by S. Layne
“There is more to life than happiness! There are responsibilities and honor and traditions.”
Next to me, Donovan scoffs. His grip tightens on my hand until I’m certain that he’s cutting off the circulation. Still, I stay silent, giving him whatever strength and support I can while staying by his side. “Get out, Mother. And don’t speak to me again until you can apologize for the way you’ve treated every single person I love.”
Her eyes widen and her jaw goes slack. “You can’t be serious.”
“As a heart attack.”
Holy shit. That’s how his dad died, and I watch his mother’s face pale at his horrific word choice. My eyes snap to Donovan’s and I see his tighten as if he’s just realized what he’s said.
She recovers more quickly than I do. “I still own controlling interest.”
“Then fire me if you want, but that also means you lose any relationship you and I have. You have already lost your husband, your daughter, and your grandson. It’s your choice if you want to lose me too.”
“This is ridiculous.” With a hitch of her handbag, fixing it in place on her shoulder, she fluffs her shoulder-length brown hair. “Have your fun if you must. But when you’re ready to be serious about your future and the future of our family again, don’t expect me to say anything other than ‘I told you so’.”
Donovan takes a step forward, jerking me with him.
I recover, barely, and brace myself with my free hand on his bicep, turning toward his side.
“For almost a decade I have allowed your decisions to rule every single one of mine, and they have been, other than in the business, some of the worst choices I have ever made. You are not welcome in this family, or in this house, until you are able to understand that the decisions I make from this day forward have nothing to do with you.”
Her skin pales with the intensity in his voice, but she doesn’t speak.
She simply spins on her heels, and both of us are frozen solid until the door clicks shut behind her.
Several thundering heartbeats pound against my ribcage while I wait for Donovan to speak.
He runs his hand through his hair and down his face, huffing while he does.
Then he turns and his chin dips to me. Even in heels, I tilt my head back to meet his gaze.
He searches me for a moment before he asks, “Are you okay?”
I flex my fingers, still in his grip, and grin. “Besides the fact that I think you might have just broken my fingers? I’m good.”
“Shit.” He relaxes his grip and begins to rub circulation back into my hand. “I’m so sorry.”
I’m not sure what he’s apologizing for…for his mother or my fingers…or for the last eight years and everything that just happened. While quick, it was painful to watch.
I’m silent while he runs his fingers along mine, soothing them. I let him, mostly because even this simple gesture has me thinking of other things I’d like him to do with his fingers.
“I have never spoken to my mother like that before.”
He murmurs this and brings my fingers to his lips, kissing my fingertips and then my knuckles.
“I’m sorry you had to do it on my account.”
He lifts one of his hands, tangles it in the hair at the back of my neck, and then he pulls me to him until our foreheads are pressed together. “I’m not. Should have stood up to her eight years ago. Or five. Or three. Today was long overdue.”
I allow his warm words to wash over me.
With his skin against mine and his hands on me, I inhale a deep breath and just revel in the fact that I’m with him.
Finally.
After all this time, I have the man I’ve always loved right in front of me, loving me back.
I pull back just enough to rise to my toes, press my lips to his, and whisper everything I’m feeling in three little words.
“I love you.”
“Hell, that’s good to hear.”
Our lips press against each other’s, our smiles mirror images. His hands drop to my waist and then I’m being picked up, my legs wrapping around him instinctively and my hands going to his shoulders.
I laugh, surprised. “What are you doing? We have to go to work.”
“It’s a good thing we own our own businesses, because we’re going to be late.”
Dr. Kasey McGarry is younger than I expected, but she’s been incredibly kind as we get my father settled into his new room at the Rolling Oaks Rehab Facility that Donovan brought me to last week.
Once I decided that I was all-in with our relationship, it took very little convincing on Donavan’s part to allow him to do this for me.
It came with multiple orgasms, and a discussion when I was too satisfied from sex—after he’d made me come with his tongue—twice—then his fingers, and finally him.
I could barely think straight, much less argue about the fact that I didn’t want anyone to think I was with him for his money or his connections.
When he set his softened green eyes on me early in the morning, with the sun peeking through the curtains in his bedroom, and simply stated that he did this because he wanted to take care of me…I decided to let him.
Now that we’re here, after getting my father moved and filling out massive amounts of paperwork due to his transfer and updating medical records, my hand is cramped from signing my name so many times.
But there’s a peacefulness in this brightly lit place. His room looks as if it was decorated by the best interior designers in the country. Gone are the stark hall lighting and linoleum floors and water-stained ceiling tiles of his old center.
Instead, I’m standing in a room where my father seems to be lounging peacefully in a queen-size bed with plush bedding, staring out a window with a view that lives up to the center’s name. Next to me is a lush microfiber sofa, and in the corner is a small but elegant writing desk for visitors to use.
I’m welcome here anytime, for as long as I’d like to be.
This place is so cozy and warm, it feels as if I’m in his bedroom at home.
