Wrecking Ball (Hard To Love Book 1)

by P. Dangelico

  “I need to talk to you.”

  Barbara and I never had the warmest of relationships, but it was never hostile. Like many mothers, she had impossibly high standards for the woman who would be her precious son’s wife. For Matt’s sake, though, she usually kept things civil. And it’s not like we saw her all the time––one of the reasons I didn’t mind moving to Connecticut. After Matt died, we completely lost touch. Unfortunately, by the look on her face, I’m not sure civil is what she has in mind right now.

  “Sam, why don’t you and your uncle go ahead. I’ll meet you at the car in five minutes.” Calvin doesn’t budge. A sidelong glance reveals that…oh crap, he has his game face on. Nudging him only earns me a hard look. “I’ll be there in a minute,” I murmur. He wants to argue––it’s all over his face––though thankfully, he doesn’t. After a meaningful pause, he places his hand on Sam’s shoulder and reluctantly ushers him down the driveway while stealing backward glances at me.

  “I didn’t believe it,” Barbara announces, her eyes glued to Calvin’s broad back. “Not when I read it on the front pages of those trashy magazine at the supermarket. Not even when I saw it on TV,” she adds, her tone reeking of disapproval.

  Her words are arrows that hit their intended mark. A momentary pang of shame hits me. The look of contempt on her face makes me sweat and cower. Except I’m no longer the woman she knew three years ago. There’s no denying that the shit ton of hardship I’ve endured has toughened me up. There’s your silver lining, I guess.

  Having to justify myself to her, of all people, makes me furious. Not once did she come to see me, or call, or email a single word in support. Not once did she apologize for the hell her son put me through. Somehow, in her twisted mind, he remains the white knight wrongfully accused of a felony. And now I’m the harlot he married? No. No way.

  “Matthew’s been dead for three years, Barbara. Did you think I was going to throw myself onto his funeral pyre? Would a blood sacrifice make you happy? Or maybe I should’ve gone to jail for the crime Matt committed.”

  “He was wrongfully accused.”

  “Not according to the U.S. federal government.”

  “I didn’t come here to argue with you. I came here to give you this.” She holds out the manila envelope, and I take it gingerly, as if it came right out of the bowls of hell. “I thought to spare you the pain, but you might as well know the truth.”

  The impact of what she’s insinuating knocks the wind out of me. The Range Rover pulls up right in front of us and Calvin steps out, his concerned gaze roams over me. When I make no effort to move, he walks up to us and wraps his big heavy arm around my shoulders, his comfort jolting me out of my catatonic state.

  “We’re leaving,” he announces and follows that up with a pointed glare at Barbara. Neither she nor I say our goodbyes.

  Chapter Twenty

  The atmosphere in the car ride home is as thick as mud, and the mood just as dark. No one says a word. I’m so lost in my panic attack inducing thoughts that I don’t notice that Calvin has taken my hand, placed it on his thigh and covered it with his own––that’s how anxiety stricken I am. I only realize it when he parks the car and can’t jump out because he has a hold of it. My vacant gaze meets his, which seems to be alternating between concern, affection, and anger. How did I ever think he was cold? At the moment, his eyes are two smoldering blue flames.

  “You okay?”

  “No…can you help Sam get ready for bed?” I murmur. “I just…” I can’t even finish the sentence I’m so tired, so bloody tired I just want to crawl under the covers and sleep for a hundred years.

  “I’ll handle it. Don’t worry.”

  I take my hand back and get out of the Range Rover. As soon as I’m in my bedroom, I lock the door, move to the far side of the bed, and sink to the carpeted floor clutching the manila envelope close to my heart. With my back resting against the side of the bed for support, I slowly peel it open.

  For months after Matt’s death, I had a sneaking suspicion that at some point I would receive a letter…a suicide letter. The feeling only grew stronger when the investigation into his business affairs started. The idea just kept festering inside of me like an absence I couldn’t cut out. Only, I never did.

