As much as I would like to continue avoiding Drew, it would be nice for Junior to hang out with a friend. I wander into his bedroom where, of course, he has his nose buried in his Kindle.
“Hey, bud. How do you fancy hanging out with Mason from your soccer team today?”
He looks up from his Kindle. “Sure, I guess,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders before resuming his attention to the book he’s reading.
I roll my eyes. My boy and his books.
I text Drew back.
Me: Sure, bring him over.
I look back over at Junior. “Finish up what you’re reading. He’ll be over soon.” I look down as another text message alert vibrates against my hand.
Drew: Thank you. I owe you.
Barely thirty seconds pass, and there’s already a knock at the door.
Hell, Mason must really be driving Drew crazy.
I answer the door, and a thrill of excitement soars through me at the sight of Drew. He’s simply captivating.
Damn it.
My eyes fall to Mason, who is the opposite of Drew with curly blonde hair and chubby little cheeks.
“Hi, Mason, come on in. I’m Jo, Junior’s mom,” I say as I step to the side and let them both in.
“Thank you for having me.”
My insides just about melt with his politeness. “It’s no problem.”
I shout out for Junior to come out of his room, but when twenty seconds pass and there is still no sign of him, I say to Mason, “You can head on into his room. It’s down the hall. You might need to pry the Kindle from his fingers.” I smile.
“Cool,” Mason says before heading in the direction of Junior’s room.
Once he’s out of sight, I turn to face Drew. “Hey.”
“Hey, sugar.” He gives me his drop-dead gorgeous smile, and he almost has to pick me up from the floor.
My memories flash back to last night with me writhing in the bath, bringing myself to climax while fantasizing about him. I still can’t believe I let myself get carried away like that. It just isn’t like me to be that naughty. The mere thought has my nipples tightening and my thighs trembling in response.
Jesus, what is it with my trembling thighs?
“You okay?”
He must see the flush rising on my skin, but I try to brush it off with a shoulder shrug.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I was just cleaning the bathroom.” Total lie. I don’t think I’ve cleaned the bathroom since we moved in three weeks ago. Note to self: I must clean the bathroom.
“Okay.” He smiles with a suspicious glint in his eyes.
I know he doesn’t buy my lame lie, but thankfully, he doesn’t push it.
“Thanks for agreeing to have Mason over. That kid just knows how to push my buttons, you know?”
“That’s kids for you.”
“No. It’s not that. Kids are great. They’re just not great with me.”
“It must be your bad taste in music.”
He smirks. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” I say in a defiant voice, crossing my arms over my chest.
“And what would you suggest I listen to?”
His eyes flicker to my chest that I’ve confidently made prominent with the new position of my arms. I don’t falter though. I keep my position in place. I secretly like the way he’s looking at me, like he has X-ray vision. His eyes feel like a blaze, searing straight through my shirt.
“I don’t know. Maybe Ed Sheeran, Coldplay, Foo Fighters, James Bay.”
“What? No One Direction?” he questions with mocked shock.
I give him a death glare, and the sharp look must be evil enough for him because he holds his hands up in surrender, chuckling under his breath.
“Okay, I’ll stop with the One Direction jokes. FYI though, I have all four of their albums on my iTunes.”
I turn my back on him, heading toward the kitchen to get the boys each a juice box. “Well, I guess your music doesn’t suck that much.”
My words trigger a memory of when I overheard him playing the guitar—or more specifically, when I eavesdropped on him—and I wish I could hear him play again. It’s the kind of music that soothes the soul, and I would love to be able to get lost in it, to escape the inner darkness and exchange it for light—at least for a little while.
“I guess,” he says, still chuckling under his breath, following me into the kitchen.
I grab two juice boxes from the refrigerator and set them on the countertop.
“So,” he begins after a few moments of silence, “you didn’t text me back last night.” He leans his elbows against the countertop, locking eyes with me.
Once I finished in the bath last night, after well…you know…I noticed a text message waiting for me. I was dealing with a great amount of guilt, and with the downward-spiraling mood I was in, I couldn’t bear to read his message, so I ignored it.
“Sorry, yesterday was a long day, and after I had a soak in the bath, I was beat and fell asleep.” Another lie. I don’t think I was able to catch a wink of sleep. Instead, I spent the night tossing and turning, dreaming of a life that used to be—with Christopher.
“Or you were avoiding me.” His words come out like a statement rather than a question.
I find that I have nothing to say to that. I can’t tell another lie.
He stands up tall and steps toward me until I can smell his incredible masculine yet sweet aroma.
Damn, he smells good.
“I was being honest yesterday when I said I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I might joke around a lot, but that was one thing I was being serious about.”
Again, I have nothing to say to that, but the thundering in my chest speaks volumes.
He edges even closer, and in that moment, I find it impossible to breathe, almost like he’s purging every last bit of oxygen from my lungs.
“You’re a lot more vulnerable than you like to let on. Aren’t you, sugar?”
My breath is now shuddering from my throat, and I can only stare back at him, lost in his spell.
