The Reality of Everything (Flight & Glory)

by Rebecca Yarros

  “Oh. My. God.”

  “Morgan!”

  They raced toward the steps.

  “Whoa, hold up!” I called out through the slats in the stairs, sending them to a skidding halt. “I don’t know how much weight that landing can take.”

  Two heads popped around the base of the staircase, and I gave them a nod. “Hi there.”

  “Mr. Carolina?” the petite one asked, her jaw dropping.

  Mr. What?

  “Uh. Not the last time I checked. Then again, I don’t really run in the pageant circuits,” I answered. The tequila-toting one came over to see my hands locked firmly on the tops of Morgan’s thighs—one over and one under her dress. “I’d shake your hand, but as you can see, mine are a little full at the moment.”

  “Well, then,” she said without a trace of southern accent. “Morgan, are you hurt?”

  “A little banged up, but nothing to fret over,” Morgan answered, shifting a little on my shoulder. She weighed next to nothing. “So, that’s Finley, and Jackson here is my next-door neighbor. How’s that for luck?”

  “Jax,” I offered.

  Fin waved, and Morgan’s friend returned the gesture before looking back at me.

  “Well, Jax, how awkward—I mean awesome—to meet you. I’m Sam, and that’s my sister-in-law, Mia. And the girl you have perched on your shoulder is one of my best friends, so what can I do to help?”

  “Nice to meet you, too,” I told the ladies. “Giving Morgan a hand up would be great. The rest of the stairs look sound, but the landing’s unstable. If you could go up the back steps and come down these to that last stair before the landing, that would be awesome. See if you can get your hands under her arms to help guide her onto the stairs as I lift her. Don’t let her put weight on the landing, if you can help it.”

  “Done. Mia!” she called to the other girl, and they were gone in a blur.

  “You doing okay up there, Morgan?” I asked. What kind of perfume was she wearing? Sure as hell smelled divine. Vanilla and strawberries?

  “I should be asking you that, seeing as I’m currently sitting on you.”

  I almost laughed. “Don’t you worry about me. I’m doing just fine.” I sent a wink in Finley’s direction, who giggled behind her hand.

  “You’re not going to be too tired to lift me out?” Morgan asked, worry saturating her voice and increasing the number of syllables in that last word. Holy shit, the woman could read the phone book with that accent, and I’d be hooked.

  “Trust me, I could hold you all day. I’m not going to let you fall.”

  I felt a gentle give in her posture. Good, she’d relaxed a little.

  “So, you bought the house, huh?” I asked, trying to fill the silence until the girls could get around to Morgan.

  “Yeah. Maybe I should have looked at it first.” Her voice dropped, nearly unintelligible with the wood muffling the sound between us.

  “You didn’t look at it first?” Seriously?

  “I saw pictures!” she shot back. “And the inspection report, and Google Maps. I just didn’t visit it…until today.”

  Holy shit. She’d walked in blind? The house itself was structurally sound, but damn, did it need some upkeep. It hadn’t been touched since the Hatchers bought it back in the seventies.

  “And is it what you were expecting?”

  She tensed.

  “Morgan?”

  “It’s not that I didn’t want something to fix. I did. I do. I want to look at something and say, ‘I did that.’” Her sigh was loud enough for me to feel it in my chest. “There just happens to be a lot more fixing to do than I initially thought.”

  “Is your husband handy?” I’d learned that it was always safer to assume a woman was in a relationship than go with the opposite. Plus, with her soft, bare skin under my fingers, it would be handy to know if I was about to get punched in the face by an overprotective partner.

  Her thighs turned to stone.

  “I’m not married, not involved, and not looking.” She bit out every word.

  Damn, I’d just gotten rejected from a girl I hadn’t even hit on. That was a first.

  “Sorry, I saw the truck and assumed.” And there was the number one problem with assuming anything. “Not that a woman can’t have a jacked-up truck like that or anything. It’s a nice piece of equipment.”

  “It was left to me by…a friend. I drive the Mini Cooper over there. So, know any good contractors?”

  Subject closed. Got it.

  “I can dig you up some names—”

  “We’re here! Sorry, we had to climb over the bottom gate and, well, we’re short. It took a second.” Sam leaned over the railing. “Ready?”

  “Absolutely. Morgan?”

  “Yep.”

  “Here we go. I’m sorry, this might hurt a little. You’re pretty banged up.”

  “Do it. I’m tougher than I look.”

  I somehow didn’t doubt it as I switched my grip to her hips, careful to place my hands outside her dress. “One. Two. Three.” I lifted her slowly and watched her progress through the small opening.

  “Okay, angle back toward Sam,” I ordered as the curve of her ass reached the board. At six-four, I could reach over the seven feet to the landing, but I needed a better grip to get her the rest of the way through.

  “My hands are about to get friendly,” I warned her.

  “What, like they weren’t already?” she joked.

  “Ha.” I switched my grip quickly, grasping the back of her thigh with one hand and sliding below her knee with the other. I powered her through, letting my higher hand slip from her thigh as she rose.

  “Gotcha!” Sam exclaimed.