  During the year I was being investigated, I thought more than once about how Matt would’ve handled it. I was never formerly charged, but Matt definitely would have been––had he lived. With his volatile moods, I just don’t see how he would’ve survived an extended prison sentence. Emotionally fragile is what Barbara called it. I called it insecure. To myself, never to him.

  I slide another envelope out of the manila one, my name scribbled across it in Matt’s chicken scratch. Immediately, tears begin to gush out of my eyes. In spite of it all, I loved him. With all his faults…I really loved him. Then again, I loved the man I thought he was. I never expected my marriage to be perfect. I never aspired to perfection. I’ve always been too aware of my own shortcomings to expect it others. But I did expect honesty. I don’t think that was too much to ask for.

  The envelope is sealed. Gingerly, I peel it open and wipe the tears running down my cheeks away with the back of my hand. Not fast enough, though, as some splash onto the letter, blurring the word ‘love’. I lick the salt off my lips, which seem to have blown up to the size of pontoons, and begin reading.

  Babe,

  If you’re reading this then I’m no longer here. I gave this letter to my mother’s lawyer because you were always too nosy for your own good and it wouldn’t have done anyone any good for you to find it until after my passing. I’m twenty-eight now so you could be thirty or eighty. God, I hope you’re not twenty-four that would mean I don’t live much longer. A little gallows humor there.

  You’re probably wondering what this letter is about. So here goes. I need you to hear it from me. I owe you the truth.

  If I’m gone then at some point you’ll know what I’ve done. I’m not proud of it, but you should know that I didn’t start out trying to deceive or hurt anyone, least of all you. I was trying to fix a hole I was in and it got out of hand. I had, or have so many plans for us, for our family, plans that would’ve been impossible if I didn’t take drastic measures to stop the losses. I want you to know that I did it for us.

  I hope you’re reading this when you’re old and gray and we’ve spent our lives together. I hope we had five kids. I hope that somehow I managed to right all the wrongs. I hope you were there to hold my hand when I left this planet. And if all those things didn’t happen, I hope you forgive me. And I hope you find someone to love. Because if you love him, then I’ll love him too.

  Your Loving Husband,

  Matthew Edward Blake

  “Camilla…Camilla open the door.”

  I don’t have the strength, or the will to answer. I’ve been crying hysterically for an hour and I have nothing left. No fight, no words, no ability to form thoughts.

  “Go away.”

  “Open the door, or I’ll break it down.

  I lift my head off the tear soaked pillow and stare at the door because I don’t put anything past this man. “Please, please go away, Cal.”

  “I don’t want to…let me in for a minute and I’ll leave you alone.”

  My face looks like I saw the business end of a two by four. I’m an ugly crier, always have been. I get really swollen while my skin turns the color of raw meat. The last thing I want to do is open that door.

  “I’m not decent.” A moment of silence and I think I may have won this time.

  “You’re crying naked?”

  Oh for heaven’s sake. I get up and unlock the door. I don’t dare look at him. No way––I’m not that brave. I turn right around and fall face first on my bed, hiding my swollen punching bag of a face into the pillow. The mattress dips. He’s sitting right next to my hip. A wide, warm palm gently covers my shoulder, which triggers another round of sobs. I can’t handle him being nice to me right now. I just can’t.


  “Who’s the letter from?” I don’t answer because it’ll just start the tears all over again. “Your husband?”

  A nod is all I can manage. His hand starts moving, traveling between my shoulder blades in a slow soothing circle. The weight and warmth of him seeps into my skin and trickles all the way to my bones. Pain and stiffness gives way to comfort. I’ve never felt more grateful for the power of touch. Of his touch. That launches me into another fit of hysterics.

  “Can you please turn around and look at me?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I look like I just went ten rounds with Rhonda Rousey.”

  He snorts. “I don’t care what you look like. Turn around.”

  Of course, he doesn’t. Why would he? Fuck this shit. I flip onto my back, warts and all in plain sight. I don’t have the balls to look at him though.

