by Amy Marie
Roxie: I think you might be right!
She sends me a selfie of her with Alex as he slices the ham she prepared.
Yeah, I can see a future with this woman. With our family.
I think it’s time.
My heart is full. So full. I watched my son marry the love of his life today, and they were so damn happy. I wish Amelia had been here with us—although I know in my heart she was there in some sense.
But I wish I had been able to share this with Roxie, too.
Amelia isn’t by my side anymore. Can’t be. But I know she would want me to be happy—I even had that confirmed by Grant. She said as much to him one time as he sat at her hospital bed, a few months before she passed away. He shared that with me today after their surprise wedding, at the Easter dinner that became the wedding reception.
I know that if Amelia had been there, I wouldn’t be able to share it with Roxie. I understand that. But I’m finally reaching that final stage of grief.
Acceptance.
So instead of driving through Bowling Green on my way home, I find myself pulling off the interstate. Driving toward the historic neighborhood where Roxie lives. I called her when I left Joseph’s house, long after I had first texted my suspicions. Everyone was gone except for Alex, and he was in the kitchen making tea. She was surprised when I guessed that it was ginger tea, her go-to after a big meal.
I know my girl.
He was getting ready to leave as I told her about the wedding, so he’s on his way back to campus by now.
My car seems to find Roxie’s driveway without my help. A couple of small lights flicker in her house, one in the living room. She’s still awake.
I need to see her. Share today’s joy with her.
I need to hold her.
I knock softly to avoid disturbing the neighbors, but I’m fairly certain my heart is pounding loud enough to do just that.
Roxie opens the door, relaxed and comfortable in her yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt falling off one shoulder that reminds me a little of something from Flashdance. Her hair is pulled back in the loose bun that means she’s just keeping it out of her face. I want to mess it up. I want to pull it loose.
I want to pull it.
The thought shocks me into action.
Clint? I didn’t think I’d see...”
I cut her off, pulling me to her with one arm around her waist. The other hand slides behind her head and buries itself in her hair, gripping tightly.
My lips touch hers softly at first. She stares at me wild-eyed, then her pupils dilate.
That’s all I need to see. This time, the kiss is ravenous. Desperate. Tongues and teeth clash. I see stars before I realize I need to breathe. She probably does, too.
I pull back, gasping. She jerks her head toward the living room, just as breathless. I walk in and sit on her couch, dragging her legs across my lap. Both hands on her face, I draw her to me again.
I want to pull her to straddle me. I want to wish away our clothes. My dick aches, it’s so hard. I want to be inside her. Not tonight, I remind myself.
But I might round a base or two.
Chapter 8
Roxie
Clint and I decided to invite the kids over to watch the Kentucky Derby at my house. Bryant already knows me, and Alex has met Clint and Grant before, but I’ve never met Grant or Kat. I’m not sure who’s more nervous in the days leading up to the Derby—Clint, me, or the kids.
None of us are big Derby fans, but the next obvious time to get everyone together is graduation day for Alex and Bryant in a couple of weeks. I want them to have their time to shine, not make it about their parents dating.
So here we all are, gathered in my living room around the huge new TV Alex insisted I needed. I can practically count the whiskers on each horse’s muzzle, so it’s certainly an upgrade over my old one.
Our nerves all dissolved when we came face to face. Kat and Grant are the picture of new love, and the looks they share are so hot I consider passing out sunscreen. Not as hot as Clint’s kisses made me feel, I remind myself. I feel things shifting inside me at the mere memory. More of that ice melting.
Alex and Grant arrived together, and all that rowdy boy energy was like a bunch of gangly puppies tumbling into the room. It isn’t long before Grant joins in with them.
“Boys,” Clint’s firm voice cautions just before a wrestling match breaks out. “Take it outside. You know better.”
Three heads drop and they issue muttered apologies in stereo. Before long, I hear cars crank, followed by the muffled thump of a basketball in the driveway.
