Heart Signs (6 page)

T
he day dragged for Rory
, to the point that the lunch meet she’d had with Sam was the highlight. Work wasn’t any more boring than usual, but she had stuff waiting for her at home.

Namely Sam’s letters.

By eight p.m., her dinner of takeout vegetable beef stew and garlic bread sticks had been consumed and she’d already dug into her bottle of wine. Halfway through the second glass, she felt ready to tackle her reading assignment.

He hadn’t insisted she read them. If she’d picked up his vibes correctly today, he wasn’t even sure he wanted her to. But she had to know. Beyond being simply curious, she cared. She probably wouldn’t become lifelong buddies with Sam—or anything else—but right now he was her friend. Maybe she could become a sounding board for him, something she thought he probably desperately needed.

And yes, she was fascinated. She’d believed for so long that he and Dani lived a fantasy, turning a blind eye to anything that indicated otherwise. Even when the message had been contained in his words, she hadn’t wanted to see them as anything but the perfect couple. It had given her hope. If there were people out there who could fall so deeply in love, she could too. She could live that dream someday herself.

Now she’d discovered the dream hadn’t existed, at least not her conception of it. She still hadn’t lost the hope. Or her insatiable curiosity when it came to Samson Miller.

She opened the second letter from the bottom of the stack and began to read.

D
ear Dani
,

Here I am again. Another sleepless night, another night where I reach for you and find the other side of the bed cold. I bought a full bed for the house I’m staying in but I don’t sleep in the middle. I still stay to the left side and always hope that sometime during the night you’ll appear where you’re supposed to be.

I never expected to turn into “that” guy. Me, broken-hearted? Never. Only wusses broke down. Guys work through stuff. They get their hands dirty and fucking pound the shit out of their problems. That’s why I bought the punching bag. Catharsis through beating. Hell, it works for some people. But it hasn’t worked for me. I whaled on that damn bag today until my knuckles were bleeding, until my hands were so sore that even holding this pen right now hurts like a motherfucker. Nothing changed. You didn’t call me and ask me to come home. I didn’t stop looking in the mirror and seeing a fraud.

R
ory reached
for her glass of wine and used the cool, fruity liquid to dissolve the lump in her throat. Reading Sam’s words rubbed her raw. She hurt for him, yes, but she also hurt for herself. The parallels between them were eerie.

How many times had she written herself off as a fake? She enjoyed her life and she had fun, no doubt about it. That didn’t mean she didn’t cry herself to sleep sometimes. She wanted to have someone to love, someone who loved her back.

She’d once had someone who cared. But she hadn’t been ready and she’d squandered that love, not realizing that maybe it was a finite thing and she’d already used up her quotient for a lifetime.

Second chances were all well and good. Too bad not everyone got a crack at them.

She hadn’t. The ex who’d broken up with her in college after she’d admitted she liked the captain of the football team had refused to speak to her again. Kyle hadn’t understood that she’d been too bowled over by the popular jock’s attention to realize she was being used. The night she’d spent with the campus stud had been the first time she’d felt truly sexy. Completely capable of making a man beg.

After Mr. Big Man On Campus had swaggered back to his friends, she’d been the one begging. It hadn’t helped one iota. Kyle hadn’t wanted her anymore. What had started out as a way to have fun and boost her nonexistent self-confidence had turned into a mistake that had dogged her for years.

She’d finally moved on. Even if her friends said she was too picky, that there were nice guys all over and she needed to stop setting unattainable goals. But she wanted that zap of heat, that jolt of awareness. Of recognition.

What she’d found, no matter how much it scared her, with Sam.

The more she read, the more certain she became that he would
get
it. Her. He wouldn’t vilify her for the things she’d done wrong. Of all people, he understood how important it was to forgive and go forward.

She’d forgiven herself for her youthful transgression years ago. Sam hadn’t forgiven himself yet. Guilt dripped from every cobweb strung up in the corners of his apartment. Her gut told her that he believed if he let go of those feelings he’d be releasing his wife, something he wasn’t ready to do. Whether that was because he loved her too much to move on or because he didn’t know his next step was anyone’s guess.