  “There. Happy?”

  He gently pushes a few strands of hair off my face, and I have to bite my bottom lip to stop it from trembling.

  “Why are you crying?”

  “Because…”

  “What did the letter say?”

  Aaaaand there go the tears again. My face crumbles into ruin, and my body convulses like it’s being jumpstarted with electric cables. I’m wrecked. Laid open. I cover my face with my hands in a poor attempt to hide. And he helps me––he helps me hide. He picks me up off the bed as if I’m a rag doll and holds me close. I wrap my arms around his neck in a death grip and empty every ounce of liquid in my body onto his t-shirt clad shoulder––shoulders that have been carrying a heavy burden since he was a boy.

  His big mitt rubs up and down my back and I press harder against him, my breasts crushed against his chest. “Matt didn’t kill himself.” His hand stops moving, every muscle he possesses suddenly still.

  “You thought he had?” The deep baritone murmuring in my ear is cashmere socks on cold toes, it’s cashing your very first earned paycheck, it’s watching a flamingo pink sunset at the beach. It’s one of the best things in life. Something you never forget, and never tire of experiencing.

  “I wasn’t sure…then the reporter said he did.” The rubbing starts up again. He exhales heavily.

  “I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”

  “No…no. It’s not,” I grumble and crawl completely onto his lap. “Barbara said as much tonight.”

  “But he didn’t?”

  “The police said they found a dead deer a hundred feet away. The damage to Matt’s car was consistent with the injuries on the deer. He turned into the river instead of away…it really was an accident.”

  “And the letter?” I feel a brief brush of his lips on my neck. Probably a mistake. Probably. I ignore the thrill that chases up my spine.

  “A goodbye letter.” My eyes fall shut in exhaustion. I breathe out a tired sigh. He pats my back twice.

  “Get under the covers. You need sleep.”

  Reluctantly, I unwrap myself from his big warm body and immediately shiver from the loss of body heat. I slide under the sheets without meeting his eyes once because I’m way too vulnerable to defend myself from his searching gaze. If he were to look into my eyes now, he would read every thought I own.

  That I’m lonely.

  That I’m so grateful for him.

  That I’m in serious danger of falling in love…God help me.

  Just when I think he’s all done surprising me, he gets on the bed, above the covers, and curls his body around mine. A muscular arm shoves under my pillow, my head resting on top of it. His legs neatly tuck against mine.

  I don’t move a hair. Nor do I say a word. With my back pressed up against his broad chest, I can feel the flow of his relaxed intake of breath. It lulls me into a sense of peace I haven’t felt since the time I had my wisdom teeth pulled and had to take Vicodin. Except this is better. He’s better than narcotics.

  He wraps his other arm around me and I catch a glimpse of the black ink of his tattoo. Most of the delicate artwork is on the inside of his bicep. The vine-like black scroll reaches around the back of his arm and down to his elbow. I can’t read the inscription from this angle. As I trace the vine with my finger, he shivers, goosebumps popping up on his skin.

  “What does it say?”

  After a beat, he says, “Know thyself.”

  “Isn’t that a Greek proverb?”

  “Plato…from the Suda’s definition which says ‘pay no attention to the opinions of the multitude’.”

  “Why do you know so much about whatever this Suda is?”

  “I was a history major. I like history.”

  “Why history?” I say in a disgusted tone. I’d like to forget my past entirely.

  “Hmm…because it reminds us how far we’ve come. What we’ve accomplished.”

  “No wonder, you’ve accomplished so much.”

  “Not enough.”

  “You kind of awe me.”

  “I’ll remind you of that next time you get that look on your face like you want to punch my lights out.”

  I can’t help but giggle. Between his voice and his presence, I feel drugged. He’s stripped every inhibition I have away.

  “How did you manage to play football and take care of your little brothers and sister?” Behind me, I feel his whole body tense.

  “You didn’t Google me?”

  “No. Why? You Googled me?”