“Thank you, again, for making room for him.”
Dr. McGarry flashes me her elegant smile and nods. “It’s our pleasure. We will do everything we can for your father during his stay here.”
Her gentle words and kind tone spark tears in my eyes. I fight them back, though. She’s seen enough of my emotions today already.
“What’s the plan moving forward?”
She gestures me to join her on the couch, where she slides a small stack of papers out of her binder. For the next thirty minutes we review his physical therapy plan, as well as new cutting-edge treatments they have found to be successful in victims of massive strokes.
By the time we’re done, her hand resting gently over mine, she has reassured me of their abilities to bring my father back to me.
“Thank you.” I laugh softly. It seems to be all I can say.
“It’s our job, Miss Merchant. One we take pride in. The success of our patients is what drives us. Trust me, there is nothing to thank me for.”
But there is, because for the first time since my father’s stroke almost two months ago, I finally have hope.
She leaves the room, the mahogany door closing quietly behind her, and I pull up a chair next to my father’s side of the bed. He looks gaunt and small in the large bed, and a part of me wishes I could climb in next to him and wrap his arms around me, just to feel him again.
But I don’t. Tucking my feet under my behind, I sit on my knees, hold his hand, and squeeze.
“You’re going to get better here, I just know it.”
My words are whispered into the air in hopes they reach someone who has the power to make them true. I don’t say anything else for the next few hours while I simply hold his hand, praying for a miracle.
“How is your father today?” Marisa asks as soon as I walk through the door.
I shrug off my jacket, gently folding it over my arm. “The same. But I like his new place.�
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“I can tell.”
I smile hesitantly. It’s small but it’s there—and it’s usually not after a visit with my dad. Marisa has to notice, because she gently squeezes my forearm when I reach her.
In the living area just off the entryway, the television is muted and three young boys and one girl are zoning out to what looks like a ghost hunter show.
“What’s new here today?”
She leans in and points to one boy who I’m thankful to see. Ben.
This is the second time in just a few weeks he’s been here. At sixteen, he’s certainly no stranger to us. We see him around town and sometimes have to convince him to come with us for a night of hot food and a shower along with a warm, safe bed. He doesn’t open up to us at all about why he’s on the streets, but the first time I saw him, early in the spring, the telltale bruises all over his body and the way he flinched from contact told me everything I needed to know.
He’s on the streets because it’s safer than being at home.
He’s currently sitting in a chair in the living room, separate from the other four kids, who are watching the television. His chair is by the window, and while there is nothing there to see other than a quiet street lined with cars and small, boutique-style tourist shops, his gaze is fixed on the outside.
I pat Marisa’s arm and sigh. “Some days, I hate this.”
“Someday you’ll have room to house them all.”
I have an appointment with the architect tomorrow to look over the building one more time and finalize the blueprints before our reconstruction process begins, and I can’t wait.
Her reminder of our new building, where the second story will house twenty-four beds in four rooms—two male and two female—makes me smile as I head toward Ben.
He has two years left, could easily go into the system, but even I know that with as many wonderful parents that are out there, there are some that aren’t so great. Getting Ben to trust anyone—even fantastic, loving parents—would be difficult.
And because he’s so old and has never filed a complaint or pressed charges against whoever has beaten him in the past, he’s more likely to be sent home or into a juvenile center.
It’s my job to report abuse, and while I’ve tried to convince Ben I’m here to help him and not hurt him further, every time he shows up and it’s mentioned, he takes off. But since I don’t know his last name, or that Ben is even his real first name, I’ve done little to push the issue.
It’s breaking the rules and possibly risking my license to allow him to stay here without contacting the authorities, but sometimes rules are made to be bent a little bit.
“I’ve missed you,” I say quietly, and slide into a chair across from him.
His eyes stay on the window for a moment, his curly, dark brown hair almost flopping into his eyes. His posture is defeated but hardened. His clothes are dirty and the cuffs of his long-sleeved flannel are ripped. His cheekbones protrude more than they should for a boy his age.
I want to hug him, but know that I can’t.
Slowly, he blinks and turns to face me. When he does, I gasp and instantly touch his chin.
He flinches from my fingertips on his skin and my sudden movement. I immediately drop my hands into my lap.
“Who did this to you?”
One of his fingers reaches up and runs along the black-and-purple bruise that surrounds his left eye. It was hidden from my original view of him, but now I have to force myself not to cringe as I see it.
He shakes his head and shrugs.
“Ben, you have to give me something here.”
His hands ball into fists in his lap and his nose scrunches. I watch him flinch in pain from the movement before his dark brown eyes go ice cold.
“I tried to go home and get some warmer clothes.” He sniffs and stares out the window.
I can feel the tension radiating off him, permeating the space between us. I fight the urge to hold him in my arms, let him cry on my shoulder, and promise him everything will be okay.
Instead, I stay silent while he works his battle silently.
“Thought he wouldn’t be there,” he mutters and blinks slowly.
