by C. C. Hunter
She hugs me. “Are you nervous?”
“A little,” I tell her.
“Don’t worry. There’s no way in hell they aren’t going to be thrilled with you.” Then she hands me a thick envelope.
“What’s this?”
“Photos. I made copies. You might explain why some of them have cutouts. But I just thought they’d want them.”
I squeeze her hand. “Thank you for making it easy for me.”
She no sooner gets out the door than my phone rings. I pray it’s Cash, but it’s not. It’s Dad, wishing me luck.
“Are you okay?” His love sounds in his voice.
“Yeah,” I say, but it’s mostly a lie. I’m broken inside. I can’t understand why Cash is doing this. And I can’t help but worry if they told him I’m coming tonight. Does he not want to see me?
As I drive to the Fullers’, I think about what Lindsey asked: Did the Fullers tell Cash he couldn’t date you?
My gut says it isn’t that, but I’m hoping to find out. Not that I want this night to be about Cash. I know it’s about so much more. It’s about the first three years of my life. It’s about filling that empty spot I’ve carried in my heart most of my life.
I have to get passed through at the gate. But they told the guard I’m coming. I park in front of their house, and before I get to the door, they’re on the porch.
I notice something right away: Mrs. Fuller’s eyes. She looks hurt.
They both hug me. Tight and long. But it’s okay. I kind of needed it.
Cash isn’t there. I wonder if he’s upstairs. But I do everything I can to push him out of my mind.
We sit down at their dining room table. I give them the pictures. They are so grateful to Mom. We ask each other questions. Several times, Mrs. Fuller and I start crying. Mr. Fuller works extra hard not to. But I see him passing a hand over his face every now and then.
They want to know everything about me. From my favorite color to my driving record. They have a sandwich tray of every meat, every cheese, and every different kind of bread known to mankind. Then different chips and desserts. I’m so nervous, I don’t eat much. Neither do they.
I’m there several hours before I relent and ask about Cash.
The moment his name leaves my lips, tension fills the room.
“He moved out,” Mr. Fuller explains.
I’m floored. “But … but he’s not eighteen,” I say.
They tell me Cash’s plan.
“Why’s he doing this?” I ask.
Mrs. Fuller says, “That boy can be stubborn sometimes. We’re planning on going to see him this weekend. Check out where he’s living. And try to talk him into coming back.”
I don’t know how to broach the subject, so I just ask. “Is this because … because he and I like each other?”
“No,” they both say at the same time. “We thought it might be why he felt he needed to do it, but he swore it wasn’t.”
Mrs. Fuller adds, “Chloe, he had a rough childhood. I sometimes think he pushes people away because he’s scared to care too much.”
I nod, and I realize how right she is. I knew he didn’t feel as if he deserved the Fullers, but I think maybe it’s even more than that, he was afraid that people will abandon him like his father and all the other foster parents.
I’m hit with how sad it is, but then that sadness turns to anger. Anger at Cash for abandoning me and the Fullers. But I don’t want anger building inside me. I push it aside, to concentrate on the Fullers. But it stays in my chest the rest of the evening. Building. Burning. What gives him the right to just walk away from people who care about him?
Then I suddenly realize it’s after ten. “I should call Mom.”
“Yes, don’t worry her,” Mrs. Fuller says.
It’s eleven when I get home. Mom and I sleep together again. I tell her about the night. But I’m careful not to say anything that might make her feel like she’s second fiddle.
36
Friday morning, Mom’s alarm goes off at six. I lie there another ten minutes; then I get up. I have things to do. I get ready and let Mom think I’m going to school. I’m not.
I have eggs to buy. I have eggs to break. An omelet to make.
At the store, I get two dozen. Hey, if you’re going to break eggs, you might as well do it right.
I’m not sure what time Cash goes to work. I drive by the garage at nine. He’s not there. I drive by at ten. He’s not there.
I worry he doesn’t work on Friday.
I go to a restaurant and order … You guessed it—eggs.
When I drive by the garage at eleven, his Jeep’s there. It’s been repaired. No bullet holes.
I pull into the other side of the parking lot.
I’m shaking. I grab my two dozen eggs and walk over to his Jeep. I look around and see someone’s in the office. I think they see me, and that’s exactly what I want.
I set one carton down at my feet. And I stand up, open the other, and I throw my first egg. It lands with a thud-crunch against his windshield. In the corner of my eye, I see movement through the glass walls.