  “Of course, I did.”

  “Creeper.” On second thought, I get a little nervous of what he may have read about me. God knows most of the stuff on the internet wasn’t flattering. “Don’t believe anything you read.” He shifts his big body, pressing closer, and I do my best to resist the urge to press back.

  “I don’t,” he murmurs in my ear and I melt a little more. “I didn’t play football in high school.”

  “You’ve lost me, Champ.”

  “There was no money, or time.”

  “How’d you get to college then?”

  “Academic scholarship.”

  I’m way too stunned to say a word for a good long time, and even then I’m at a loss. “Wut? I don’t understand…how?”

  “I was a walk-on.”

  “You were a walk-on try out––at Florida State?”

  “It’s been done before.”

  I can’t. I just can’t…this man. I turn around and face him with my mouth still hanging open in shock. He places his finger under my chin, and shuts it for me.

  “You, Calvin Shaw, are a remarkable man.”

  And then I watch it happen––he turns as red as a Roma tomato. The flush remains on his high cheekbones, his expression frozen as we continue to stare at each other. He licks his lips. His Adam’s apple rises and falls. The small space separating us is suddenly filled with tension.

  “It’s late. You need to rest.”

  I turn around and shut my eyes. Fifteen minutes later, I hear a soft snore. The puffs of warm air that hit the side of my neck make me smile. He went down hard and fast. I lay awake for another ten minutes thinking about Matt’s letter. The words I forgive you are a silent mantra playing on a loop inside my head until I drift off as well.

  “No…Mandy. I start training camp in four days…that’s not the point. Now is not the time for you to be finding yourself. I don’t give a…no, you listen to me, you need to focus on your son. He needs you…we’ll fly down…me and the woman I hired to take care of him…Sam loves her. She’s amazing with him.”

  Amazing? I can feel the flush start at my toes and travel all the way to my hairline. We’ve been treating each other with kid gloves in the ten days since The Sleepover starring us. I don’t see much of Cal during the day. He’s training with someone new, focusing on stretching muscles for better recovery and less injury. He always seems to be home in time for dinner, though. I know Sam appreciates it. Me? I guess I can officially call myself a masochist. Every time he walks through the door, I become a giddy mess inside.

  The change in Sam is breathtaking to witness. S
ometimes I can’t believe it’s the same kid that hardly spoke and wouldn’t look anyone in the eyes. I can’t say I’m looking forward to meeting his mom. Mostly because I don’t know what that will do to Sam. The thought of him retreating back into his shell makes me sick to my stomach.

  “You can ask him yourself when you see him….no don’t…Mandy, don’t hang up. Amanda Shaw don’t you dare…goddamn it!”

  The crashing sound kicks me into action. I step into the open doorway of Calvin’s office and find him gripping the roots of his hair. The stuff that was on his desk is, at present, covering the floor.

  “Calvin?” His head jerks in my direction and his cool gray eyes slam into mine. I wait patiently for him to explain. He exhales deeply and falls into his chair.

  “My sister has decided that a drive would be therapeutic. She wants to clear her head before she picks up her son.” His head drops back onto the headrest of the chair, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. Without invitation, I walk in and sit in the chair facing the desk.

  “Where is she?”

  “Betty Ford––Rancho Mirage, California,” he answers after a long pause.

  “That’ll take at least a week.”

  “Could be up to a month, knowing her.”

  “Has she spoken to Sam? Did she tell him?”

  “Nope.”

  “What can I do?” He points the power of those crystal clear eyes on me. There’s anticipation in that stare––along with a large dose of uncertainty.

  “You can stay.”

  Something passes between us. Something I don’t want to examine at the moment because it feels a lot like…umm, affection and I cannot be feeling that for him.

  “For you, Champ, anything.”

  He smiles then. It reaches his eyes and makes them all warm and sparkly.

  Sparkly? What the…

  My heart flops around inside my chest like it’s a fish out of water. Crap. Things just went from bad to worse.