Young Revelations (Young Series)

by Kimble, W. R.

  A few days back, I woke up and headed down to the kitchen to help Claire with breakfast only to find Danny in her place at the stove. He told me Claire had left before even he woke and he wasn’t sure where she’d gone. She didn’t come home until nearly noon and while she initially wouldn’t admit it where she had been, I suspected she’d gone to see Matthew. Only last night did she finally answer my questions.

  “How is he?” I’d asked as we finished off the dinner dishes.

  Claire had looked at me out of the corner of her eye and sighed. “He’s a mess,” she said resignedly. “When I got there, he was passed out in bed. The house was wrecked. He was hung over…”

  That was all I’d needed to hear. It’s what everyone was most afraid of—that Matthew would resort to drinking as therapy to get him through this situation. I was just as afraid, but it’s not as though I’ve done anything to deter him from that behavior. I don’t think he would welcome my help at this point, since I’ve made no attempt to contact him. I’m not the only one at fault for lack of communication, though: even after telling Tyler he would see him as often as possible, Matthew has been a no-show for his son. This angers me. If he wants to ignore me, fine, I deserve it. But there is no reason for him to take out his frustrations on Tyler. All Tyler wants is to spend time with his father, with whom he’s made a quick, deep bond in the short time they’ve known each other, and I thought Matthew wanted the same. Was it all talk? More things for him to say to me to convince me to stay?

  I don’t want to believe that. I’ve seen Matthew with Tyler and there is no father in the world more devoted to his son. I convince myself it’s because Matthew is trying to get himself back on track before he sees Tyler again. If I don’t do that, I’m going to show up at Matthew’s house or work and end up regretting whatever happens there. Probably some form of violence.

  It’s certainly not helping that with everything going on, my hormones are acting up more than they did during my pregnancy with Tyler. I feel almost bi-polar with my moods recently—one minute I’m perfectly fine, the next I’m sobbing hysterically or angry and shouting beyond reason. In some of my more unreasonable moments, I tried convincing Claire it would be best if I didn’t send Tyler back to school. I need to find him a new school as it is, since his current one has thoroughly proven their incompetence in keeping him safe. Claire managed to talk me out of homeschooling him by reminding me I’m in the middle of a pregnancy and I have my own job to go to. It hasn’t stopped me wanting to know where he is at all times and I have the feeling that won’t change anytime soon, regardless of where he goes to school.

  “Well, good morning, sunshine!”

  I enter the bookstore and look up, feeling a genuine smile on my face as I see Bonnie sitting behind the counter. A moment later, that smile falters slightly when I take in her appearance. I know she’s been ill, but she hasn’t seen fit to tell me what’s wrong. She’s gotten much thinner since I last saw her and her clothing hangs off her like potato sacks. Her hair is thinner and grayer. The only part of her that seems normal is the shining in her eyes. I shake myself out of a daze when I realize I’m staring and plant the smile on my face again. “Good morning,” I tell her, walking around the counter to give her a hug. I try not to wince at the boniness in her body or the weakness in her arms as she hugs me back. “How’s business today?”

  She grins. “Quiet so far,” she says. “But I expect everything to pick up what with the holidays coming and all.”

  I nod, removing my coat and hanging it and my purse on a hook in the backroom. I didn’t really need the reminder about the holidays—until very recently, I had a mental countdown to December 26th, which was supposed to be my wedding day. Aside from that, I’d been looking forward to having our Thanksgiving dinner at Matthew’s, just the three of us. He’d offered to cook and when I’d given him a look of utter disbelieve, he backtracked and said he’d help me cook. Claire mentioned the other day having Thanksgiving dinner at her house rather than her parents’ house like normal; I can’t remember ever being so grateful to a person in my life. I don’t know if she intends on inviting Matthew, and I’m not sure if I’d be happy to see him. Another part of my often-changing moods—one second all I want is to see him and kiss him; the next, I want to see him and throttle him.

  “How are you, Sammy?”