  Then Morgan stepped free, and my hands were empty.

  “It worked!” she called out, leaning over the railing from the stairs above the landing.

  I stepped into the evening sunlight and smiled up at her. “Sure did.”

  “You rescued her!” Finley called out, running at me in a tangle of curls and limbs. I caught her easily and lifted her to sit on my shoulders.

  “Wasn’t really a rescue,” I told my daughter. “Just a few feet.”

  “Well, it sure felt like a rescue to me,” Morgan countered, flashing a smile that hit me right at the knees.

  “You definitely saved the day,” the petite one—Mia, I think they’d called her—drawled with the local accent I’d grown accustomed to, batting pretty blue eyes at me.

  “That’s his job,” Finley answered. She squirmed, and I let her down. “I’m hungry!” With that declaration, she was off and running up our stairs. “I’m glad you’re not stuck anymore, Miss Morgan!” she called out and disappeared into the house.

  “Always hungry, that one,” I said with a smile.

  “Well, thank you for helping get our friend out.” Sam started up the steps. When Mia didn’t move, she grasped the strap on her tank top. “We’ll see you later.”

  Mia gave me one more grin and followed Sam.

  That left just Morgan.

  She tucked her hair behind her ears and stared at the banister. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  “My pleasure.”

  Her eyes shot to mine, no doubt thinking of the eyeful I’d received.

  Poor choice of words.

  “I’ll come over in the morning and lay down some plywood. That will give you time to get the contractors out to estimate…well, everything.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” Her spine straightened.

  She hadn’t been kidding about wanting to fix things herself.

  “Stubborn much?”

  “I’m not sure why you’d think that.” She crossed her arms under her breasts and winced.

  “Because I’m offering you help, and you’re not accepting it.”
>
  “I just did!” She motioned to the landing.

  “You had no other choice, unless you wanted to wait for your girlfriends to break out a saw.” I tucked my thumbs in the pockets of my shorts. “As I recall, you argued that you were really okay…as your feet dangled. Stubborn.”

  “Yet I still accepted your help. But I’ll fix the landing myself.”

  Jesus, what if she nailed through rotten boards or cut the size wrong? I’d have to haul her out all over again.

  “So you have experience with carpentry and all that.” Why wouldn’t she let me help? Everyone around here helped each other out. Not that she knew that, or that I’d spent my summers on my dad’s construction sites until I left for college.

  There was a flicker of something in her eyes that told me her admirable determination might not match her skill set.

  “Well. No. Not yet, at least,” she admitted.

  Not your business.

  Not your problem to fix.

  Don’t get involved.

  “When you said you wanted something to fix, you meant in the hire-people-who-know-what-they’re-doing kind of way, right? Not the pick-up-a-hammer way.” Way to make it your business, jackass. “Because this house is going to take more experience than a weekend Fixer Upper marathon. Unless you and your roommates have some construction history that those soft hands of yours aren’t advertising, you’re going to need help.”

  What happened to not-your-problem?

  She visibly bristled. “One, they’re not my roommates. They’re just visiting. I’m on my own and quite capable. For certain things I’ll have to hire a contractor, but I have a few months until my job starts, so I’m sure I can figure out the rest through online tutorials—”

  “Wait. Are you seriously considering learning how to remodel via YouTube?”

  She tensed, and her eyes…those were on fire.

  “Holy crap, you are.” Was I worried for her or completely in awe? Probably a little of both, to be honest.

  “It was really nice to meet you, Jackson,” she all but dismissed me. “I wish it hadn’t been under such…memorable circumstances—” And now that blush was back, rising in her cheeks again.

  “Let me help. At least with the safety things. I did almost the entire remodel on our house by myself—well, with some buddies from work. Your house hasn’t been touched since the seventies, and I doubt the structure has ever been reinforced. The Hatchers loved it just the way it was, avocado paint and everything.”

  For a second, I thought she might relent.

  “I’m reliable, I swear.” I put my hand to my heart.

  Her chin rose at least two inches.

  Wrong thing to say.

  “Contrary to what just happened—which I’m incredibly grateful for—I am not in the habit of relying on men, even the pretty ones, so I’ll be fixing my own landing, thank you very much.” She turned me down with a brisk nod of her head.

  There was a hell of a story there, but all I could focus on was pretty.

  “But really.” Her voice gentled. “Thank you so much for”—she motioned toward the landing and dropped her gaze again—“you know…” She gifted me with a closed-lip, embarrassed smile and then retreated up her stairs.

  Holy whiplash. The woman was soft-spoken one second, then spitting fire at me the next. Much to my dismay, I more than kind of liked it.

  “Pushing you out of the hole you fell into?” Crap, I was grinning. How could I not? She was so indignant that I’d offered to help, but I’d literally just pushed her ass out of the staircase.

  “Right. That. Thanks.” She paused and waved like a queen to a subject but didn’t turn around.

  “That offer stands. You need anything, just knock, or I can have Finley run over with our phone number.”

  “I appreciate the gesture.”

  Lord save me from polite Southern manners.

