by Nicole Snow
It's not my hands that overpower her. She locks up when she hears the old pet name, the one that's as alien to her as Ryan is to me.
“Let go. And don't you ever call me that again.” Her eyes are daggers, eager to cut me to pieces.
Growling, I slowly release her, lowering my arms. My hands go out. Pleading, imploring, desperate to make her listen for one golden minute.
“I didn't come back to turn your life upside down again,” I tell her. “Your fiance, Reg, he's not who you think he is. There's something you need to know, Kara.”
“No.” Her eyes narrow, sharpen, and cut me like green knives. “You fed me the biggest lie of my life, Ryan. If you think I'm going to stand here and listen while you try to ruin my marriage, you don't know me. Hell, you don't have a clue anymore.”
I stare her down, trying to find the right combination of words. “Give me one chance. Five minutes of your time. Please.”
“Get out! Leave, leave, and never come back.” She closes her eyes, forcing a hot tear down her red cheek. “I'm not going to say it again, you fucking murderer.”
Ouch. Hell is hearing her say what she thinks I've become.
I blink, too pissed at how badly this is going to do anything else.
Murderer. It's the dreaded word, one that's kept me up at night for five years, imagining its weight on her lips.
I told myself I was ready to deal with it. I must've been insane to believe it.
“Kara –“
“Fuck off!” She swats my hand away when I reach for her, backing into the wall on the opposite side of the hallway. “How many times do I have to ask you to leave? Turn around and go. Now. I'm not interested in excuses, catching up, or whatever big secrets you think you're entitled to drop in my lap. You abandoned me, Ryan. You missed everything. My suffering, Matt's purple heart, the night daddy got diagnosed with cancer, the night he fucking died!” Sighing, she closes her eyes for a second, shaking her head.
It's hard not to wince. She doesn't know how torn up reading her old man's obituary made me not so long ago. If it weren't for Bart, I wouldn't be standing here, taking this abuse, absorbing it patiently because I deserve every last word.
I left her. If I'd had another choice, it's the last thing in the world I ever would've done.
“Kara...” I try to reach out to her, but she gives me a look like she's going to bite me if I touch her again.
“No. We're way past over. You took weeks, months, years off my life,” she says. “Let that sink in for a second, jackass – years. I'm going to count to five. If you aren't on your way to the elevator by the time I'm through, you'll be in prison.”
I study her eyes. It isn't just fear clouding them.
It's real hate. Loathing. Years of pain fermented into poison, inflicted by me, unearthed when she least wanted it.
I can't give up on this. I need to convince her, but her face is telling me the obvious – today isn't the day to do it.
Fury churns in my guts while I turn away, put one foot in front of the other, and force myself to leave her a second time.
Before I'm at the elevator, I hear her door slam shut. The metal doors close, locking me in. There's a few brief, hot seconds where my fists are flying and I'm screaming, before I hit the button. I'm so sick and disappointed in myself I can't even remember to check whether or not the elevator has a camera.
Thankfully, this town is so small, even the million dollar condos don't need to be crawling with surveillance. The attendant looks at me when I stop next to his desk, fish out several hundreds from my wallet, and throw them on his desk.
“Sir?”
“That's for the damage in the elevator, plus extra for your trouble.” I also leave Becky's card, knowing he can reach her if he needs more. “I'm sorry.”
I'm clenching my hand, trying to stop the bleeding. I only glance back once, over my shoulder, before I'm heading through the big glass doors to my car. The entire floor inside the elevator is covered in sharp fragments from the mirrors that used to line its walls. I shattered every single one of them with my bare fists.
Later, when I'm at the hotel where I'm staying with a drink in my hand, I realize my mistake. I'm staring across town at her condo. It's the only building taller than this one, before my new factory was finished. Now, it dominates Split Harbor's vacant skyline.
I never should've confronted her at home. There were too many unknowns, like the kid she had to put down for a nap before she could even talk to me. Plus it meant invading her personal space – something she'd never welcome since she's chosen to believe the worst about who I am, what I did, and why.
For a second, that night flashes through my head again, and I swallow the rest of my drink. I can only remember the blood, the panic, the gut-wrenching pile of evil shit I found in that old man's car, and then sailing for my life across Superior's inky unsettled black waves. Each one crashing down over the hull, threatening to snuff me out like a mountain falling on a mouse.
I'm staring at my phone, watching the line on the map. The GPS tracker I put on Reg's car rolls into Marquette. He's so predictable it hurts.
Asshole goes straight to their usual place, the big hotel by the lake, where he lies to her again every time he buries his dick in his dirty little secret.
Maybe she can't forgive or forget what I did. If she hears me out, and still decides we're not meant to be, then I'm ready to walk away. Move on. Know that I did everything I could to win her back.
But I can't give up without opening her eyes. She can't marry this sonofabitch.
Whatever mistakes I've made, however I've stumbled back into her life this afternoon, I won't screw this part up.
Next time we meet, it's going to be on my terms. I'm giving her the truth about dear old Reg. Then I'm going to open my arms, pull her in, and put my mouth on hers until neither of us can breathe.