He continues on even though I haven’t answered his question, “You’re so incredibly beautiful, but you have no idea how beautiful you actually are, do you?”
I remember Kaelyn telling me something similar, except hearing her tell me this didn’t almost make me self-combust on the spot. I heavily gulp as his fingers latch on to a piece of my hair, and he gently tucks it behind my ear. His touch is electrifying, and every part of my body is tingling with pleasure. If he touches me again, I don’t think I’ll be able to keep the moan from leaving my lips. He doesn’t touch me.
Instead, he does something that I least expect, something I’ve only ever been asked once in my lifetime.
“Go on a date with me, Jo.”
And like that, the heat that was blistering through my body is suddenly doused with what feels like freezing cold water. I step away from his proximity, immediately shaking my head, and continue backing away from him.
“I-I…” I stutter.
An intrusive pain begins to challenge its way into my already fragile heart, and everything becomes too much. The guilt I’ve been feeling ever since last night pierces into me, and panic grips me from the inside out, tearing me into pieces.
Various memories I have of Christopher come at me all at once, each one like a strike of lightning.
Our first kiss.
Our first date.
Our first dance.
Our first time making love.
Our first time setting eyes on our son.
Our first everything.
Christopher was my heart. He still is my heart.
Going on a date with the guy whom I’ve been developing feelings for makes me feel as if I’ll be erasing my history with Christopher. I’m not ready for those memories to be replaced with new ones with someone I wasn’t destined to be with. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to replace the person who meant the most to me in the world.
“I’m sorry.
I can’t,” I agonizingly spit out while bracing myself against the countertop. After a moment of deep breathing, I say, “I’ll drop Mason off in a couple of hours—unless he wants to stay for dinner?” I grab the juice boxes from the counter, purposely avoiding eye contact.
I can feel Drew’s scrutiny on me, no doubt trying to work out what the hell just happened. An awkward silence grows between us, and I desperately urge him to leave. I can’t deal with his questioning stare right now, especially with how hypnotizing it can be.
He finally answers my question with a curt, “Yeah, sure.”
On a shuddered breath, I say, “I’ll drop him off at six.”
I sigh a breath of relief as he turns to leave, but his eyes pause on something on the fireplace mantel. In the center sits a photograph of Christopher in his military uniform, smiling proudly before he was deployed. Beside the photo stands a mini US flag in honor of him.
Drew takes a moment to admire the display before his gaze returns to mine. His eyes are tender with a hint of sorrow as well as understanding behind them. He knows. He’s now aware of the grief I feel on a daily basis, of the pain that not only consumes me but also lives vicariously through me.
His mouth opens, as if he wants to say something, anything, but no words seem to escape. He knows condolences are the last thing I want to hear, and I’m thankful he stays quiet. However, the intensity of his stare says everything that words can’t, and I have to look away when it becomes too intolerable.
Please just go.
Wordlessly, he leaves the apartment, and the only sound I hear is his door opening and closing again.
It’s not until I’ve given the boys their juice boxes, and I know they’re preoccupied with playing on Junior’s PlayStation that I slip into my bedroom, curl up into a tight ball on the bed, and allow the tears to fall.
When will the heartache stop, so I can live my life again?
I receive a text message from Drew, telling me I have a delivery waiting for me outside my door. I pause the movie I’m watching and stand from my slouching position on the couch. I make my way to the door and open it. For the first time since the incident earlier this afternoon, I smile when I look down and see a white gift box at my feet. I pick it up and carry it inside, returning to the sofa.
I open it up, and I’m greeted with a single red rose. I take it between my fingers and bring the head of the rose to my nose to inhale the sweet aroma.
I’m left with two questions lingering in my head.
One, where the hell did he get a single red rose at such a late hour on a Sunday?
Two, after rejecting him this afternoon in what can only be described as my humiliated freak-out, he’s still sending me gifts. I have no idea why.
Well, number two is more of a thought than a question, but who cares?
I retrieve the phone from the armrest and send him a quick text.
Me: Thank you for the rose. I love it.
I resume my attention on the movie, but not five seconds into the dialogue, Drew’s phone vibrates again with another message.
Drew: I’m glad you like it. I felt bad for before. I’m sorry for pushing you. I had no idea.
Me: You didn’t know.
I pray that’s the last text message, as I don’t think I can stomach discussing Christopher, but my heart sinks when I see the three dots moving across the screen.
Drew: When?
I feel nauseous at the one-worded question, but I find my fingers already typing out a response. Talking about it still hurts, but surprisingly, the words come out without much effort at all. It helps that I’m able to hide behind a screen. It’s much easier to conceal your pain than it is to face it head-on.
Me: Five years ago.
Drew: Damn. I don’t know what to say. I understand you a little bit more though.
Me: How so?
I’m intrigued.
Drew: Your hesitancy toward me. The vulnerability I see in your eyes. The fact that you’re a beautiful woman who is raising her son alone. It all clicked into place.
I’m in the worst frame of mind right now, yet all I can focus on is the beautiful part.
Me: I don’t know if beautiful is the right way to describe me.
The reply back is immediate.
