by Aly Martinez
Memories of him touching my lips after that kiss he’d promised.
Memories of us curled up on a couch, watching TV together, a fire crackling in the background, but that warmth only he could give me radiating in my chest.
Memories of him making love to me, slow and desperate.
Memories of me coming home to him after a long day’s work and crashing into his strong arms seconds before falling asleep.
Memories of us watching the bright sunrise together.
Memories that would never exist.
And then Porter left.
He didn’t say anything as he backed out of my office, but goodbyes were spoken all the same. My heart felt as though it were being ripped from my chest with each step he took closer to the door.
He never tore his gaze from mine. It was both a gift and a punishment, because for the first time since I’d met Porter, it gave me the opportunity to see the staggering emptiness in his eyes.
I hated it almost as much as I loved it. He’d lived through hell, but for one lunch, one dinner, and over half an hour in his arms, it had brought him to me.
That was enough.
And, as I watched the door close behind him, I accepted that it would have to be.
It wasn’t.
After that day, the sunrise only got darker.
* * *
“Sooo…” Tom drawled.
I set my chopsticks on my empty plate and looked at him, parroting, “Sooo…”
He didn’t immediately say anything.
We’d been eating in silence. We did that a lot. It wasn’t awkward. Not with us. He was good at the quiet thing, being there and supportive without uttering a word.
Dropping his napkin on his plate, he narrowed his eyes. “How ya doing, Charlotte?”
I shrugged. “Same as every other day.”
Alone. Cold. Hollow.
He reclined in his chair, but his gaze became scrutinizing. “You seem…off.”
I was. I’d been off for weeks.
Shaking my head, I lied, “I’m good. Staying busy with work.”
He intertwined his fingers before resting them on his stomach. “Your mom says you were dating someone.”
I ignored the pang in my stomach at the mention of Porter. Over the last two weeks, I’d done everything I could not to think about Porter Reese. I was good at compartmentalizing. I’d been doing it for years, yet no matter how hard I tried, that man always seemed to weasel into the forefront of my brain.
I was amazed by how many times a day I would stumble across something that would remind me of him.
At first, it was things like dogs, burgers, and cocktail napkins. But it was getting out of control. Now, it was like men, a hand, or, hell, even just a person.
Fine—literally everything, including the darkness when I closed my eyes, reminded me of Porter.
I could only imagine the prideful smile that would have split his sexy mouth if he knew how often I thought about him. He would have laughed a deep, throaty chuckle that…
Yeah. I couldn’t think about Porter.
But he wasn’t even the biggest of my problems.
The day after Porter walked out of my office, I went to the park where Lucas had been abducted. I didn’t know why. It had been years since I’d tortured myself with that place. Sitting on that bench, I cried tears from my soul, watching mothers pushing their babies in strollers.
Ten. Fucking. Years.
And I hadn’t stopped there. After I’d left the park, I’d driven to my old house. The one where my little boy had slept safely, his grunts and coos echoing through the monitor. I’d moved out of that house less than a month after he’d disappeared, but as I stood on the corner, staring at the chipping paint on the blue front door, I called up the memories of the day I’d last walked out of it. And it wasn’t the day I’d moved. No. Charlotte Mills had never returned to that house after Lucas was taken.
I had—a poor, pitiful excuse for the woman I used to be.
Porter had told me that he’d never reemerged from the water the day of the accident.
I couldn’t help but wonder who he’d left behind. And then I wondered if it was possible to get that person back.
Because I desperately needed to find Charlotte Mills again.
By the time I got home that night, I was crying so hard that I threw up. But that didn’t stop me from going back the following night.
And the night after that.
And the night after that.
Each one ending worse than the last.
Something was seriously wrong with me.
Something worse than Porter Reese.
Something I feared I wasn’t going to be able to come back from.
I was losing the only bits and pieces of myself I had left.
“I’m fine,” I assured Tom with a smile that I was positive looked no less genuine than it felt. “You and Mom need to stop gossiping like schoolgirls,” I added dryly, picking my glass of wine up. (Coincidently, it was the same Sav Blanc Porter had ordered for me at his restaurant. Not so coincidently, I’d specifically ordered it when I had seen it on the menu. See? That guy was everywhere.) “Wait…when did you talk to Mom?”
He cut his gaze to the door in the most unlike-Tom way possible, and I snapped my fingers to bring it back to mine.
“Um…hello? Are you two talking now? Like, on the regular?”
“We’re”—he paused, resting his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers under his chin—“worried about you.”
I rolled my eyes. “Bullshit. She’s worried about me. You’ve seen me at least half a dozen times since my date with Porter and haven’t said anything. You’re worried about her being worried about me.”
The corners of his lip twitched as he confirmed, “And that.”
I set the wine back on the table and caught the eye of the waitress, silently asking for a check.
Tom reached across the table and covered his hand with mine.
My heart stopped and somehow exploded all at the same time. It wasn’t an odd gesture for Tom. It’s just that it was a very Porter gesture from Tom.
I snatched my hand away. “I’m fine.”
He narrowed his eyes and slanted his head. “See, I’m not thinking you are.”
