by Sybil Bartel
I walked into her bedroom and went for the closet. It was half empty like last time I’d seen it, but today I noticed it was all monochromatic. Blacks, whites, grays—all the pinks, yellows and greens she’d worn when she’d stayed with me were gone. I got angrier with myself. Yanking a gray shirt off a hanger, I found a pair of black leggings in a drawer and strode back to the bathroom.
She was exactly where I’d left her, except she was staring at herself in the mirror.
“I’m tired,” she whispered.
Her voice, the look on her face—she crushed me. “I know.” I took the towel from her again and dried her hair as best I could before slipping the shirt over her head. “We’ll make a quick run to grab supplies to fix your door and some food, then you can sleep.” I dropped to a squat and held her pants for her to step into.
“I can’t go into a store.” She stepped into one leg.
“Why not?”
She stepped into the other. “No bra.”
Shit. “You can wait in the car if you want.” I pulled her pants up for her.
Her gaze fixed on the mirror, she didn’t comment about the car. “My hair’s a mess.”
I picked up her brush. Grasping her long locks in one land, I started at the bottom and worked my way up, brushing out the tangles.
“You’ve done this before.”
“For my sister, when we were kids.” Holding the top of her head, I worked through the section I’d had in my hand.
“She’s lucky to have you.”
“She wouldn’t agree.”
“Why?”
Thankful to have her talking, I answered even though discussing my family was my least favorite subject. “I left her with the burden of taking over my father’s business when I enlisted.”
“Having money is a burden?”
She had no idea. “It’s not a simple life.”
“Neither is going hungry.”
Impotent anger at her past circumstances made my muscles stiffen, but I forced my voice to remain even. “Did you go hungry often?”
“Not once I was old enough to work.”
I drew the brush through the entire length of her hair. “What was your first job?”
She exhaled as if releasing some tension. “Sweeping floors in a bakery. I was fourteen. At the end of the day, whatever didn’t sell, I was supposed to bag and take to a nearby homeless shelter, but….” She trailed off.
“You kept it.”
“I did. Until I got fired.”
I did one more pass with the brush. “What happened?”
“I got sick, but I couldn’t call in because my foster parents wouldn’t let any of the kids use the house phone. So when I showed up the next day, barely well enough to stand up, let alone leave the house, they fired me for being a no-show.”
I put her brush down and looked at her in the mirror. “I’m sorry.”
Her gaze drifted. “One of the owners, Rusty, taught me how to decorate cakes. He never knew it, but I credit him for sparking my interest in parties.”
Nothing animated about her voice or story, she looked more sad than when I’d walked through the door. I wanted to pull her into my arms, but I didn’t. “I’m glad you had that experience then.” I took her hand. “Come on.”
She didn’t protest as I led her to her kitchen. She didn’t ask what I was doing when I sat her on a stool. She didn’t look at her front door, and she didn’t comment when I made her a cup of tea.
She watched my movements like she was both studying me and not seeing me as I set the mug in front of her. “Drink.”
Lifting her hands from her lap, she wrapped them around the mug, but she didn’t drink. She stared at the tea.
“I’ll check the dryer.” I made it two strides.
“You thought that made you like him? Like your father?”
I paused.
“Because of… what we did in the shower?”
I turned. “Yes.” I didn’t lie.
She picked the mug up. “I signed the papers.”
I stared at her profile.
She took a sip. “That night. I signed them.”
I wanted to ask if it was because of me. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. “I’m sorry your marriage dissolved.”
Anger bled into her tone. “Stop apologizing to me.”
“Stop blaming yourself for those gang members’ deaths.”
Her hands tightened on the mug. “We’re not supposed to talk about that. Ever,” she bit out.
“You can always talk to me. Anytime.”
“I don’t want to talk.”
That’s what worried me. “None of us had any reservations about pulling the trigger.”
“I’m not you or one of your friends.”
No, she wasn’t. “That’s what I like about you.”
“You don’t like me,” she argued, holding the mug in front of her like a shield as she stared straight ahead. “I’m not stupid. You’re angry around me.”
“I’m angry with myself.”
The mug paused halfway to her mouth then she put it back down, but she didn’t say anything.
“Every step with you, I mishandled,” I admitted.
She looked up at me, and her amber-green doe eyes took me in like the hero I wasn’t. “I’m alive because of you.”
“You were in danger because of me,” I corrected.
Her full lips parted as if she were going to say something.
Like a fool, I waited, hoping for her forgiveness.
But she closed her mouth and dropped her gaze.
I went to get my clothes.
I PUT ON A BRA as he changed back into his clothes in the bathroom. When he came out with his baseball cap pulled low and told me to grab my purse, I grabbed it. When he wordlessly put his hand on the small of my back and led me past my splintered front doorjamb, I allowed it.
When he took us to his Range Rover and held open the passenger door, I got in. When he got behind the wheel and told me to buckle my seat belt, I buckled it.