  She stilled, then turned back toward me, her posture relaxed. “Please tell Finley thank you for me. She really saved my butt.” Her head tilted, and she winced slightly, then gave me a self-deprecating chuckle. “Literally.”

  I laughed, the sound more honest than any I’d made because of a woman in a long time. My phone rang, and I reached into my lower pocket to check the caller ID.

  Please don’t be a rescue.

  It was just Sawyer.

  “See ya around, Kitty.”

  She sputtered, smoothing her dress back down around her thighs as I crossed the yard to our house, swiping to answer Sawyer’s call.

  “What’s up?”

  “Is it Finley-Free weekend?” he asked with the noise of a bar in the background.

  “Nope. That’s only once a month and you know it, so whatever it is you want me to do, the answer is no unless it involves you on my couch with Moana.”

  I heard a door shut and glanced over at Morgan’s. She’d made it inside without another incident.

  “Damn. I mean, I love Fin. I was just kind of hoping you would wingman me here at McGinty’s. There’s a set of twins with—”

  “Nope. You’re flying solo.” I started up the steps toward my door.

  “Come on! Call her grams. You know she’d love to keep her. And don’t try to tell me you don’t want to get laid.”

  I always wanted to get laid. Sex was a physical need I had zero guilt or trouble gratifying. But I steered clear of emotional entanglements, clingers, and anyone who saw Finley and thought they needed to step in as her mom—which basically meant I was perpetually single except for the occasional one-night stand with a tourist. Exactly the way I liked it.

  My eyes reverted to Morgan’s porch. Yeah, not going there.

  “Wanting to do something and doing it are two different things. It’s called adulthood. Call Garrett. I’m sure he’ll back you up.”

  “Come on! Get a sitter. Call Brianna. You should see the legs on these—”

  I wasn’t calling Finley’s aunt or giving up time with Fin.

  “Bye, Sawyer. See you Tuesday.” I hung up on my best friend, wishing he’d grow the hell up. The thought made me pause. Maybe he was acting our age, and I was actually way too old in my head to be physically twenty-eight.

  Funny, I’d seen that same quiet maturity in Morgan’s eyes when I’d run past her on the beach today. It had been more than a little at odds with her Hello Kitty underwear.

  Not that I was ever going to see those again.

  With every step I climbed, I tried to shove the gorgeous brunette out of my head. There was room for only one woman in my life.

  And she was five years old.

  Chapter Three

  Morgan

  To be honest, you scared the shit out of me. You always knew what you wanted—even when we were kids. You have this incredible, fearless approach to life that I lost somewhere along the way. But you need to know that, little by little, I’ve felt it coming back, and it’s because of the way I feel when I’m around you. You’re bringing me back to life, Morgan.

  “I’ve read your chart, history, and Dr. Meyers’s notes, but can you tell me more about how and when the anxiety attacks occur?” Dr. Circe asked, leaning back in the purple armchair across from mine.

  She was nothing like Dr. Meyers, who’d simply given me a prescription and walked away. Then again, Dr. Circe looked to be about thirty and had a way better bedside manner than the seventy-two-year-old psychiatrist I’d seen since the attacks started nearly two years ago.

  “Sure,” I said, adjusting in my own seat. Of course, I didn’t want to go through it all again, but moving here meant I needed a new doc before my current prescription ran out. “My head starts to race, and my heart jumps, like it’s trying to keep up with the thoughts. But then…” I swallowed past the familiar tightening sensation in my throat as it took hold, just like it did every time I tried to describe it
. “Then my throat closes, like someone has a fist around the base of it, squeezing.” I leaned my head back, stretching my neck as I reminded myself that I could still breathe; it was just uncomfortable. It was like my anxiety attacks had a defense mechanism of their own to keep me from talking about them.

  “Are you having one now?”

  I shrugged, bringing my eyes back to hers. “Sometimes they happen or intensify when I think about them. But mostly it’s when I think or talk about…” Mercy, it hurt. I stretched my neck again, breathing past the vice gripping my throat. “Him.” I shoved the images and feelings aside that swamped me whenever he came to mind.

  “Can you tell me about”—she checked my chart—“Will?”

  Without permission, memories crashed through my defenses—a million different moments from thousands of days over twenty-four years. Childhood. High school. Peyton dying. Him coming home from West Point. Paisley. The breakup. His unwillingness to be with me. The ball. The wings. The kiss. The casket—

  “No,” I forced out, trying desperately to cram everything back in the box. “It’s not that I don’t want to, but…” I swallowed and swallowed again, until she leaned forward, nudging a bottle of water across the glass coffee table.

  I twisted off the top and chugged half the bottle, trying to dislodge the tension in my throat—to swallow it down—but it didn’t help. It never did. A few moments passed while I watched the waves crash on the beach outside the window.

  “I have trouble talking about him,” I finally admitted. “I don’t really know where to start—how to sum him up in words—and then I can’t breathe because I know exactly how it…ends, and I can’t go there.”

  “To when he died?”

  I nodded. “It’s like opening Pandora’s box. I can’t pick and choose what comes out of it.”

  “That’s fair.” She nodded slowly. “How often do you think about him?”