I throw egg number two. This one hits his passenger door. I watch the yellow yolk burst and ooze down the side.
“What are you doing?” someone yells out from the office door.
I don’t say anything. Egg three hits the windshield.
I’m up to half a dozen when I see Cash, wearing navy coveralls, walking out of the garage.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I ignore him and go for two more eggs. Then I look at him standing there, just staring. Just staring at me. I’m so mad, tears hit my eyes.
I can’t read his expression. Not that I care. I throw another one.
“What are you doing?” he asks again.
“I’m breaking eggs.”
He crosses his arms. “That’s bad on the paint job.”
“Yeah, I heard that once.” I throw another one. Then I reach down and pick up the second carton.
He unlocks his arms and takes a few steps closer. “Listen. It’s better this way,” he says.
I throw an egg at him.
He dodges it and frowns. “You deserve—”
“Better than you? You’re right. I deserve better than someone who isn’t scared to care for someone. Who isn’t scared to admit he cares for them.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“People care about you, and you don’t even have the decency to admit you care about them!” I throw another egg at him. Then I throw another at his car, and then when I’m out, I throw the carton at him. That’s when I see people standing in the parking lot, watching me.
Suddenly what felt like such a good idea seems foolish. I run for my car and reach for the door handle. It’s locked.
“Stop!” he yells. “You can’t just come here and say what you want to say and leave. We’re not done arguing.”
“Yes, we are!” I reach in my pocket for my keys, but they aren’t there. I yank at my door as if it will magically open this time. It doesn’t. I look in the window to see if I left them in the ignition. They aren’t there.
I hear him walking toward me. “You’re wrong.”
I swing around. “About what?”
“I did admit it! I told you I loved you.”
“Yeah, but then when I really needed you, you were gone.” Tears fill my eyes.
“You were so mad at me, Chloe.”
“When was I mad at you?”
“When I told you about being caught at the agency. And I couldn’t blame you. I messed everything up.”
“I wasn’t so mad as upset. And you messed up when you walked away!”
“I nearly got you killed. They accused you of being part of shooting Mrs. Gonzalez. Because of me. My past is never going away. It’s going to come up, and it’s going to hurt anyone who’s around me.”
I take a few steps forward and poke him in his chest. “You’re an idiot! None of what happened was because
of your past. It happened because of mine!”
“You could have been killed!” he says.
I realize he’s not listening to anything I say. I’m wasting my time. And more people are now standing around.
I remember setting the egg cartons down and realize I probably dropped my keys, too. I run over there.
His footsteps fall in cadence with mine.
I see my keys on the asphalt. I snatch them up.
I’m halfway to my car when suddenly he’s in front of me. “Can we please talk?”
“I didn’t come here to talk. I came to break some eggs. And I’m all out of eggs.” I move around him.
He shoots in front of me and blocks me from my car door. “Okay,” he says. “I was wrong!” There’s a tremble in his voice.
I cross my arms. “Move away from my car.”
“Let me explain!”
“There’s no explaining. You turned your back on me.”
“Give me a second chance?”
“So you can leave again the next time some trouble arises? No thank you! Like you said, I deserve better.”
“Please. I’ve been miserable, Chloe. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. Well, I can’t eat anything but—” He pulls out a crumpled-up, half-empty packet of Skittles from his pocket. Then he pulls out another one. He sets them on the top of my car. “But I can’t eat the red ones, because … because I know you like them so much.”
He digs in his other pocket and pulls out two more crinkled packages of Skittles.
I take in a breath. “You hurt me!”
He nods. “I know. I’m sorry!”
I tilt up my chin. “You hurt the Fullers. They’ve done nothing but love you, and you just left. You don’t care what it does to other people. You push people away.”
“You’re right. I do. And I’m tired of pushing. And you’re right that I’m scared. Everyone left me—my mom, my dad. The foster parents. But if you’ll give me a chance…” He takes a step toward me.
I hold out a hand. “You’ll move back in with the Fullers and go back to school.”
“If they’ll let me, but like you said, I hurt them. And I didn’t mean to.” Pain echoes from his voice.
I shake my head. “They love you.”
He takes another step toward me. This time, I don’t back up. He reaches for me. And I fall against him. He pulls me in, and I cry on his shoulder. Then he pulls back and kisses me.
I kiss him back. He smells like oil and grease, but he tastes like Skittles and he feels like love.