Kat and I watch Clint help us, then stop to peer out the window, then return to helping us, only to repeat the whole process. Finally I take pity on him. “Why don’t you go out there with the guys? We’ve got this under control.”
He starts to protest, but Kat’s soft voice chimes in. “Clint, go enjoy your time with the boys. We’ll enjoy a little girl time in here.”
The announcers are all talking strategy and statistics as I set up the dining room table as a buffet. Clint asked if it could be similar to our picnic—our own little unspoken I love you.
Which hasn’t been spoken yet...but it’s close. I can feel it.
Kat insisted on bringing something, so she is assembling all the ingredients for the most gorgeous—and elaborate—charcuterie platter I’ve ever seen. Cheeses from hard to soft to downright gooey, with some crumbly and bleu thrown in for good measure. Chunks of roasted meats, sliced sausages, and paper-thin meats seem to tumble and drape across the board.
“I know the guys will always go for meat, cheese, nuts, all that fun stuff. They’re easy to please. I send Grant to sample and pick out all the meat, which makes him deliriously happy. It gives me an excuse to sample and use my favorite cheeses and make it all fancy for us.”
She delicately scoops out a chunk of honeycomb next to the bowl of Marcona almonds, spooning more honey over the comb. Fresh and dried fruit, vegetables, pickles, olives, assorted breads and crackers make up the rest.
I prepared spring salads, full of English peas, sprouts, radishes, and baby lettuces, and Clint put it in Mason jars for me. Pork tenderloin sliders are individually wrapped—Clint made and sliced the tenderloin and I made and wrapped the sandwiches.
Instead of the Texas caviar I prepared for our picnic, I found a similar recipe with slightly different vegetables and dressing, topped with pickled shrimp. I prepped the same small jacket potatoes, and Clint assembled those, topping the goat cheese crème fraiche alternately with smoked salmon, bacon, or herbs.
Kat made sweet tea. I made lemon fizz again, and at Clint’s suggestion, I made lime fizz as well. For dessert, Alex made strawberry shortcake and Bryant made a flourless chocolate torte.
A family meal in every sense of the word.
The guys eventually come back in and clean up. We all fix plates and move to the living room. The commentators drone on, but something one of them says catches my attention.
“When the race starts, there’s a lot of jockeying for position. And in the homestretch—the final straightaway—you see incredible bursts of speed. But a lot of the strategy plays out in the backstretch. People sometimes confuse the terms backstretch and homestretch. The homestretch is the last chance to pour on speed and leave your mark. But in the backstretch? There’s still a lot of race left to run.”
My eyes wander around the room, our family all gathered, everyone happy and relaxed. Clint and I lock eyes, and I know. We have a lot of race left to run together.
I love this man. I love this family.
I always wanted a big family, and now I’m pretty sure I’ve got one.
After everyone helped clean up and straggled out, Clint and I decided to go to his house for the evening. I took a bag, planning to sleep in one of the spare rooms. Since the night Clint stopped by my house and kissed me senseless, we’ve done this a time or two, sleeping at each other’s house to avoid late-night drives.
I sprawl on the couch, drinking tea, feet in his lap while he massages them. “You don’t have to do that,” I protest weakly. In all honesty, I’m melting into a puddle of goo and pray he never stops.
“You were on your feet a lot, making today special for our family.” I warm inside at his words. Not our families, plural, as in separate entities. No, he said our family, a single unit, connected by the two of us.
“You know, as wonderful as Philip was, I never had what we did this morning—the two of us working side by side in the kitchen. He would run a mean grill, set the table, even wash dishes. But he was hopeless beyond making tea and coffee. The man burned toast every time he made it. In the toaster! He almost cut his thumb off slicing celery sticks for the kids. I finally forbade him to attempt to cook. And I think you know that Jason was useless at helping with anything.”
