His Ever After (Love Square) (9 page)

I weave my way through the different floral displays and head towards the register to place my order. There’s another patron already checking out when I get there. I glance down at my watch and mentally calculate that I’ve been up for roughly thirty-eight hours straight. I force myself not to sigh out loud at that realization. It isn’t their fault that I feel like I’m hitting a brick wall and could fall asleep while standing up.

“This arrangement is perfect! Just like the little darling and her momma! Thank you so much, Sue, for rushing this for me! I didn’t expect Sam to go into delivery early,” the woman in line says to the shop owner.

When I hear the name, my ears instantly perk up. It’s only then that I really pay attention to the woman standing in front of me. She has blonde hair, curves that go on forever, and her voice is eerily familiar.

Fuck.
It’s Michelle Kelsey and she’s talking about
my
Sam. I look around her to the floral arrangement that is sitting on the counter. It’s filled with pink roses, white stock and pink waxflower, and there is a “Congratulations” balloon next to an “It’s a Girl!” balloon.

I feel like I’ve just been sucker punched, knowing Sam had her baby. An utter sadness takes over my whole being. The world in front of me looks a little darker. All the colors seem muted and a hopelessness that has been on my periphery for the last eight months has taken over.

Sure I’ve wondered about Sam and her baby. I’ve wondered if it was a little girl or boy, and if she’s happy about being a mom. I’ve wondered a lot of things these last few months. What I wasn’t expecting was having the chance to find out the answers.

I clear my throat and tap her on the shoulder. Michelle turns around and her eyes widen when she sees me standing behind her. She appears just as shocked at seeing me as I am about seeing her.

“Jacob,” she says and tips her head in my direction.

“Michelle. How are you?” I ask. Unsure of how to proceed with this conversation, I rock back on my heels.

“I’m good. You… uh… look good. How is everything? How’s Brooke?” Her last question comes out on a sneer.

My fists clench at my sides. I know that was a dig at me. Brooke is the last thing I want to talk about right now. What I want is to have my curiosity assuaged.

“She’s fine. Did I hear you say Sam had her baby?” I ask and mentally cross my fingers that she’ll answer me instead of telling me to go to hell.

Michelle studies my face for several long minutes before she opens her mouth and closes it again. She’s obviously trying to figure out what she wants to say, if anything. She sighs before handing her credit card to the shop owner and turning back to me.

“Yes. She went into labor late last night. She was almost three weeks early, but her and baby Tessa are perfect. I’m on my way over there now to see them.”

Three weeks early? Could this mean that there’s a chance the baby is mine? No. I refuse to let my mind wander down that path. I can’t let myself get my hopes up just to be disappointed again. There is little that could be done to change where we are today. I made my choices, and she made hers.

When I saw Sam in the mall around Christmas time, I was completely floored to discover she was pregnant. I knew she wasn’t on birth control. The first time we had sex, I was so caught up in the moment that I didn’t put on a condom. It was the first time that had ever happened to me. Much to my surprise when I realized it, I didn’t feel panicked or an impending sense of doom. I actually wanted to get her pregnant. Sure it would have been early in our relationship, and it would have been messy given the fact that she was married, but her having my baby would have kept her tied to me forever.

I even snuck into Sam’s purse after she fell asleep and looked for birth control pills. I checked on a few other occasions too, like when I picked her up from traveling. If there was ever a time they’d be on her, that would be one. But I never found a pack. It might seem a little crazy to be snooping for your significant other’s birth control, but Sam never brought it up, and I was afraid if I mentioned it, she’d catch her mistake.

So when I saw Sam talking to Brooke at the mall, all I wanted to know was if it was mine or not. I had no idea how to get the words out though. I had to be cautious of how I approached the subject. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt Brooke any more than I already had. When Sam immediately told me the baby wasn’t mine, I wanted to demand a paternity test. I wanted to hold on to the fact that there was a real possibility it could have been mine. I decided to trust her, though. To trust that she wouldn’t lie to me.