Everything he told me to do, I did.
But my head was spinning.
He blamed himself.
Just like I was blaming myself.
But I knew it wasn’t his fault.
Just as I should’ve realized it wasn’t mine.
Two lives intertwined by happenstance, blaming themselves for a third person’s horrible choices. When in truth, Sawyer was no more responsible for those six deaths than I was. Everything we did was in defense against their actions. None of us would have been in those situations if it weren’t for that carjacker.
It was his fault.
Not mine.
Not Sawyer’s.
The weight I’d been carrying lifted somewhat as he pulled into the parking lot of a home improvement store.
Putting his SUV in park, he left the engine and AC running. “Lock the doors after I get out.”
“I’ll come with you.” I reached for my door handle but not before I saw a look flash across his face I couldn’t decipher.
“Wait.” He cut the engine and got out, rounding the front of the vehicle.
I watched him scan the parking lot, taking in every inch of our surroundings like he was cataloging everyone and everything.
It made me feel safe, safer than I’d felt in seven days.
Opening my door, his manners didn’t waver. He held his hand out to me.
I took it.
He helped me out of the vehicle, and for the first time in days, I tasted, smelled and felt something other than guilt.
I felt his strong hand around mine. I smelled his clean scent. I tasted the mint tea he had made me, and sun warmed my face.
I felt safe.
“Thank you,” I whispered, not trusting my voice.
His stark blue eyes cut from the surrounding parking lot to me. “For what?”
“Taking care of me.” It made me feel so vulnerable to say the words, but I said them and more. “Feeding me all
week.” Every day I’d waited until he’d left, then I’d gotten up and retrieved his daily breakfast and eaten it. It was the only food I’d eaten all week.
For three whole heartbeats, he said nothing.
Then Sawyer Savatier leaned down, and his lips touched my forehead. “You’re welcome.”
I exhaled, releasing a breath I’d been holding since my first memory of foster care. I didn’t think I’d ever felt less burdened, until I inhaled and the air wasn’t weighted with every breath of my past.
Across the parking lot, through the entrance and until he pulled a cart out, Sawyer held my hand. Then he put me in front of him, grasped the cart and enclosed me in the circle of his protection.
My steps no longer heavy, I let him lead us through the store, quietly watching as he put stuff in the cart and answering his few brief questions about any tools I might have at home. It wasn’t until we were in the checkout line that I realized I’d never done this with Brian. I’d never done it with anyone.
I was a home-improvement-store-as-a-couple virgin.
The thought almost made me smile, until I realized we weren’t a couple.
My fragile mood plummeted as the young female cashier smiled wide at Sawyer despite him standing at my back with one hand on my hip as he unloaded stuff onto the counter to be rung up.
I reached for my purse to get my wallet, but his hand covered mine, stopping me.
His lips brushed my ear as his voice dropped. “I got it.” He kissed my temple.
Three simple words, one single gesture, but I felt them race up my back and sink low in my belly, sending a shiver of awareness across my whole body.
I didn’t argue with him about paying. Instead, I watched the muscles and veins in his forearms flex as he pulled his own wallet out and paid with a credit card.
Politely thanking the cashier, but not making eye contact, he took the receipt, then his lips brushed past my ear again and he tapped my leg. “Step up. On the cart.”
I didn’t hesitate. I put both feet on the bottom rack of the cart.
His chest closed in on my back, his arms locked around my sides, and he sped up his stride.
He took me on a ride.
Fresh air and wind hit my face and something extraordinary happened. Something I didn’t think I would be capable of again.
I smiled.
I smiled freely all the way to his SUV.
I smiled contentedly as he opened the back.
I smiled like a schoolgirl as he caught my gaze and winked.
And I smiled blissfully as he took me in his arms.
Pulling me in close, pressing me against his hard body, he hugged me.
He hugged me, and he made me feel.
“That smile.” He kissed my hair. “That’s what I was looking for.”
HER SMILE, UNGUARDED AND BEAUTIFUL, spread across her face.
For the first time since she’d walked out of my place, I could breathe.
“That smile.” Holding her in my arms, I kissed the top of her head. “That’s what I was looking for.”
Her arms wrapped around my waist. “Thank you,” she breathed.
“You can thank me after I fix your front door.” Regretfully, I let her go and held the passenger door of the Range Rover open for her.
“Maybe I will,” she quipped, some of her spark coming back.
Closing her door, the corner of my mouth tipped up as I got behind the wheel. An easy silence fell between us on the way back to her place, and I couldn’t think of a single place I wanted to be more than with her.
My good mood held until we stepped off her elevator and found her front door wide open.
Setting the supplies down, I cursed myself for not having my piece. Holding a finger up to my lips, I pushed her clear out of the path of the open door, then held my hand up and whispered, “Wait.”
Her eyes went wide with trepidation.