God. These kids. They make every single problem I’ve ever had in my life seem completely inconsequential.
“Your father?” I whisper it, leaning close to him without touching, but ensuring no one else in the room can hear us. The kids who come are pretty good about minding their own business, though. They’ve had lots of practice.
He swallows heavily. “You can’t call the cops.”
“It’s my job.”
“I’ll leave.” His lips twist into a menacing sneer. He won’t hurt me, I know this. He’s just scared. “I’ll leave and never come back.”
“Please,” I say, pleading. “I just want to help you.”
He snorts. “Calling the cops won’t help me.”
His eyes seem to tell me what his words don’t, and I close my eyes, leaning back into my chair.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. “Your dad’s a cop.”
His lips twitch minutely and he mouths one word: manners.
I grin and hold up my hands. “Busted. Sometimes it’s necessary.” My mind begins spinning, trying to figure out how to help this young boy in front of me. But there are some things that can’t be fixed in the span of moments. For now, he’s safe. And that’s what is important.
“Will he come looking for you?” I ask, and before he can answer, I continue: “Is there anyone else at home?”
His lips pinch together. “Just my mom. But she doesn’t do shit.” He doesn’t answer the other question, and I let it slide.
It’s not like it’s any big secret that I take in runaways. If Ben’s dad wants to find him, my place is the first one he’d probably look.
“Stay here as long as you need,” I tell him, standing up. I need to talk to Marisa about this. Hiding him can risk my license as well as any state funding we receive, which dwindles by the year. “There are beds upstairs, closets full of warm clothes, and dinner at six. You know the drill…be honest and respectful, but give me time to figure this out.”
He stares at me, his one eye swollen and almost completely shut, and I see the wariness in his good eye—the fact that I’d help him, knowing what I now know. He must understand the significance because he mumbles a quiet, “Thanks, Miss M.,” before he turns back to the window, staring as if he’s watching…waiting.
And he very well might be, but he won’t be found by his father. Not if I can help it.
Donovan’s house is quiet when I enter, my shoulders slumped after a long day.
I have no idea what to do about Ben, but after speaking with Marisa, she agreed that he should stay at the center for as long as he needs. She’s prepared to deny that she’s seen him if someone does come looking for him.
It’s putting us both at incredible risk, but one of the things I love about Marisa is that she’s willing to make those decisions when it comes to the good of the kids.
I drop my purse on the console table just inside the front door and slide off my shoes before I begin wandering through the vast space, looking for Jeremiah.
I was told he’d be home. Due to his new schedule, he won’t be coming to my office anymore. It’s simply easier for him to just come home after school.
But I missed him today, and I’m still concerned that I have a relationship to heal from my sudden departure last weekend.
It’s been a few days since I’ve been back in Donovan’s house, and already I’m making myself more comfortable, treating it like it’s my own home instead of one I’m simply obligated to stay in for another week or two. I’ve refused to consider what will happen when my thirty days are done, and I’m choosing even more stubbornly to ignore the comments Donovan has made this week about wanting to see me every morning.
It’s implied, but until he comes out and specifically asks me to move in, I have one foot in his house and one foot still in mi
ne.
I hear the zombie moans before I reach the playroom, and a smile tilts my lip.
Jeremiah is exactly how I pictured him in my mind when I walk through the doorway, my footsteps muted by the plush carpeting.
With one leg thrown over the armrest of the chair, his posture is relaxed but he’s intent on fighting the dead walkers on the enormous projection screen in front of him.
I don’t say anything when I take a chair next to him. I just reach for my controller and wait until he pauses the game so I can enter.
“How was school?” I ask when he waits for me.
“Good. I like it. It’s better.”
I glance at him, notice the slight blush on his cheeks, and press my lips together.
Only one thing can make a thirteen-year-old blush like that. Or one person.
“What’s her name?”
He slides me a look. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.”
He’s only been at his new school for a few days, but with his size and looks, I’m not surprised he’s already caught the attention of girls. They’re just at that age when the girls begin to get giggly and boys begin to notice developing bodies.
I shake off the thought of what comes after.
“When are basketball tryouts?”
He shrugs like he doesn’t care, but I know he does. The lack of sports at his private school was one of the reasons he hated it so much.
“Couple weeks.”
“Wanna practice after dinner?”
I had noticed that with my reappearance on Monday, also came the addition of a basketball hoop in the driveway.
Jeremiah huffs. “Like you’d be much competition.”
I grin, facing the screen, and proceed to chop his head off with a machete.
“Hey! You’re supposed to kill the zombies, not your partner.”
“That’s for thinking girls can’t be competition.”
It’s after dinner with Donovan, and it’s after spending an hour all three of us outside on the driveway, shooting baskets and playing HORSE (in which I was the winner of all five games), and it’s after Jeremiah is in bed for the night when I finally sit down on the deck, mug of hot cocoa in hand, blanket wrapped around my lap, and Donovan next to me.