When Never Comes

by Barbara Davis

  “Thanks. I think I’d just as soon have the quiet.”

  They ate in silence, Tolstoy purring contentedly between them on the couch. After the turmoil of the day, it felt slightly surreal to be doing something as mundane as eating eggs in her living room. She stole a glance at Wade, absently munching his toast, and thought about the way he had threatened to expose Ray if he so much as blinked in Iris’s direction. She had never believed in white knights, but at that moment, Wade had become one. Tomorrow she would have to call Rhetta and make her understand the impossibility of what she was asking, but for now, it was enough to simply eat her eggs and not think about tomorrow.

  When she had eaten her fill, she carried the dishes to the kitchen, then returned to fold up the trays. Wade lay slumped against the arm of the couch, head lolled back against the cushions. She stood looking at him, taking him in detail by detail, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the dusky stubble shadowing his jawline, the way the tiny lines around his eyes went smooth when his face was relaxed.

  As if he could feel her there, his eyes opened, heavy lidded and golden. He said nothing as he looked at her. Neither did she, pinned by his gaze and the unsettling whirl of emotions that suddenly crept over her: warmth, gratitude—and trust. It was unfamiliar ground for her, and yet it couldn’t be denied. Somehow, while she wasn’t paying attention, this man had become part of her life, her safe port in a storm.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, easing down beside him. “I don’t know what I would have done without you today. Or through any of this really. I’ve never been good at letting people in, but somehow you’re here, and I’m glad.”

  “I’m glad too.”

  She didn’t resist this time when Wade reached for her hand and turned it palm up. She watched as he traced a finger over the trio of small scars then softly touched his lips to them.

  “I’m sorry you’ve been through so much, but I’m glad you felt you could share it with me. In case no one’s ever told you, you’re quite remarkable.”

  The words had a strange effect on Christy-Lynn, as if some invisible lock somewhere had suddenly sprung open, a sense of letting go, in this moment at least, of the fears that had kept her in check until now. But then there had always been an inevitability to this moment, a bone-deep knowing that there would come a time when what lay between them would be forever changed.

  She groped for something to say, for some quick words to fill up the moment, to check the reckless direction of her thoughts. When she couldn’t think of anything, she kissed him, tentatively at first, and then more deeply, unspooling all the pent-up emotions of the day. He felt warm and solid, safe. It was a heady mix—and a frightening one. And yet she felt herself yielding to it, reaching for the thing she’d been holding at bay for so long.

  It was Wade who broke away, an abrupt severing that left Christy-Lynn feeling suddenly unmoored. She stared at him, dazed. “What . . .”

  “This is a bad idea, Christy-Lynn,” he said evenly, holding her at arm’s length.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re tired and you’re emotional. And because I’m afraid you’re confusing gratitude with something else right now.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I think you are. You might not remember, but the last time we went down this particular road, you made it abundantly clear that you weren’t ready. And I made it clear that I don’t want to be the guy who takes advantage of a friend. I don’t think either of those things have changed, do you?”

  “I don’t know,” she said softly. “I wish I did. But I know I want to be with you tonight.”

  “Christy-Lynn . . .”

  “Stay.”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  She leaned in, past the wavering defense of his outstretched arm, and gently grazed his lips. “Please.”

  With that simple word, all Wade’s reservations seemed to fall away. His arm went round her, pulling her tight against him, his mouth moist and hungry as it closed over hers. After a moment, he pulled back, breath coming hard as he probed her gaze one last time. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m not sure of anything, except that I want this . . . want you . . . now.”

  Neither spoke as Christy-Lynn led him to her bedroom. Her hands trembled as she loosened her robe and let it slip from her shoulders. The seconds ticked heavily as she stood there, naked and trembling in the wash of moonlight from the open window, reveling in the feel of Wade’s gaze moving over her.