  I return to the front of the store and start helping Bonnie check off books from the delivery that morning. “I’m okay,” I tell her. “Happy to be doing something else for a change.”

  She eyes me closely. “How’s Tyler?”

  I sit on the stool beside her. “He’s doing better,” I say. “There have been several nightmares since the kidnapping, which is understandable, and he’s missing Matt. Slowly he’s getting back to normal.”

  Her brow furrows. “He hasn’t seen Matt?” she asks almost incredulously.

  “Matt and I are…” I glance around the room for the right word, then realize there is no right word for what we are right now. “I guess we’re separated.”

  “Ah,” Bonnie replies, nodding. “So I guess it’s true the wedding is off?” I look at her in surprise; she smiles slightly. “Small town, sweetheart. Word travels fast.”

  Sighing, I wonder who Matthew has been talking to about us, since he’s not talking to me. “The wedding is off,” I confirm quietly.

  She reaches an arm around my shoulders and gives me a slight squeeze. “Very sorry to hear that,” she says genuinely. “But if I know Matt at all, he’s not going to let you go without a fight.”

  “It’s been two weeks since we last saw him,” I say. “I told him I want him to see Tyler and I don’t want to cut off communication with him—ever—but I haven’t heard a damn word from him. Claire went to see him the other day and apparently he’s a complete mess, drinking again, all of it.”

  “He’s been through a lot,” she tells me gently. “You both have. But you’ve been through worse and you’ll get through this as well. That boy loves you, Samantha. I know you know that. Give him time to get his thoughts in order and I guarantee he will be right at your side again doing whatever he can to fix this.”

  I want to agree with her and to believe her, but I can’t help wondering how much more time will pass before I see him again. As much as I want to see him, I need him to actually fight for me, to prove I’m his priority rather than the other people in his life. Though every time I think that, I wonder if wanting that is conceited. Then I remind myself he’s been my priority through all of this, and I’m willing to fight the entire world for him. But only if he wants me to.

  With one last squeeze to my shoulder, Bonnie stands up. “Come on, come help me with this damn shipment…”

  For the first time in weeks, my mind is on something other than Matthew and our current disaster of a relationship. We order in for lunch and Bonnie tells me about how her nephew’s dog just fathered puppies. The nephew and the other dog’s owner are looking to give the puppies away, since neither of their jobs allows them to stay home and care for them full time.

  “Tyler’s actually been asking for a dog lately,” I say thoughtfully, my brow furrowing. “He’s never asked for one before and came home from school last week telling me he wants a puppy.”

  “Well, I can talk to my nephew if you’d like,” Bonnie suggests. “His dog is the sweetest thing you’ve ever met.”

  “The only problem is we’re living at Claire’s right now and I doubt she’d want to add a puppy to the four kids and her husband,” I reply wryly. “Or the pregnant lady whose moods are worse than unpredictable at the best of times…”

  She chuckles. “Think about it and let me know. Might be a good Christmas present. And no one says it has to live at Claire’s—I’m sure Matt would love a dog.”

  My brow furrows and it takes me a minute to work out what it is she’s insinuating. I turn to look at her and she’s grinning mischievously and unapologetically at me. Rolling my eyes, I finish off my lunch and get back to work
.

  ––––-o––––-

  I have no idea what I’m doing here. Okay, I’ve got a vague idea what I’m doing here: I need to get my shit sorted out so there is some chance of getting Samantha and Tyler back. After Claire’s invasion a few days ago, I finally took a couple steps back and saw just what I was doing not only to myself, but to my family. Samantha thinks I don’t want her. Tyler thinks I don’t want him. Neither of them could be more wrong, but it’s up to me to make sure they know that. Samantha told me no matter what happens she wants me in her and my son’s lives, and so far I’ve stomped those words right into the mud. Instead of being at my sister’s house every night and making sure they have everything they need, I’ve been wallowing in my own self pity and trying to drink myself into an early grave.

