shaking his head at me. “The fact that you think so is only a testament to how I’ve mistreated you.”
“That’s not fair,” I argue.
“I know.” Using the pads of his thumbs, he wipes away my tears. It’s no use, as more continue to fall, but he catches those, too. “I’ll be back,” he assures me.
“When?”
“I don’t know. I can’t tell you that. I just need a little space—a little time to piece together what I’ve broken.”
“I don’t want to lose you. I love you. I love you, Michael.”
“You won’t lose me,” he mumbles, bringing his mouth to mine. “I love you, too.”
I take advantage of his parted lips, slipping my tongue between them. Still holding tight to his shirt, I bring myself even closer as I steal his kiss. He opens up for me, and I hum in response, needing more of him—needing all of him.
When he buries his fingers in the back of my hair, holding my head still as he tilts his and deepens the kiss, I think maybe I can convince him to change his mind. But then, before I’m ready, he starts to pull away from me. He’s stronger, so he wins, and I know there will be no changing his mind.
“I should go.”
A deep frown tugs at my brow as I confess, “I don’t want you to.”
“I know,” he whispers.
We stare at each other, neither of us making a move to get up, and I hold onto every second. When at long last he leans toward me and kisses my forehead, I know our time is up. He stands, helping me to my feet, and wipes away more of my tears. My entire chest hurts with an ache I’ve never felt before, realizing that I don’t know the next time I’ll see him.
“Come back to me,” I beg, not the least bit ashamed. I love him too much to give a shit about how pathetic I sound.
“I will.”
“Promise?”
“I do.”
He takes one step away from me, then another. The farther he retreats, the hollower my chest feels.
“I love you,” I call out as his foot hits the bottom stair.
“I love you too, angel. More than you know.”
I watch him get into his town car and ride away, a shock of numbness circulating through my veins. I don’t bother hiding my tears as I head back inside. I don’t say a word to dad as I make my way up the stairs and straight to my room. It isn’t until I close the door behind me that reality shocks my system, chasing away the numbness. When I sink to the floor and lean against the wall, letting loose my cry, I surrender to my greatest fear. I surrender to reality, which has seen fit to remind me that Michael’s a married politician, and this has always been our fate.
We were robbing time with every stolen moment we thought was ours, and now time has come to rob us.
Michael
I’VE BEEN IN the house for all of ten minutes before I’m notified that this evening’s guests have arrived. Abigail and Tamara have been by a couple of times this week, helping Veronica pack the things that I’ll ship to California in a few days. I’ve been informed that they know what’s left, and they’ll be taking over the task of finishing up, now that Veronica is gone.
Truth be told, I wouldn’t mind if all Veronica left were my clothes and the contents of my study. I’m not attached to any of our things. Not anymore. I’ll be starting over. It’s what I need. After all of these years, a blank slate seems like the necessary canvas by which I can begin again.
As I make my way into the foyer, which serves as the entryway for the private front entrance, I spot Tamara with a couple of collapsed boxes underneath her arm. Abigail holds a plastic sack in her hand, no doubt filled with the supplies to seal and label the boxes they fill this evening.
“Hi. Can I help you with that? Where are you headed?” I inquire, walking toward my sister-in-law.
“I’ve got it. Thanks,” Tamara replies coolly, offering me a tight, false smile. “There are a few things left in the bedroom, and then we have the kitchen to do before we’re done.”
“Wait!” Abigail calls out, catching Tamara around her bicep before she can walk around me. Narrowing her eyes on me, she asks, “Your side piece isn’t upstairs, is she?”
My brow dips in a scowl, my chest tightening with an ache that’s becoming quite familiar. “Of course not. Please don’t call her that.”
Abigail folds her arms across her chest, making her growing belly more visible. Tamara clears her throat, taking advantage of her freedom, and scoots around me—but my sister stays rooted to her spot.
“I sure as hell have no intention of calling her by her name. She doesn’t deserve that much of my respect. Quite frankly, you don’t either.”