  And yet there was a prickle of indecision too, a tiny voice reminding her that it wasn’t too late to stop this. Now, before things went too far. Was she testing herself? Testing Wade? Or was it only forgetfulness she craved, a place to hide for the night, as she had once hidden herself in Stephen? She didn’t know the answers, but suddenly it didn’t matter. She was reaching for him and he for her. There was no more time for second-guessing.

  The contact came as a shock at first, all warm skin and hard angles against her bare flesh. She heard Wade’s sharp intake of breath and knew he felt it too. They had crossed that line, that fraction of an instant when it was still possible to retreat. She was clinging to him now, breath held, head thrown back, surrendering to the dizzying assault of his mouth along the ridge of her collarbone, the hollow at the base of her throat. Slowly, maddeningly, he teased his way up to her lips.

  Christy-Lynn rose on tiptoe to meet the kiss, unable to ignore the sweet ache spreading through her limbs. She breathed his name and heard hers in return. A plea. A promise. And then suddenly they were falling, spilling onto moonlit sheets, a tangle of straining limbs and unleashed need.

  They lay quietly afterward, touching but not talking, slick but sated in a tangle of damp sheets. Christy-Lynn lay with eyes closed, listening to the thrum of blood in her ears. Beside her, Wade’s breathing was deep and even as he drifted toward sleep, the warmth of their lovemaking still radiating from his skin. He had touched her in a way she’d never been touched before, as if he’d been given a key to all the hidden places she’d been guarding so carefully, had broken her open and laid her bare. And now, as she lay reliving each exquisite moment, she knew she had made a terrible mistake.

  It was only a matter of time before Wade knew it too. She’d been willing but not ready, desperate to believe things had changed, that she had changed. But it wasn’t true. The day’s events had dredged up her past like slime from the bottom of a stagnant pond, a glaring reminder that trust was a dangerous thing. Her mother. The Hawleys. Stephen. A trail of betrayal and broken promises. And now there was Wade. Except, in Wade’s case, she was the one likely to prove dangerous, weighed down with emotional baggage and a flight risk by nature.

  Without warning, Charlene Parker’s face appeared, floating behind her closed lids like a specter on a movie screen. Dar’s words were there too, disembodied in the darkness. Let the memories catch up to you . . .

  Perhaps it was time she did just that.

  She waited until she was sure Wade was asleep before pushing back the covers and easing the bottom drawer of the nightstand open. In the moonlight, the envelope glowed an eerie white. She took it out, hesitating only a moment before grabbing the clothes she had discarded earlier and slipping out of the room.

  In the kitchen, she scribbled a hasty note and left it on the table. There was no nice way to explain leaving him in the middle of the night, but she had to say something.

  Wade—

  You were right. I wasn’t ready. I’m so sorry—about everything. There’s something I have to do. Please forgive me.

  CL

  It seemed terse when she read it back, cold and dismissive, but she didn’t trust herself to wait until morning to explain where she was going. He might try to talk her out of it, and maybe he should, but this was something she needed to do, even if it came to nothing, which it probably would. It was time to stop hiding and face her past head-on, to lance the old wounds if she could and drain thirty years of poison.

  Scooping the still-p
acked overnighter from the living room floor, she slipped out into the night, trying not to think about the moment Wade would wake up and find her gone.

  She stopped for coffee in Raleigh sometime around nine, then dug out her phone to pull up the site she’d used to find Charlene Parker’s last known address. She groaned when she typed the information into her GPS. Still three hours to go. Suddenly she began to question the sanity of what she was doing. She hadn’t spoken to her mother in six years, hadn’t seen her in more than twenty. What did she hope to gain by poking at her past with a sharp stick? The smart thing—the sane thing—would be to go back to Sweetwater and clean up the mess she’d made with Wade.

  As if conjured, her cell phone rang. Wade’s number flashed on the screen. She cringed, briefly considering letting the call go to voice mail. But that was the coward’s way out.

  “Hello, Wade.”

  “What’s going on, Christy-Lynn? Where are you?”

  “In Raleigh, on my way to South Carolina.”