We both chuckle. “But working with you this morning? It was...” I search for the word. “It was heartwarming. It was the Hallmark channel come to life. It was the Norman Rockwell fantasy.” I decide to open up a little. Philip and I always wanted to have more kids. I dreamed of a big family. We wanted to give a little time after Alex before having another. I didn’t really want to be pregnant in Germany again. Cravings can be irrational, and they strike hard and fast. The language barrier is not your friend in that moment.”
I swallow hard. “But when we got back Stateside, nothing happened. We finally went to the doctors. I don’t know if he was exposed to something in the service, or if it was medical, but there was no chance of kids. At first, the doctor thought it was a follow-up to a vasectomy and was bragging on how successful it was.”
My face must show more of my thoughts than I intend to share.
Clint is as perceptive as his sons.
He’s going to ask the question; I know he is. I feel like a bomb is about to go off inside of me.
His voice is low, soothing. Like he’s approaching a spooked animal.
“Roxie, Alex doesn’t have your red hair.”
I swallow hard, shaking my head.
“He takes after his father, doesn’t he?”
I nod, dread stealing my voice.
“He doesn’t look like Philip does in the family pictures you’ve shown me, though.”
I shake my head again. I’m trembling like a leaf.
Clint’s last questions are softer. Like they’re coming from far away, down into the tunnel where I’ve fallen. “He takes after his birth father, doesn’t he? Jason?”
Black spots swirl in my vision. I sway in my seat. I’m cold. I’m not getting any air.
Warmth smooths over my wrists, and I hear my name being repeated. Warmth spreads over my chest, and I hear Clint’s voice, stronger now—commanding. “Breathe in, Roxie. And out. Roxie. Breath in. And out. Roxie. There you go.” Relief is evident as I start heaving in deep breaths.
My eyes pop up to his, and I know I’m still pale as a ghost. “No one else knows. Not even Alex.”
Chapter 9
Clint
She finally manages to speak, but there’s still no color in her face. “No one alive knows besides me—not even Alex.”
She searches for a picture on her phone and shows me, then alternates between looking at it and holding it tightly to her chest.
Her southern accent gradually gets stronger as the memories from her younger years in Georgia sweep over her. “It wasn’t too obvious when Alex was a child, like here. The differences were easily explained that he took after my parents. My dad was a redhead—with a name like Rusty, of course he was. But I pretty much took after my mom other than that. Alex is built like my dad, and my mom had dirty blonde hair, like Alex’s as a kid. As he got older and his hair darkened like Jason’s? I just made sure to display lots of pictures of my family and hope it was enough.” Roxie takes a deep fluttery breath, choking down a sob.
“But in reality, he’s the spitting image of my first husband. Alex was the final parting gift that Jason gave me—well, that and his GI Bill benefits so I could finish my degree. All in the same night.”
Her eyes drop, and I know she feels mortified all over again. She pauses, obviously lost in memories. She bolts off the couch, filled with restless energy. Alternately wringing and shaking out her hands, avoiding all eye contact, the story finally begins bursting out of her in fits and starts.
“You know how he left. Just poof! Gone. In one day, I found myself divorced, evicted, jobless, and friendless.” She paces some more.
Thank God for Philip Cole. My heart aches for that younger Roxie. And this one, who’s having to relive it.
“Stress had me so off-kilter, I didn’t realize for almost three months that I was pregnant. My appetite came and went. I rode waves of emotion, crying at the drop of a hat and easily angered. I was exhausted, but I chalked it up to settling in a new place, working long hours at a new job, and stressing over the reactions of other wives that I thought were my friends.”
I never thought about how the young wives on base might react. All they saw was a soldier shipping to a new base and the ex-wife staying in town. The natural inclination would be to take sides.
“When I’m under a lot of stress, sometimes I get this the vague queasiness, so it didn’t seem unusual. Eventually, it got worse. I was sick to my stomach more often. I couldn’t keep my lunch down at the mere thought of my new boss’s cologne or my favorite perfume.” She flops down in a chair, as if unable to stand a moment longer.