She took the last sip of wine and set the glass aside. Tonight she wouldn’t be getting toasted while she read. His pain demanded more respect.

M
y buddies think
I’m doing better than I am. They still invite me over to watch the game and I just know that one of them will suggest we hit up a bar one of these nights. They’d never tell me to sleep with another woman to get over you, but that’s how it’s done. Let go of one woman, grab the next…but that’s a game I won’t play. Though I know you’re doing enough hurting for us both, suffering the way I am makes me feel like I’m doing my part. Sharing the burden I made you carry.

Maybe one day I’ll get used to sleeping alone again. I think what scares me most is that you’ll get used to it first.

R
ory let
out a long breath and tucked the letter back in its envelope before she moved on to the next. This one had been written a couple weeks later. The tone hadn’t changed. Despair and more despair. The next three letters were more of the same. He seemed to become more comfortable with his feelings, almost resigned to them.

Then she noticed the four envelopes in the center of the stack encircled with three yellow rubber bands. These must be different.

D
ear Brandy
,

Since I write love letters to your mom, who doesn’t want to see me anymore and seems pretty resistant to changing her mind, it only makes sense I’d write to you and your sister too. I think about you girls all the time. You’d be a toddler now, running around causing mischief, and I’d be the dad who followed you around and asked you to tidy up your toy box, but who never yelled because you didn’t. I think I’d be so awed by you, by knowing that some weird alchemy of your mom’s traits and mine had made you into the perfect little creature you’d have to be, that I wouldn’t be able to yell ever. Or spank. Back when I was growing up my dad always told me I’d discover what it was like to have a crazy son of my own one day. Well, that hasn’t happened yet. I’ve only ever been a dad to daughters, two beautiful, precious little girls who I never got to hear cry or laugh or watch take their first clumsy steps. I never got to hear them call me Daddy.

I’m not sure I’m cut out to be a father. When your mama told me she was pregnant, the first thing I wanted to do was escape. I wasn’t ready. At nineteen, who’s ready for much? We’d partied too hard and made some mistakes and then there was you. I figured I’d regret you and those mistakes but I never did. And though I didn’t fall in love with your mama until after she wore my gold ring, it didn’t make that love any less real. You brought us together and gave us hope. In so many ways you saved us.

R
ory rubbed
a hand over her face, needing to erase the mental imprint of Sam’s handwritten words on that yellowed paper. She doubted she’d ever be able to.

God, had any weepfest movie of the week ever been more raw? She could feel his pain in every word. And his love. Though the picture of Dani and Sam that she’d held in her mind for so long had definitely been inaccurate, she had no doubt that theirs had been a love story at the core. They’d suffered tragedies and bad luck but they’d also shared some good times and deep emotion.

She made herself go back to the letters. Somehow she would get through the rest.

Fifteen minutes later, after she’d read all four through a blur of tears, she got up off the couch. She longed for a hot shower and something to scour her heart of his anguish. Not alcohol. Nope, only one thing—one person—would do.

She needed to hear him laugh, to be the one who made him. Tonight it would feel so good to just fucking
laugh
.

Once she’d showered and donned the faded boxers and old baseball jersey she slept in, she crawled into her tidily made bed, whistled for her cat Snowdrop and smiled as the brown and gray tabby leaped up beside her. As usual, she gave her mistress a giant headbutt hello.

Sam should get a cat. One as affectionate as Snowy, she mused as her kitty rolled over and stuck her paws in the air. Rory patted her furry belly and grinned. “Too bad you’re spayed huh, sweetheart?”

All she got was a rumbling purr in return.

Settling back into the pillows, she grabbed the bedside phone and the card she’d tucked beneath it. She’d written that number in at least three places and programmed it into her cell.

“Obsessive much?” she muttered, hitting the digits she’d already almost memorized.

He answered on the second ring. “Ah, so you decided to call.”

His voice alone made her smile. Step one to laughter achieved. “I did. And you decided to answer.”