  “You left me in your bed in the middle of the night to drive to South Carolina?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So your note said.”

  Christy-Lynn blinked against the sudden sting behind her lids. “I wish I knew what else to say, some other way to do this.”

  “To do what? What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying we made a mistake, Wade. That I made a mistake. You were right. I wasn’t ready. I’m never going to be ready.”

  “I’d say it’s a bit late to be figuring that out.”

  “I didn’t just figure it out. I’ve known it for a long time. In fact, I tried to warn you the first time you kissed me.”

  “Yes, you did,” he replied stiffly. “Must learn to pay better attention. Though to set the record straight, it was you who made the first move last night, not me.”

  Christy-Lynn smothered a groan, keenly aware of the irony. “You’ve been a good friend, Wade. A true friend. I don’t know what else to say, except that it never should have happened.”

  “A friend,” he repeated coolly. “Right.”

  His tone, clipped and frosty, stung more than she expected, not that she hadn’t deserved it. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant . . . I never meant to hurt you, Wade.”

  “What’s in South Carolina?”

  The abrupt change of subject should have come as a relief but didn’t. “Answers maybe. Or nothing at all. I don’t know yet.”

  “You’re going to try to find your mother, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “After twenty years and all by yourself.” There was another long pause, as if he were taking time to frame his next words. “I would have gone with you, you know. All you had to do was ask.”

  “All by myself is what I know, Wade. It’s what I’m good at. Say what you want about Stephen, but even he figured that out. And it isn’t about fixing anything. It’s too late for that. It’s about looking her in the eye—looking all of it in the eye—so I can finally stop reliving it and blaming myself for it. I know that doesn’t make sense to you. You don’t believe in looking back. And I tried that approach for years. But it hasn’t worked. So I have to try something else. If I don’t, nothing’s ever going to change for me.”

  “Are you sure you want things to change?”

  “Of course I do. You think I like the way things are now, the way I . . . am? Afraid of making another mistake? Of hurting someone else? Of hurting you?”

  “Let’s leave me out of the equation for now, since you’ve apparently already done that. I just want you to think about what you’re doing—and why you’re doing it. This trip seems like a pretty spur-of-the-moment thing. Have you given any thought as to what happens when you get there? What you’ll say to her if you find her?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Maybe you’re not as ready to do this as you think.” The hard edges were gone from his voice now, replaced with something softer.

  “If I don’t do it now, I never will.”

  “Look, I know you feel like you have to work through all of this on your own, Christy-Lynn, and maybe you do, but I told you once that I’d wait. That hasn’t changed.”

  Christy-Lynn closed her eyes, hating the words she was about to utter. “And I told you I wasn’t worth the wait. That hasn’t changed either.”

  “Christy-Lynn—”

  “I come with too many nevers, Wade, too many doors it’s too late to open.”

  “And I’m behind one of those doors?”

  “Yes,” she said softly. “I’m sorry.”

  “Will I see you when you get back?”

  Christy-Lynn swallowed past the fist-size lump in her throat. She was trying to do the right thing, but he wasn’t making it easy. She needed him to understand once and for all that they were a bad idea—that she was a bad idea. “Sweetwater’s a small town,” she said finally. “We’re bound to run into each other.”

  “Right.”

  “Wade—”

  “Never mind. I get it. Good luck with your mom.”

  She felt a strange hollowness as she ended the call, as if she had just burned a bridge she might want to cross in the future. She tried to shake the feeling as she put the Rover in gear and pulled back onto the highway, telling herself it was for the best. There simply wasn’t room in her heart right now for one more ache.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Walterboro, South Carolina

  August 27, 2017

  The Dixie Court apartments weren’t quite as depressing as Christy-Lynn had imagined them, but they were close. The treeless grounds wore a vaguely blasted look, as if a bomb had been dropped years ago and the place had never recovered, and the squat, squarish brick buildings reminded her of a prison. It was Sunday, and the parking lot was nearly full, populated with older-model cars pocked with rust or sporting mismatched fenders. At the far end of the lot, a grimy dumpster overflowed with trash, a cloud of flies humming greedily in the late August heat.