I hear people whistling and clapping. But I don’t care. Because right now, right here, I think that empty spot in my heart is finally filled.
Epilogue
Christmas music seeps out of the house stereo system. A real Christmas tree twinkles in the corner of the Fullers’ living room. The scent of pine and the warm smell of turkey and dressing flavors the air. I’m caught in a moment of nostalgia. Not the bad kind, but the kind that says this is right.
I peer around the corner into the dining room and listen to all the chatter. Dad and Mr. Fuller are talking about football. Mom and Mrs. Fuller are arguing with Brandon and Patrick, Dad’s cousin and his husband, over which is better, corn bread dressing or bread dressing.
Brandon and Patrick had come down for Thanksgiving and met the Fullers, who invited them over for Christmas. They’d agreed on the condition they could cook everyone’s dinner. I can tell it’s hard for both my moms to stay out of the kitchen. But what’s getting a little easier is them being together. I still feel a little like I’m walking on eggshells, not wanting one to feel more important than the other. I love them both. But I think they know it, and it’s not nearly so difficult as I thought it would be.
“Oh,” Mrs. Fuller says, “Chloe told us you think you sold your book! We have to have a champagne toast for that.”
“More than sold it,” my dad spoke up. “It’s at auction now. Several New York publishers are bidding for it.”
“Wow,” Cash whispered, stepping beside me, “your dad seems awful proud of your mom.”
I look up at him and kind of smile. “Yeah. He knows how much she wanted it all those years.”
“Are they actually talking now?”
“Some,” I say. “Well, you saw them at Thanksgiving. And they talked about what I needed for Christmas. He came over last night. Mom even waited until he got there before she left for her writers’ group Christmas party. I think she wanted him to see her all dressed up. When she left, Dad asked me if she was dating someone.”
Cash slips his hand on my waist. “Did you tell him the truth?”
“Yeah. He looked hurt. Jealous.”
“He kind of deserves it,” Cash says.
“I know,” I say.
“You want them to get back together?” he asks.
“I just want them happy.”
“Susan and JoAnne,” Brandon calls from the kitchen. “We need some tasters in here.”
Cash leans a little closer. “Did the Fullers tell you that they bought the house in Houston?”
“Yeah.” Cash applied and was accepted to go to the University of Houston, so we’re both going there. He still refuses to let the Fullers pay for his college, but they’ve been looking for a property near the school so both of us can live there. Separate bedrooms, of course. That’s been said several times.
I figure what they don’t know won’t hurt them.
More laughter leaks from the dining room.
I look at Cash. “You know I’ve thought a lot about how things would have been in another life if I hadn’t been kidnapped.”
“Yeah,” Cash says.
“Well, I’m not sure it would have been all that great. All of them are my family. I wouldn’t have wanted to miss out on knowing any of them.”
“I agree,” he says. Then he reaches in his pocket and hands me a bag of red Skittles. “Merry Christmas.”
I grin and pull out the caramel candy I picked for him. Then I lift up on my tiptoes and kiss him. “Merry Christmas.”
ALSO BY C. C. HUNTER
This Heart of Mine
Midnight Hour
Almost Midnight
Unspoken
Eternal
Reborn
Chosen at Nightfall
Whispers at Moonrise
Taken at Dusk
Awake at Dawn
Born at Midnight
About the Author
C. C. HUNTER is a pseudonym for award-winning romance author Christie Craig. She lives in Tomball, Texas, where she’s at work on her next novel. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Also by C. C. Hunter
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
IN ANOTHER LIFE. Copyright © 2019 by Christie Craig. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.wednesdaybooks.com
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Lesley Worrell
Cover photographs: © Smit/Shutterstock.com; frame © magicoven/Shutterstock.com; white frames © Africa Studio/Shutterstock.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Hunter, C. C., author.
Title: In another life / C. C. Hunter.
Description: First edition. | New York: Wednesday Books, 2019. | Summary: Told in two voices, high school seniors Chloe Holden and Cash Colton try to determine if she is his foster mother’s daughter, Emily, who was kidnapped at age three.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018044545| ISBN 9781250312273 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250312297 (ebook)
Subjects: | CYAC: Adoption—Fiction. | Secrets—Fiction. | Foster home care—Fiction. | Kidnapping—Fiction. | Divorce—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.H916565 In 20219 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018044545
eISBN 9781250312297
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact your local bookseller or the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First Edition: March 2019