Drew: That’s the only way to describe you.
Oh my. I give out a shuddery breath as I message him back.
Me: That was pretty smooth.
Drew: Well, I am a smooth guy.
A tiny lift pulls along my lips. I love how he can make me smile, even when I’m at my lowest. I find it hard to let people in, but with Drew, it’s effortless.
Me: I don’t understand why you’d want to go on a date with me though. Don’t you have a girlfriend?
His messages usually come in quickly, but I’m waiting a lot longer than usual for his reply.
What’s taking him so long?
My heart’s hammering away at every second that passes.
I have no idea why my heart has gone into overdrive. No, scrap that. I do have an idea, but I don’t want to admit it to myself.
I just about jump out of my skin when Drew’s phone begins to vibrate with an incoming call.
Drew.
My stomach tingles with butterflies, and suddenly, the thought of speaking to him on the phone petrifies me…in a good way.
“Hello?” I answer after the second ring.
He doesn’t answer me with a greeting. Instead, he huskily drawls, “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
Sigh. His voice is so damn sexy.
“Then, who was the blonde I saw you with?”
He seems to pause for a moment, either to come up with a good lie or because he’s slept with so many women that he can’t remember one blonde from the other. I’m on the fence on which option I prefer.
“Would you hold it against me if I said she was a fling?”
“No.”
“Good, because that was what she was. She was a fling. She was too immature to be in a relationship with.”
“What? Was she too bendy for you in her twenty-year-old body?”
He roars out with laughter, and the rasping tone of it has tingles feathering along my skin.
Dear Lord. I’ve never heard anything like it. It’s a sound that could warm the soul. Hell, it could even fix a soul…my soul.
“I see you’ve found your inner bitchiness again.”
“She’s never too far away, so you shouldn’t underestimate her,” I mockingly warn.
“Noted,” he says with more amusement.
I find myself giggling.
It’s comforting how we can resume with the easy friendship we’ve developed in such a short amount of time without being awkward.
“But, honestly, it was never anything serious.”
“Well, she certainly thought it was since she was claiming that you were, in fact, her boyfriend. She was pretty alpha chick about it, too. I think she thought I was a threat.”
“Well, it never got that far. We didn’t even go on a date. I love that she thought you were a threat. Just proves to you that even she thought you were beautiful.”
“I’m not really into girls, so if you’re trying to set me up with her, I’m afraid you’ll be sorely disappointed.”
He chuckles. “It would be sexy if you were. I mean, girl-on-girl action is hot, sugar.”
I roll my eyes. Men.
“I’m glad you’re not though ’cause, if you were, I’d have absolutely no chance of trying to win you over.”
My heart comes to a skidding stop when fresh memories from this afternoon come back at me, and panic tightly grips me like a vise, suffocating me.
“Drew—” I begin in a defeated tone.
But he cuts me off, “I want you, Jo, and I’m not going to hide the fact that all I want to do right now is show up at your door and kiss the living hell out of you, but I know you’re not ready. Not yet. I could see that before. I could see the pain in your eyes. Your husband’s deat
h has wrecked you, and you’re drowning in five years’ worth of pain. So, for now, I’ll back off, but as a friend, I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, sugar.”
I’m stunned, and I find it hard to form another word. I replay his words three times over, and it’s only then that I realize his mistake.
“He wasn’t my husband,” I blurt out.
“What?” Drew asks, confused.
“I mean, we weren’t married. I think he was going to ask me after his deployment. A couple of months after his death, I came across what looked to be an engagement ring, but I can’t ever be sure, so…” My words die on my lips, and silence only follows.
That day was the second worse day of my life, with the first being Christopher’s funeral. His death was still very raw to me. I was barely holding on by a thread, and after finally finding the courage to clear through some of his things, I came across that beautiful single princess cut diamond ring, and I wanted to give up, to die along with him.
I didn’t. For my son, I kept breathing, and I kept living—albeit barely so. But, as the weeks turned into months, I found myself fixated on one single question—a question that, no matter how many times I asked myself, was one I would never get an answer to.
Was he going to propose to me?
It’s a question I’ve never been able to get closure on. Even his family couldn’t help. The ring was a mystery to everyone, as Christopher hadn’t told anybody he was going to propose to me.
It made sense though. When he had a plan or a surprise, he was excellent at keeping it to himself, but this once, I wished he’d let it slip, that he’d told his mom or one of his brothers, someone, anyone, so I wouldn’t be left in the dark for the rest of my existence. There wasn’t even a letter after he died—you know, like the just-in-case letters that military personnel were recommended to write if the worst was ever to happen. There was nothing. And I don’t think I’ve ever gotten over the fact that I never got to read his last words.
The ring still sits perfectly in the box I originally found it in. I keep it tucked away in my jewelry box for safekeeping. I’ve never tried it on. I’ve been tempted a few times, but I just know, the moment I slip that ring on my finger, it would hit home for me—that I’d never get to experience him proposing to me or that I’d never get to walk down the aisle and meet him at the altar on our wedding day. Those things will never happen.
Our Forever Page 7