I sigh, reaching up to run my fingers through my hair as I look down at my feet. Over the last week, I’ve had my share of wrath thrown my way. I won’t for one second stand here and argue that I’m not deserving of it. Yet, at the same time, there’s only so much that I can apologize for. What’s done is done, and I can’t change any of it. Now, it’s the grace that my father preaches about—the grace that we all believe in—that I seek. Grace and forgiveness.
Lifting my eyes to meet Abbie’s, I murmur, “I understand that you’re angry, disappointed, and hurt. I know that as your older brother, I’ve let you down—I’ve let our whole family down.”
“You have no idea,” she scoffs, shaking her head at me.
“It’s my marriage that has been destroyed—I think I do have an idea.”
“What, so, I’m supposed to feel sorry for you? Your marriage was destroyed by your hands. God—I don’t even want to think about who your hands have touched. I don’t want to know what that home-wrecker even looks like.”
“Abigail, stop it. Just stop it,” I demand, taking a step toward her.
With our gazes locked, she glares at me in disapproval, but all I can see in my mind’s eye is Blaine. I remember the look on her face when I told her that I needed some space to deal with moments just like this one. It breaks my heart that my sister has predetermined what kind of woman Blaine is without even giving her so much as a chance. Cognizant of the fact that it’s my fault, I can’t even begin to figure out how to fix this—how to fix any of it. All I have to hang onto is my assurance that Blaine is the woman that I love.
“You don’t have to like it,” I inform her. “You don’t have to like me. I won’t hold it against you. But Blaine is innocent.”
“Oh, do not give her that!” Abbie yells. “She is not—”
“She’s innocent because I say that she is,” I mutter, raising my voice to cover hers. “She’s innocent because I chose her. I pursued her. I fell in love with her. She didn’t do this—I did. So take your anger out on me, but leave her out of this.”
“You are unbelievable,” she spits as she begins to walk by me. “You’re the governor of Colorado. You’re powerful, you’re rich, you’re married, and she spread her legs. I will not leave her out of anything. She’s a woman capable of making her own decisions, just like the rest of us—and she chose wrong.”
As she stomps up the stairs, following after Tamara, I don’t say a word. Rather, I let her go, certain that this is a battle I’m incapable of winning today. Hanging my head, I lift my hand to squeeze the back of my neck, sealing my eyes closed with a frown. I wonder if this is a battle I’ll ever be capable of winning—or if Blaine and I are simply doomed, our love too tarnished to survive this war.
Blaine
I DON’T BOTHER waiting for Dodger after we finish our closing tasks, like I normally do. I’ve got to get out
of here. My shift was long, and at least nine people ordered the steak tonight—each request a reminder of Michael that sliced through my chest like a fucking machete to the heart. It’s been four days since I’ve heard from him, and I’m barely keeping it together. While it’s true that we’ve gone longer without speaking, it’s never been like this. The indefinite nature of this silence makes it incredibly hard to bear. Tonight, I’ve reached my limit.
As soon as I close myself into my car, I press my forehead against my steering wheel and let my tears fall. The absence of him has never felt this consuming. What’s worse is that Veronica is gone. Now, more than ever before, we have the freedom to be together, and he has chosen to press the pause button on our entire relationship—as if my heart was made to sustain suspended animation.
The sob that erupts from within me is proof that my heart can do no such thing.
While a part of me feels like I’m being overly dramatic, a bigger part of me simply cannot help it. I’m hurting, I’m having difficulty sleeping, I’m overwhelmed with the state of my dad’s health—it’s just all so much at once, and I feel myself cracking under the pressure.
I gasp loudly when I’m startled out of my thoughts at the sound of knuckles rapping against my driver’s-side window. When I jolt upright and look outside, I smack my hand against my chest in minor relief at the sight of Dodger standing on the opposite side of my door. He signals for me to roll down my window, so I power up my car and press the button to lower the barrier between us.
“What gives, B?”
I sigh, offering him a shrug, not even bothering to use my words.
“That boyfriend of yours being a douche, or what?”
My breath catches in my throat as I try to hold back another sob from breaking free, and Dodger nods.
Tapping the top of my vehicle, he demands, “You need a drink. Come over.”