Yes, I'm officially a stalker, peeking into their lives, hellbent on chasing a second chance I don't know if I deserve.
I'm obsessed, guilty, and proud of it. I can't live the rest of my life saying what if.
We're meant to be. I'll live, breathe, and worship this last chance to have her back until it's crushed out of me.
Until it's gone, the last hanging shred of my old life, forcing me to bury what's left of Ryan for good.
Maybe I'm a fool, I can't save us, and I'm going to have to suffer to realize you can't bring back what's long dead. Doesn't matter.
I'm done looking through this peephole, staring into a life I'm never supposed to have.
I won't let go before I've exhausted every option, every chance, every ounce of wishful thinking.
I'm taking her back. I'll have her under me again, moaning my name, or else I'll feel every last drop of blood squeezed from my heart when she pushes me away forever.
7
Shaken (Kara)
I'm too shaken the rest of the evening to do anything.
There's a fugue hanging over my head when I wake up Holden, kiss him goodbye, and hand him off to my brother, who's comes by to collect his little boy sometime around ten.
I don't know where Reg is. Again.
Working late again. Ask me about the chat with Dr. Evans later.
That's what his text reads, anyway. I shrug, instead of getting angry. There isn't any point. I don't think it's possible to know rage after seeing Ryan. There's too much confusion numbing my nerves. The cloudy, maddening blur sends me back through time and space, making me think about the bastard all over again.
He's just as mysterious as the day he disappeared. Getting him to leave was my only concern when we were standing face-to-face. Now that he's gone, I'm able to sit and wonder about the fancy suit clinging to every inch of him, plus the high end black car I watched him climb into through the window.
Did he come here dressed to impress me? Or is it just one more part of who he is – someone who's a total stranger?
Of course, he was gorgeous. More handsome than any heartbreaker
with blood on his hands has any business being.
The years have been good to him. The muscular, sexy boy became a man. Full bodied, broad shouldered, his trousers tucked around hips that look like they could slam a woman into the next century.
It's hard to remember he's probably a killer. Probably.
I'm not going to get my hopes up about anything daddy whispered an hour before he left this world for good. Secrets almost killed me once. They'll do it again if I give them a chance.
I hate this. But damn, it's hard not to get wet when I picture what that body looks like underneath the suit, or whenever I remember how his hands didn't hesitate when he backed me against the wall.
His touch stopped me in my tracks. Owned me the way he used to during our brief, beautiful nights together. Reg never touches my face. I'd forgotten how good it is to have a man's hand there. Raw, masculine strength that can be as rough or as gentle as I want it to be.
God. Did I mention I'm shaken?
Nothing will take the edge off. I'm going to get sick if I resort to wine.
I settle in on the balcony, wrapped in my robe, a steaming cup of black tea in my hands. It's my fault I wouldn't let him speak, but I couldn't let him give me a mental breakdown.
I don't know what kind of game he's playing. If he really killed Nelson that night five years ago, then there's a good chance I'm dealing with a genuine psychopath.
There should be no sympathy. It shouldn't hurt to touch my phone every time I think about reporting him. One quick call to the sheriff's office, letting them know Split Harbor's most notorious fugitive is back, and I won't have to worry anymore.
He's not who you think he is. Ryan's words stick. They're death threats if they're right. Every one of them promises to detonate everything I think I know.
I couldn't survive it from any man, but hearing it from him? From the strange, heartless bastard who lost his mind, killed a man, and threw my heart in the trash half a decade ago?
No, I can't. I won't listen.
I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't.
I'm about to throw my mug three floors down to the parking lot when I hear someone behind me. Whipping around, pulling my robe tight, there's Reg standing at the door with a glass of wine, a worried look on his face.
“You're out here awfully late, Kara-bell. Come in and warm up. I just turned on the fireplace.”
“It's almost eleven. You didn't call.” Yes, he's taking the brunt of everything Ryan stirred up earlier, but I don't care. I really need to know where he was, especially after hearing he's not who you think he is.
“Babe, what's wrong? I sent you a text. Had a pleasant conversation with our doctor this morning. I told him about last night, with the party. You know what he said?”
“I don't care. You're deflecting my question,” I step inside, resisting the urge to throw my mug again, this time at his face.
“He said we did good, Kara.” Reg stops, sips his wine, and waits until I look at him before he goes on. “We're making real progress. Sure, there's a long way to go, and we're going to keep stepping on each other by accident once in awhile. Every couple does it. He said so himself.”
His wine glass goes down. Hits the counter with a resounding clink, and then he's coming toward me, holding out his arms. His embrace is just about the last place in the world I want to be today.
But as soon as his lean, firm arms are around me, I fold. I'm only human. There's no resisting comfort right now. I think I'd accept it if a grizzly bear walked into the room offering a hug.
Desperation sucks.
“I have to ask you something,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around him weakly. “You can't get mad. Just be honest.”
“Anything, babe.” He pushes his fingers through my hair, wearing a smile as soft as the sun.
I don't remember the last time I felt this much at peace with him. Shame it's going to go up in smoke as soon as I drop my question.
“Are you having an affair?”