  As much as I’ve been dreading this, I’ve kept my appointment to see Marcus’s therapist. I don’t know much about her other than what Marcus told me. She was top of her class at Stanford Medical School, which immediately intrigued me, being a Stanford alumnus myself, and that she doesn’t take any of his shit. Actually, I’m a little afraid of this woman. She seemed to put the fear of God into FBI superman Marcus West; what chance do I have of survival?

  “Matthew?”

  I look up from where I’ve been watching my knees bouncing up and down at a rapid pace for the last fifteen minutes to the secretary smiling at me. She’s been smiling and staring at me since I walked into the office, and if I’d been able to look up from my knees, I’m sure I would have seen her becoming glossy-eyed and possibly drooling.

  “Dr. Morris is ready to see you,” she says in a voice that’s more appropriate for a gentlemen’s club rather than a doctor’s office.

  I give her a tight smile as she holds open the door from me and try to figure out how to pass without touching her. Unfortunately, it’s impossible as she seems to push closer to me and I’m forced to brush her arm. As I start breathing again inside the doctor’s office, I swear I hear the secretary sigh dreamily as the door closes again. Rolling my eyes and shaking my head, I look around the office and I’m pleasantly surprised at the décor. It’s comfortable, a lot like my office at home, complete with an aquarium in the corner. Black leather couches dominate the room arranged in an L-shape and separated by an end table that holds a lamp and a box of tissues. Across from the couches is a matching chair that looks incredibly comfortable.

  “Mr. Young.” I look up to find the woman that has to be Dr. Morris and I actually gulp, stopping myself from taking a couple steps back. Dr. Morris is around 5’8 with blonde hair, green eyes, and a glare so cold it could melt away the remaining glaciers in the arctic. It’s the same glare my mother used when one of us kids really screwed up. Normally nothing could get her truly angry with us—she’s always been very easygoing and sweet, the perfect balance to my father’s authoritarian demeanor and it took a lot to get that look. “I’m Doctor Morris. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” I say, crossing the room to shake her hand. She’s got a firm grip and doesn’t seem the slightest but put off by my slightly sweaty hands.

  “Please have a seat,” she says briskly. I sit on the edge of the closest couch to the chair where she seats herself. I have no idea what to expect from these sessions; therapy has never been something I considered for myself. There were times I probably could have used it, particularly after the bombing when I was taking my frustrations out on the people who didn’t deserve it, like Samantha. Or after Samantha left me, rather than throwing myself into work and liquor. I suppose I always saw the need for therapy as a form of weakness and I never considered myself weak. Apparently, that’s all changed. “So Mr. Young, tell me a little about yourself. Why are you here?”

  “Please, call me Matthew,” I suggest. I hate being called Mr. Young. Reminds me of my dad… “As for why I’m here… I’m not sure I can pinpoint one exact thing.”

  She doesn’t react to my words or write in a little notebook or avert her gaze in the slightest and it is very disconcerting, to the point that I feel the only thing I can do is continue speaking. So that’s what I do. I tell her about Samantha, how we met, how quickly our relationship grew, everything that happened around our breakup. I tell the doctor about my career and the dangers involved, and how that contributed in bringing Samantha and me together again. By the time I’m finished speaking, I’m sure my hour has come close to its end, but when I glance at my watch, I’m surprised that only half an hour has gone by.

  For the first time since she asked me why I’m here, she opens her little notebook and begins to write furiously. She looks back at me a few moments later. “Tell me what drew you to Samantha,” she says, watching me expectantly.

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat, thinking about her suggestion and the day Leo and I walked into Chet’s Diner in a small Iowa town when I first set eyes on Samantha Everett. I feel myself smiling. “I don’t know,” I say softly. “The second I set eyes on her, I couldn’t look away and I can’t even say it’s because she was strikingly beautiful, which she was, but that day she had a gravy stain on her skirt, a rip in her shirt. Her hair was sticking up in every direction and she looked as though she hadn’t slept in days. I remember seeing her eyes and thinking there was something incredibly sad about her eyes, and I wanted nothing more than to make the sadness go away and stay away. I wanted to see her smile and hear her laugh. When we left, I thought that would be the end of it and I’d move on, but I couldn’t get her out of my head. It was constant. I could barely work and I went back to see her twice. And that was pretty much it for me. We kept in contact, I visited her family once, she flew out to stay with me for a couple weeks, and a few months after that, she was moving in with me.”