  Slowing the Rover to an idle, she scanned dirty apartment doors until she located number thirteen. Strains of Blake Shelton’s “Kiss My Country Ass” drifted down from one of the upper-story windows. It took everything she had not to restart the engine and pull away.

  A little girl in a stained dress and bare feet stared at her wordlessly as she approached the door and lifted her hand to knock. The front windows were open, the curtains wadded into knots to let in the spongy summer air. She tried to peer in but could see nothing. The TV was on, the volume turned way up—old Matlock reruns. She knocked again, harder this time, not sure her first attempt had been heard over the TV.

  Seconds later, the door pulled back a few inches. A pair of shrewd eyes peered out. “Yeah?”

  There was a moment of disorientation, of fractured memories coalescing around the cigarette-gruff voice and warily narrowed eyes. It was how she used to open the door when the rent was due or when she owed money to one of her dealers.

  “Mama?”

  The door pulled back another few inches. “Christy-Lynn?”

  It was the scar she noticed first, a puckered pink gash running from her right eye down to the corner of her mouth, tugging her upper lip into a perpetual half smile. It was all Christy-Lynn could do not to take a step back.

  “Yes, Mama, it’s me.”

  The door pulled back the rest of the way, a pong of stale cigarette smoke drifting out to envelop her. “What in God’s name—”

  “I came to see how you were.”

  “Why?”

  Christy-Lynn stared at her, baffled by the one-word response, but the truth was she didn’t have an answer. “I honestly don’t know.”

  “You drove clear from Maine for no reason?”

  “I live in Virginia now. Are you going to let me in?”

  Charlene seemed to give the question serious thought, but finally pulled back the door and stepped aside. It took Christy-Lynn’s eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness, but gradually she made out
a small living room with an even smaller kitchen and dinette off to the side. The furniture was worn and mismatched, the couch covered in a faded orange sheet. There was a box fan perched in one of the side windows, circulating sticky air in the cramped space.

  A cigarette fumed in a chipped glass ashtray overflowing with butts. Charlene reached past Christy-Lynn to stub it out, then whisked a Natural Light can from the end table before clicking off the TV. Her eyes darted anxiously, as if seeing the place through her daughter’s eyes, and for one terrible moment, Christy-Lynn was reminded of the day she’d brought poor Linda Neely home.

  “I’ve just made some tea,” Charlene blurted awkwardly. “I’ll get you a glass.”

  Christy-Lynn followed her to the kitchen, where the smell of old beer and even older food greeted her. She tried not to count the empty beer cans in the sink, scattered among what looked like last night’s dishes. There were nine.

  “They’re not all mine,” Charlene told her, noting the direction of her daughter’s gaze. “Some of them are Roger’s. I’d have tidied up if I knew you were coming.”

  “I’m sorry,” Christy-Lynn said, dragging her eyes from the sink and then from the overflowing trash can in the corner. “I couldn’t find a phone number for you.”

  “You know I never could stand a phone.”

  No. Especially when the bill collectors were calling.

  “Who’s Roger?”

  “He’s my . . . we live together. Going on two years now. Works for Tilden Lumber over in Ravenel.” She handed Christy-Lynn a glass of tea. “He’s . . . steady.”

  Christy-Lynn’s brows lifted. Two years. And a job. As far as she knew, it was a first for both, so by her mother’s standards he probably was steady. Still, she refrained from voicing her thoughts.

  Charlene turned a hard eye on her. “Why are you here, Christy-Lynn? After all these years?”

  “You’re my mother,” she said coolly.

  Charlene snorted as she turned away, heading for the living room and the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray. She fumbled in her pocket for a disposable lighter and lit the crumpled end. “I’ve always been your mother,” she said, blowing a plume of smoke at the ceiling. “Never brought you around before.”