“Okay, well, you’re allowed to think whatever you want. But worrying won’t change anything. I’m fine. Seriously.” I did my best to ignore his scrutinizing gaze by lifting my purse into my lap and digging through my wallet for my credit card.
His voice was rough and pained as he said, “I’ve been there, Charlotte.”
I jerked my head up to look at him. “What?”
He leaned toward me and whispered, “People. We get stuck in a rut and begin to believe the rut is how it’s always going to be. But it’s not. You just got to find your way out.”
“I went on one date with a guy, Tom. We mutually agreed not to see each other anymore. That rut you think I’m in isn’t even a divot.”
He shook his head and tsked his teeth. “Got my hopes up. Thought you’d finally done it.”
“See, this is why I don’t tell Mom anything. I go on one date and you two are out shopping for wedding china.”
“We saw you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Shit, Char. You were smiling and laughing. I have never in my life seen you like that. Your mother burst into tears, cried all over a fifty-dollar steak.”
My mouth fell open as I abandoned my search-and-rescue mission for my credit card and set my purse aside. “What are you talking about?” Though it was pretty damn clear. I’d only been to one place recently that served fifty-dollar steaks.
“I finally drew up the courage and asked her out. Managed to swing a late reservation at The Porterhouse. Walked in, your mom on my arm, feeling like a goddamn king. Then we saw you.” He chuckled. “For the next hour, I paid nearly two hundred dollars on wasted food to spy on you from a booth across the way.”
Of course they had seen me wit
h Porter. There were at least a thousand restaurants in the greater Atlanta area. Obviously, they would pick The Porterhouse. Karma wouldn’t allow it any other way.
“Fantastic,” I deadpanned.
“Yeah, Charlotte. It really was.” He stood and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. Then he threw a stack of bills on the table. “You’re not okay. No fucking way you’ll ever convince me of that. Not after I saw that woman at the restaurant.”
And then he was gone.
I groaned as he disappeared around the corner.
He was right. I had been okay that night with Porter. I felt it all the way down to my bones. But maybe that was exactly the problem I was having. I’d gotten a taste—the tiniest sampling—of happiness and I couldn’t seem to settle back into my life of isolation.
I jolted awake at the sound of my cell phone vibrating across my end table. It was dark outside and my body screamed, objecting to the wakeup call. God. How long had I been asleep? It’d been pouring when I’d left the restaurant, so I’d gone home to wait it out before heading up to the park. Though, the second I’d hit my couch, exhaustion had won out.
After snatching my phone up, I pressed it to my ear. “Hel—” I paused to clear my sleep-filled throat and tried again. “Hello.”
“Dr. Mills? It’s Patty.”
I shot straight up, my tired body suddenly coming fully awake as a blast of adrenaline shot through my veins.
“What do you have?” I rushed out, jumping to my feet.
“The transplant team is being called in. Caucasian male. Dilated Cardiomyopathy. A-pos…” She continued to rattle stats off as I tied my long hair into a ponytail.
After sliding my shoes on, I weaved a hurried path through my small apartment and snagged my keys off the bar. “How old?” I snapped, a sharp pain of anticipation piercing me. She didn’t immediately answer, so as I attempted to lock the door with shaking hands, I repeated, “How old, Patty?”
One word.
“Ten.”
My throat closed and I stared at the front door while blinking tears back.
One word.
“Lucas,” I breathed, rational thought fleeing my system almost as fast as hope filled me.
“Dr. Mills, if I may—” Patty started, but I didn’t have the time or the desire to hear her out.
“I’m on my way.” I hung up.
The rain poured down in sheets, soaking me to the bone as I jogged to my car. The leather seat of my BMW was cool, but that wasn’t why a chill traveled down my spine. I hit his number on my favorites and then lifted my phone to my ear.
“Detective—” he answered, but I didn’t let him finish.
Throwing the car into reverse, I yelled, “I found him!”
“Come again?” Tom said.
“I need you to meet me at the hospital. There’s a kid,” I told him, speeding out of my apartment complex.
“Son of a bitch. I knew it. You aren’t all right. Go home, Charlotte. I’ll meet you there.”
My voice shook as my anxiety grew. “He’s ten. Caucasian. Dilated Cardiomyopathy. A-pos. All just like Lucas.”
“And just like the last three kids you’ve dragged me up to the hospital to see over the last ten years. You promised me you’d stop doing this shit.”
I had. I’d been managing my hopes well over the last few years. Keeping them so low that they were almost nonexistent. In that time, I’d turned down two middle-of-the-night calls from Patty and the transplant team. Each time, I’d still swing by recovery the next morning, just to be sure it wasn’t him. It was never my son though.
But I’d been spiraling out of control over the last few weeks, and I’d actually convinced myself that maybe this time was different.
“This shit is finding my son!” I bit out, gripping the steering wheel tight as I floored it through a yellow light.
“No, Charlotte. This shit is you punishing yourself.” He quieted before taking a needle to my bubble of happiness. “It’s not him.”
My frustration flashed to rage. “You don’t know that! If Lucas is still out there, he’s going to end up on that operating table one day. And goddamn it, Tom, I’m going to be there when he does.”