But if she delivered early, maybe the doctor screwed up on her due date. This stuff isn’t fool proof, right? And if the baby is mine, don’t I at least deserve to know? Shouldn’t I at least get a chance to be a father?

I allow hope to take hold of me. My life has been complete shit all these months without Sam, and Brooke is often less than stable, but I would love this baby so fucking much. She’d be a light in my life, just like her mother.

Would Brooke be able to handle it though? Maybe she’d move on if that were the case. Maybe she’d realize that she could do a hell of a lot better than me. It might be what Brooke needs to start healing herself. Or it could be the nail in the coffin, sort to speak.

I’m too tired to think about this right now. It will eat at me, though, if I don’t at least ask.

“When you say she was early…” I stop myself and swallow the lump rising in my throat. I’m suddenly extremely nervous. I can feel sweat beading on my brow. “Could the baby be mine, Michelle?”

Michelle looks at me like I just stepped out of the psych ward with a straightjacket on. That can’t be a good sign.

“Um, no! That baby is most definitely not yours, you asshole! God, you are so self-centered. Can’t you just let them be? Seriously! Haven’t you put them through enough shit?” The waving of her arms and the vehemence in her tone has me stepping back slightly.

“Me? Last time I checked, it takes two to tango! I didn’t force Sam into my bed! She came willingly! And if that child is mine, I deserve to know!”

If looks could kill, I’d be six feet under right now. I have a feeling Michelle is holding back because we are in public, although the shop owner is certainly getting quite a show right now.

With a look of disgust on her face, she grabs her cell phone out of her purse and pushes a series of buttons before shoving it in my face. The image on the screen makes me want to drop to my knees and weep like a big, fucking pussy. It’s a picture of Sam in a hospital bed, holding a little baby. The baby has a shock of blonde, curly hair on the top of her head and blue eyes. She looks nothing like me, and it breaks my heart into a million pieces. Any hope I had lingering is gone, and it makes me sick to my stomach.

I take a deep breath and shift my focus to Sam. She’s absolutely beautiful. Her face is lit up and she is looking at the baby like it’s her whole world. I feel like an interloper. It feels wrong to witness such raw emotion on her face as she looks at her child.

I clear my throat and hand her back the phone. “Just tell me this. Is she happy?”

“She’s very happy. I just hope you find your happiness, Jacob.” She puts her hand on my forearm and gives me a sad smile. “I can tell that you love her by the look on your face just now when I showed you that picture. I don’t know what happened with Brooke, but you need to let Sam go.”

Michelle grabs her flowers and heads out the door, leaving me an emotional mess. Looks like I’ll be hitting the bourbon when I get home in an effort to numb the pain. I give a small, slightly embarrassed smile to the shop owner and tell her my order before heading home to wallow in my own self-pity.

Chapter Six

When I walk into the apartment, my only thought is grabbing the bottle of Jim Beam out of the cupboard, downing a few shots and then crashing on my bed.

Those thoughts are quickly replaced when I realize the apartment is eerily quiet. Brooke’s Mustang is downstairs, so I know she is here somewhere. I set my keys on the table and make my way down the hall. The light is on in the guest room, so I peek my head into the room. It looks like the closet has exploded. There are clothes and boxes everywhere.

My stomach drops knowing that Sam’s book is hiding in that closet. I walk further into the room and find the box it was hiding behind, but I don’t see the book anywhere. I pick through the wreckage and find the overturned box with pictures of Sam and me spilling from it. Lying next to it is the note Sam wrote one night when I had fallen asleep, and she had to get home. It was a cute, little love note that I didn’t have the heart to get rid of. All of this strewn across the floor can only mean one thing.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I have to find Brooke before she loses it. This couldn’t have come at a worse time. Things were just starting to be good between us again.

I leave the room and head towards our bedroom. The place looks trashed. If her car wasn’t downstairs, I would have assumed she left me. Clothes are thrown around. The dresser drawers are hanging out, and the bedding is tossed.