“Well, it was a tough choice. Watching the end of the fight—which sucked anyway—cleaning out the litter box for Junior or—”

“Wait, Junior? Who’s that?”

“He’s a cat.”

She couldn’t help laughing at his patient tone. “I figured out that part from the litter box. But why do you have him?”

“I nabbed him from the pound.”

“Oh really? Yay!” She hated that she squealed but she couldn’t believe he’d somehow read her thoughts. “Just this afternoon?”

“Yep. I stopped by and they were having some big adoption thing. Due to overcrowding, they let me take him. If my paperwork checks out, I’ll get to keep him. Otherwise they’ll return him to his sunny life in a wire cage.”

With effort, she ignored his sudden bitterness. It wasn’t easy seeing so many pets caged up at the shelter, and she had a feeling Sam empathized with them more than most. He had his own cage of sorts, though he came and went. “So you named him Junior? He’s not oversized and hairless, is he?”

He let out a short laugh. “He’s tiny and orange. And lemme tell ya, when I say tiny, I mean miniscule. He fits in the palm of my hand.”

“Aww.” She stroked Snowy and imagined ginormous Sam cradling a baby kitty. Her heart squeezed. Big, strong men cuddling babies and kittens should be outlawed. The mere thought made women by turns horny and foolish.

“I bet you want to come see him.”

“I do.”
And you
, she added silently.

“The guy at the shelter told me Junior would be a chick magnet. Wasn’t sure if he was right. He couldn’t have been more than twenty.”

“He is. Chicks love orange kittens.”

“And big bald guys?”

“That’s a given.” She cleared her throat as the silence dragged. Flirting with him might be fun, if they could ever figure out how to coordinate it to avoid the awkward pauses. “So, ah, I read more of the letters.”

“Did you call to refer me to a shrink? Because if you did, too late. I had one and I think I fired him.”

She laughed again and gripped the phone more tightly. The receiver was damp. Nope, she wasn’t nervous. Not at all. “I was okay, more or less, until I got to the letters you wrote to your daughters. Then I turned into a blubbering mess who had to weep her heart out in the shower.”

His long pause made her wonder if she’d said too much. As usual. “Sounds like I owe you some happier letters then, to balance.”

What did that mean? Had he written happier letters along the way? Or would he write one for her?

Shit, that freaked her out. It wouldn’t be a love letter. Maybe he’d talk about the teams they liked. Or something. A letter seemed so much more personal than a quick text or a haphazard email with more abbreviations than actual words.

Sam didn’t write like that. Even his work emails to her after two years were formal. He didn’t play fast and loose with the rules of etiquette—or the English language.

She swallowed and closed her eyes.
Be cool.
“You don’t owe me anything. I like reading them. Well, maybe
like
isn’t not the right word. They’re…compelling.”

“Like must see TV?” he asked drily.

“No. Like something that breaks your heart and mends it at the same time. If that makes any sense,” she added, feeling stupid. She wasn’t a poet so why was she even trying to explain herself?

“It makes a ton of sense.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah. They did that for me when I was writing them. Though it probably doesn’t seem that way to you, they were cathartic. After a while some of the stuff I got out on the page stayed out of my head.”

“You suffered a lot of grief.”

“I did. I also caused a lot.”

“You’re a good man, Sam,” she said, voice trembling, hoping he understood how much she meant that. It wasn’t just empty praise. He, of all people, had shown her through his example exactly how powerful words could be.

“Have you been drinking?”

“Why?” This was why she rarely showed emotion. It never came out right. People thought she was drunk or patronizing them. Not that Sam had said as much, but she could only imagine what he was thinking to ask a question like that when she was perfectly sober.

Okay, mostly sober.

“Because you have this little lisp going. It’s kind of…”

“What?” she asked, affronted.

“Sexy.”

“Oh.” She hiccupped at the absolute worst time, slapping a hand over her mouth amidst his low laughter. “In that case, maybe I’ve been drinking a small amount. Just a couple of glasses of wine. It helps take off the edge when I’m reading.”