“One day, it moved into full-blown, all-consuming nausea, and I spent half a day on the floor of my bathroom. I didn’t have the strength to leave after I got sick. Even after everything was gone, the dry heaving never completely stopped. I thought it was the flu.” A single tear tracks down her face. I want to wipe it away, to hold her and comfort her, but the last thing she needs is to be jarred out of her memory. She needs to purge all of this now that she’s started.
“Then, out of the blue, it completely disappeared! Just before I hit hour fourteen, I was fine. I was immediately ravenous—like, I would gotten violent if someone got in my way before I reached Krystal.”
She glances toward me, but never quite at me. It’s like she wants to connect but can’t quite bring herself to do so. “I should have realized something was going on, because I despise Krystal. Always have. I didn’t change out of my stained lounge pants and sleep shirt, didn’t change out of my slippers—which thankfully had a thick rubber sole. Didn’t even brush my hair—I had thrown it in a ponytail when I was sick.” She drops her face into her hands.
“There I sat in the parking lot, devouring my sackful of Krystals like a wild animal, and I remembered my momma telling the story of how her momma realized she was pregnant with me. She craved some kind of salty grease bomb meal with pickles, and acted like a dog guarding its food whenever anyone got near her. My heart dropped, because I’d have done the same thing if anyone was crazy enough to approach me.
“I couldn’t stop eating my little grease bombs, though. As a matter of fact, I got another combo to go and drove straight to the drug store, where I bought a jug of orange juice and five two-packs of pregnancy tests. Several different brands. I’d already finished my combo before I got to the drug store. I started in on the orange juice on the way home, ran up the stairs to my apartment, and straight to the bathroom without even locking my front door. Hell, I didn’t even close it all the way.”
I rinsed out the giant fast food cup to...well, collect the sample, and I opened and took those tests. Every single one. And they all came back pregnant—except for one dud that didn’t even show the test line. I laid back down on the same bathroom floor where I’d spent most of the day and sobbed.” A deep shaky breath tells me she’s on the edge of crying with the Roxie in her memories.
“All those tears I didn’t let myself cry when Jason abandoned me? All the pain I didn’t have time to process because I had
to pack and leave and find a new life? It all came crashing down on me. I dissolved into a puddle of tears until I cried myself to sleep, apparently. And that’s where Philip found me. Remember the story I told in group that day where he found me with the door to my apartment open? This is why I was such a wreck that day. He came to find me to tell me about his orders to go to Germany.”
I take a chance. As crazy as it sounds, Philip rescued her that day, and I think nudging her toward that part of the memory will help. “Tell me about what he said, darlin’.”
She calms a bit and slips back into her memories. Her Georgia accent lessens—probably because she’s remembering Philip.
She sighs, and random tears streak down her face. It’s a little eerie, like she has his words memorized. “Roxie, I know we haven’t been together long, and I’d hoped we would be able to date for a while longer. I’m so sorry, honey, but we’re out of time. I found out today I’ve got orders for Germany. And I have to leave really quickly—the person I’m replacing had a family emergency and is already Stateside. I know this is crazy, and way too fast, but I’m falling for you. If I’m not already in love with you, I’m awfully close. Do you think maybe you’d be willing to take a chance on me? Roxie, honey—will you marry me?”
She shivers and rubs her arms with her hands. I bring a blanket and wrap it around her. She looks at me, confused. Her Georgia accent thickens again. “I just blinked at him, speechless. With the pregnancy shock, I could barely comprehend what he just threw at me.”
“And then what happened?” I prompt her gently.
“There I sat, surrounded by positive pregnancy tests. He knew what I was facing. I still wonder sometimes if his proposal was motivated by pity, as pathetic a sight as I was. I never deserved that man.”
“Sounds like a good man to me, darlin’. A man who knew his mind and loved his woman. What did he say?”