“Sweetheart,” he said gently.
I sucked in a deep breath, refusing to allow his negativity to extinguish the only strand of optimism I’d had in years. “It’s him,” I said resolutely.
“It’s not—”
“But what if it is? Isn’t it at least worth checking out?”
He laughed without humor. “What are we checking out, Charlotte? A kid? Who is about to get a transplant? You want me to show up there and interrogate his terrified parents? Slap them in a pair of cuffs and haul them down to the station because their son happens to be the same age and blood type as a baby that was taken ten years ago?”
“Yes! That’s exactly what I want you to do!” I yelled, knowing how irrational it sounded but completely unable to stop myself.
“Well, it’s not going to happen. Everyone in the world with a kid on the donor registry is not a suspect.”
That was where Tom and I disagreed. As far as I was concerned, they should have been. The cardiac team at the Emory Transplant Center knew me well. I’d called in favor after favor to get the heads-up when a patient matching Lucas’s description was brought in. I despised the pity-filled glances they gave me when I’d show up frantic and haggard, but it was well worth it to get those precious phone calls.
I continued to break every traffic law known to man as I merged onto the highway. “Are you coming or not?”
“Don’t do this, Charlotte,” he said in a low, fatherly warning. “Go home.”
“Not until I see him. I’ll know if it’s Lucas.”
His voice grew louder. “Do not go up to that hospital.”
“I’ve got to go, Tom.”
“Charlotte!” he shouted, but I ended the call.
Tossing my phone to the seat beside me, I focused on the road. It rang repeatedly during the rest of my drive to the hospital.
With my heart in my throat, I scrambled out of my car and sprinted toward the doors. My stomach was in knots, but I never slowed as I hurried deeper into the hospital, scanning my badge when necessary to get to restricted areas. Nurses spoke as I weaved my way through the hallways, my shoes squeaking against the tile floor with every turn. Excitement and anticipation fueled me forward, my mind reeling with possibilities.
All of them positive.
And all of them ending with me finally waking up from this nightmare.
But, as I snatched the curtain in pre-op open, I realized that the nightmare was only getting started.
Three pairs of eyes swung my way.
All of them blue.
Two of them matched.
None of them were Lucas’s.
I gasped and slapped a hand over my mouth as ten years of pain, hopes, and heartbreak collided, melded together, and then joined forces in a mission to finish me once and for all.
The child’s mother rose to her feet, her face filled with concern.
I couldn’t begin to imagine what I looked like on the outside, because on the inside, I was a virtual wasteland of despair.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
My glassy eyes flicked to her, my hands shaking and my knees buckling.
One word.
“No.”
* * *
“How are you doing, baby?” my mom asked through the phone.
I rocked back in my office chair and propped my feet up on my desk. “It’s been a crazy night. Raul called out, two of the waitresses got into a spat over tips, and we ran out of parsnips.”
“Well, all of that sucks, but I asked how you were doing, not the restaurant.”
How was I doing?
I was functioning. Nothing more. Nothing less.
I smiled on cue, worked more than I would have liked, and obsessed about Charlotte Mills more than I would ever admit.
The minute
after I’d gotten home from her office, I’d Googled her.
I’d convinced myself it wasn’t a betrayal after she’d told me about Lucas, but as I’d pored over articles and stared at old photos of her hollow eyes leaving the police station, it had still felt like an invasion of her privacy.
God knew there were dozens of articles about Catherine’s “accident,” pictures and even videos of me dragging Travis out of the water. I’d have given anything to erase those from the history books, and as I’d shut my computer down that night, I figured Charlotte would probably feel the same way.
I had typed out a million texts to her over the two weeks since I’d seen her—some of them funny, some of them sad, all of them desperate. My conscience hadn’t allowed me to send any of them. I refused to be the man who caused her more pain.
And bringing her into my life and then parading Travis and Hannah in front of her would have done just that.
Rita had been right; Charlotte had been through enough.
“I’m fine,” I assured. “Tired but fine. Hopefully, I’ll be out of here in the next half hour, so you don’t have to spend the night if you’d rather wait up until I get there.”
“Are you crazy? It’s eleven o’clock and raining, Porter. Your father’s head would explode if I drove home tonight.”
I chuckled. “This is true.”
“But,” she drawled. “Since I’m stuck here anyway, why don’t you go out with Tanner tonight? Maybe hit a disco or something.”
“Uh…because I’m thirty-four and it hasn’t been called a disco since I was, like, negative ten.”
“Oh, hush. Thirty-four is young, honey. Oh, I know! What about that lady you went out with a few weeks ago? Call her and see if she wants to go dancing. Women love to dance.”
“Mom, stop. I’m tired. I have beyond no desire to go out dancing tonight. Or any other night, for that matter. So please, leave it alone.”
“Okay, okay. Jeesh. I was only trying to be helpful. You spend all of your time either working or taking care of the kids. You know it’s not a crime for you to have a life, Porter.”
I groaned. “That’s my job, Mom. To work hard so I can afford to take care of the kids and then come home and actually do it.”