  “That’s very quick,” she observes. “And Samantha was only nineteen at the time?” I nod, uncertain where this is going. “Were you concerned about her inexperience with relationships?”

  “Of course I was,” I say. “She’d never left Iowa at that point. She’d never experienced the world the way I had, or ever had a serious boyfriend. From the beginning, I was afraid she’d wake up on any given morning and she would be gone because she was overwhelmed by everything that happened.”

  Dr. Morris sits up a little more in her chair. “Did she ever give you reason to think she might become overwhelmed? And if she did come to you about such concerns, how would you have reacted?”

  I think for a few moments about the very early days with Samantha. I know there were times she was overwhelmed; I experienced those same moments myself. But it never got to a point that I really believed she might leave. The fear was always there, and it still is, but now I wonder if I was making it worse than it actually was. “I know she was homesick at times,” I say slowly, thinking through everything. “And I think there were times she might have wanted to go back, but she never really vocalized anything to me. If she had, I would have done whatever I needed to do to make her feel better—fly her home for a couple days or fly out her family to stay with us.”

  Dr. Morris asks me to recount the two and a half years Samantha and I were married, from the proposal to the day I received the divorce papers with her signature. I tell her how devastated I had been to watch my family drive away from me, and how I was helpless to do anything about it—I’d told Samantha whatever decision she made, I would support that decision. In hindsight, it’s plain to see why Samantha felt I never fought for her when she left and why she felt I might have wanted her to leave—I did nothing to stop her and I should have; no matter what agreement she and I had. When I say this out loud to Dr. Morris, she goes back to scribbling in her little notebook.

  “Why didn’t you fight for her or stop her?”

  I shrug. “She needed to be safe,” I say quietly. “And she felt I couldn’t keep her safe anymore.”

  “Do you really believe that is the reason she left?” Dr. Morris asks, raising an eyebrow.

  I stare at her for a few moments. “Well, yes,” I respond.
“Why else would she have left? I knew she loved me and was in love with me; that hadn’t changed in the slightest.”

  “How do you know that, Matthew?” the doctor asks.

  “I just do,” I say, feeling myself getting irritated. “I know her better than she knows herself at times and if that had changed, I’d notice.” Dr. Morris begins scribbling again and I go on the defensive. “Look, I know why she left me—I’d nearly been killed and I was incapable of keeping my family from harm. I’m still incapable of that. I know she loves me.” I don’t know why I keep repeating this to her—who am I trying to convince, her or me?

  “You think you’re incapable of keeping your family safe?” Dr. Morris responds, looking up at me again. “Why?”

  “Because nothing I do is good enough. All my security measures, my team of bodyguards… It’s useless. My son has been kidnapped twice in a matter of months—once alongside his mother. The people I’m supposed to be able to trust are going around behind my back trying to destroy everything I’ve worked for. My best friend…”

  “What about your best friend?” Dr. Morris prompts. “Tell me about that.”

  I sigh, running my hands through my hair. “I don’t know what there is to tell,” I say bitterly. “I knew him for over twenty years, helped him with his PTSD after leaving the Marines, gave him whatever he needed to be comfortable and happy, and he repaid all that by betraying me in ways only he could manage. He was my head of security; he was supposed to keep Samantha and Tyler safe while I was ‘dead’ after the plane crash. Instead he stepped aside, arranged for what was probably a fake alibi, let three of our friends be killed, all so a team of Russian asshats could kidnap my family. He then had my son kidnapped and that ended with him dying in my arms after he took a bullet for me.”