Hating the fear that lingered just under the surface for her, I moved quietly into her place. With no weapon, I felt naked, but I knew a hundred ways to incapacitate a man.
Turned out I didn’t have to.
“Brian,” I clipped.
Standing in the living room, his back to me, the fucker spun around and sized me up. “Where’s Evie? What happened to our place? Was she robbed?”
Ignoring him, I went back in the hall and purposely took her hand. “All clear.”
“Who’s….” She trailed off as I led her inside, her body going completely rigid. “What are you doing here, Brian?”
Holding a rolled-up piece of paper, he threw his arms up and looked at her like she was out of her mind. “What the hell happened to our place?”
“It’s my place,” she corrected the prick. “The cops needed to get inside, and they didn’t ring the doorbell.”
The prick glanced at our joined hands. “My name’s still on the lease.”
She didn’t give him an inch. “Good for you. What do you want?”
Looking between us, he frowned. “Where’s all your stuff?”
“Gone.” She didn’t elaborate.
His voice quieted with a concern he didn’t have when his wife was lying in a hospital bed. “You were robbed?”
My free hand fisted as my other squeezed hers. I stepped in. “She’s fine.” Not that he gave a shit.
She pulled her hand out of my grasp. “You can leave, Brian.”
Sighing, his fake expression of concern slipped. “I need to speak with you in private.”
“Then you should’ve called.”
“I did,” the prick whined. “You didn’t answer your phone.”
“I had nothing to say to you.”
“Really, Genevieve?” Still holding the paper, his hands went to his hips. “We’re both adults here. I’m sure we can have a conversa—”
“That’s it.” Fuck this asshole. “You’re done. Leave.”
He glared at me. “I’ll leave after I’ve spoken to my wife.”
“Now she’s your wife? When you need something? What about when she was in the hospital?” The fucking prick was lucky he was still standing. “She signed your papers. Get out before I throw you out.” I took a menacing step toward him.
He backed away from me, but looked at Genevieve. “You didn’t sign the part about relinquishing my last name. You need to do that. You know what I asked for. It’s only fair.”
Un-fucking-believable. “Her last name is her business name. She’ll keep it if she wants.” Even though it killed me to have her tied to this prick in any way, it was still her business. She got to choose.
“Business.” The asshole snorted. “She sends out invitations and orders cakes. It’s not like she’s well-known or even a brand. She knows what she has to do, what the right thing to do is. And my papers?” he asked, incredulous. “Is that what she told you? That I asked for this divorce?” The prick shook his head at her. “Nice, Genevieve, lying to make yourself look better.”
“Out,” I barked.
The asshole held his hands up. “Don’t shoot.” He sneered at me. “I’m going.” Moving toward the door, he eyed Genevieve. “Answer your phone next time I call.” He threw the papers he was holding on her kitchen counter and walked out.
Not sure what to think, I looked at Genevieve.
Her gaze on him as he left, her shoulders defeated, she crossed her arms but didn’t say shit.
I waited.
When she continued with her silence, I caved. “You divorced him?”
“He filed the papers.”
Goddamn it. “Not what I asked.” I didn’t give a shit who filed.
She glanced at the couch. “It’s complicated.”
I’ll bet. “It always is.” Needing to pound something, I went back to the hall and grabbed the shit to fix her door because I said I would, but all I wanted to do was fucking pound her ex’s face in, or leave.
It was the second time she’d lied, and I’d be a fucking fool if I gave her the opportunity for a third.
“Jesus,” I muttered.
Making a split-second decision, I grabbed the bags and took them to my Range Rover. I returned for the box, loaded it in my SUV, then went back upstairs.
Still lying on the couch, curled in a ball, she stared at the TV.
“Door’s fixed.”
“Thanks.” She didn’t look up.
I told myself to walk away. I didn’t need anyone in my life who lied, especially not a woman. Not to mention her moods flipped like a fucking switch. I didn’t know what caused her change for the better on the way to the store, but I’d felt it. Now I was looking at the woman who’d ignored me for a week, the same woman who lied to me about being married.
I knew what I had to do, for my own sanity.
“The key for the new lock is on the counter. Goodbye, Genevieve.”
She waited until I had the door open. “We had an argument.”
My hand on the handle, like a fucking fool, I paused.
“He wanted us to get pregnant.”
My blood boiled at the thought of her having a child with that asshole.
“I wanted to foster. Foster to adopt, actually,” she clarified, taking a heavy breath before her voice went quiet as hell. “He said he wasn’t going to raise someone else’s problem.”
Jesus.
“I was never his wife,” she continued. “I was always his problem. I was his problem when I told him I didn’t want to be married anymore, and when I refused to talk about it. I was his problem when I wouldn’t see his side of it. I was his problem when he got frustrated and filed the divorce papers. I was his problem when I wouldn’t sign papers that made me someone’s mistake… again.” Her voice got even quieter. “I was always someone’s problem.”