His fingers slip through my hair a little more quickly, tangling the ends of my locks. He's extra fluid when his eyes find mine, every part of him animated at once. Just like the way he used to get when we'd stay up half the night, talking about the places we're going to see after we're married, trekking the globe together as husband and wife.
“No. That's crazy, babe, and not something you'll ever need to worry about.” He leans down, his voice strangely soft. His warm lips touch my forehead. “I'm not mad, but I'm going to ask you where the hell you got the idea?”
“You're late all the time, and you won't say why. Is it really all work, or is there something else going on?” My eyes scan his, searching for dishonesty, however faint. I can't tell. “If it's not another woman...then what? Are you drinking too much? Wrapped up in something illegal?”
For a second, he hesitates. But his eyes aren't lying. He smiles, letting out a lengthy sigh.
“I wanted it to be a big surprise. I've been spending a lot of time down in Drayton Financial's marketing firm, Kara-bell. You won't accept any help from me with your business, I know. I get it. Hell, I respect it.” His fingers move through my hair again, softer than before.
“Marketing? What are you talking –“
“Since you won't let me give you the money you need to run proper ads for tourists, I was going to do it myself.” He holds a finger up with his free hand, and pushes it gently against my lips as soon as they open. “Don't say anything yet. I'm not building your business for you. I'm simply promoting my favorite coffeehouse. And since my family runs so much of the tourism here, it only makes sense the good people from out-of-town ought to have the best recommendation for their morning cup.”
I'm melting. There's nothing in his voice that says he's full of it, even though a voice deep down inside is telling me it's too good to be true.
Too convenient, perhaps. But the alternative to continuing to dig into him, insinuating he's full of it, is recognizing my own creeping cynicism. That's the last place I want to go.
So, I don't say anything. I'm satisfied for now.
He holds me gently, swaying in the middle of the kitchen, rocking me. I let him because I'd better get used to feeling the earth moving beneath my feet.
Ryan's reappearance is proof the earthquakes aren't going to stop anytime soon. They're going to get worse, and someone is bound to collapse before it's over.
It's an uneventful week. We go our separate ways, have our weekly session with Dr. Evans, and talk to his parents a few more times about food options for the wedding. I try my damnedest to get back to my normal life and forget I ever saw a ghost from my past.
One morning, I'm at Grounded like usual. Working my tail off to make sure there's enough beans roasted for a media drop-in scheduled this afternoon. It's something to do with breakfast and coffee recommendations for the new Punch employees on the edge of town, and I'm eager to make a lovely first impression.
I'm still in the back, barking orders to the half dozen kids I manage, plus one single mom picking up part-time hours. The second I hear the chime for the front door ring, I'm flying out to the register, a huge smile on my face, carrying two steaming sampler mugs of our best coffee to the man waiting there to greet me.
“It's a pleasure, Ms. Lilydale.” His voice stops me dead in my tracks before I even see his face.
It's Ryan. Standing there with the world's smuggest smile, extending a hand, surrounded by at least three men from the Harbor Gazette priming their cameras.
“Welcome to Grounded.” My voice threatens to crack, but I won't let it. If he's here as some kind of sick joke to throw me off on a big day for my cafe, he's wrong. I'm not giving him the satisfaction.
“Have to say, I think I'm already in love with this little place.” Of course, the bastard beams his ocean blue eyes into mine when he says the dreadful L-word. “Give me your best. Black, please. Before I leave, I'd like you to know I've dropped a check in your donation box for the cancer foundation you're advertisi
ng. It's wonderful to see business being charitable.”
He motions to the big pink banner hanging up above our charity billboard.
Charitable? Really? Is that what you call it when you left me behind to watch daddy suffer? When you weren't around for daddy's funeral, the whole fucking reason I'm hawking cancer research here in the first place?
I'm so caught up on wondering how I can punch him in the face and get away with it, that I barely stop to wonder why he's here with all these cameras. He can't be Punch Corp's marketing rep...can he?
No, I never saw Ryan working a corporate job. But we've lost a lot of years, become different people, and I can't rule out anything.
There's nothing I know about the pompous ass in front of me except that I hate him. He looks at me while I order up his drink – a premium cup of steaming get-the-hell-out.
“Can I have a look around?” I nod quickly, once, and he smiles. “Good. I think the press with me here today have a few questions of their own. This is your spotlight, Ms. Lilydale. The last thing I want to do is get in the way.”
“It's Mrs. Drayton soon,” I snap, a sinister satisfaction lighting up my blood when I see jealous storms rolling through his eyes. “Just a friendly correction.”
He turns, a fake diplomatic smile on his face, and starts strolling around my cafe like he's fascinated with everything I've built. I order coffees and donuts for the media people, letting them know I'm happy to sit down anytime for an interview.
A tall journalist named Tom guides me over to the nearest table. He's shaking his head by the time we sit down with our coffee.
“Before our interview, I just want to say, you're doing a hell of a job handling yourself in front of a celebrity, Ms. Lilydale.” I don't bother to correct him on the name because it won't get under his skin, like it will Ryan's. “Did you ever dream you'd have this little place getting so much attention?”
It's my turn to shake my head. I'm not understanding.
Celebrity? What the hell is he talking about?