I grip the ends of my hair and tug in frustration, taking in the mess all around me. To my right, I see the light streaming through the opening in the master bathroom door. I push it open and notice Sam’s book sitting on the sink. It’s worn from all the times I’ve snuck it out to read. Her picture on the back cover smiles up at me, taunting me from its place on the counter. Sitting next to it is a piece of paper. I push the door open further and take a step in to see what the note says, and my body immediately freezes when I see her.

Brooke is lying in the bathtub. The water is tinted crimson from her blood.

No! No, no, no, no, no! This
cannot
be happening!

I panic and rush to the tub, dropping to my knees quickly. I lift her naked body up and hold her to me. Her body is limp and there is no life in her whatsoever. Her eyes are shut and her skin is gray. There are slits going up the length of her forearms. She must have done this to herself hours ago, because there doesn’t appear to be any more blood pouring out of them.

Please god, this can’t be the end of her. She doesn’t deserve this shit.

I grab the cell phone from my pocket, scrolling through the contacts to the number I need and hit dial.

“Zimmerman,” my Captain answers gruffly into the phone.

“Duane, this is Jacob. I need you to come to Brooke’s and my apartment right away.” Even I can hear the desperation lacing my voice.

“What’s wrong, son?” After a long pause he says concerned, “You need to tell me what happened. Are you in trouble?” I can tell by his tone that he wants answers, but I can’t force myself to say the words out loud.

“Jacob. What’s wrong?” He asks again, this time more forcefully.

“It’s Brooke. She’s… she’s dead Captain. I couldn’t help her.” I force my mouth to open. I have no idea what I’m saying or if my words make sense. All I can do is stare at Brooke and wonder how the hell it came to this.

“You need to tell me right now what happened. How were you involved in her death?” Now he really sounds worried. I imagine my silence is leading him to believe that I killed her. Which I suppose I did. Although I didn’t take the knife to her wrists, I certainly played a part in it.

“I just came off the hostage situation we had last night. I stopped at the florist down the block before heading home. When I got here the place was trashed. I found her… she was in the bathtub with both of her wrists cut. I…” My mouth is dry and my throat feels like I swallowed a bucket of sand. I finally force myself to grit out, “I think she killed herself.”

I vaguely hear Duane tell me to sit tight while he makes some calls. He assures me he’ll be here as soon as he can. I hang up the phone and sit on the bathroom floor, holding Brooke and rocking her cold, lifeless body back and forth.

And then I cry. I cry for her and her broken spirit. I cry for our unborn child. I cry because I couldn’t help her. I cry because I couldn’t be what she wanted. But mostly I cry because this is all my fault.

Duane and several of our fellow officers arrive shortly after, along with the paramedics. When they take her from me, I feel hollow. Like I’m a shell of a man.

The coroner declares her dead at the scene, while I sit on the edge of the bed and answer questions. I can see the sadness and pity in everyone’s eyes. They take the suicide note into evidence, offering to let me read it before they do. I don’t have the strength to see what it says. I don’t know if I ever will.

I walk into the kitchen, after the paramedics transport Brooke’s body to the hospital and everyone finally leaves, so I can pour myself a glass of bourbon. I knock it back and welcome the burn that accompanies it.

I need to call Brooke’s parents, and I need to call Emma. I’m just not ready to do it.

I fill my glass again and go to knock it back, when the door opens and Brad comes in looking worried.

“What the fuck?” He asks when he sees I’m covered in blood. “Jacob, man. What the hell happened? Why were there a ton of officers here and why are you covered in blood?”

“Brooke’s gone. I found her in the bathtub…” I choke on the words. Deciding not to finish, I pick up the glass and down its contents.

“Holy, fucking shit! I’m so sorry, dude. You need to get out of these clothes so we can take care of things.” I can always count on Brad to be the voice of reason and to help me stay focused on next steps. Problem is, I’m emotionally and mentally drained and not even close to being ready to take care of anything. I don’t want help right now. I want to drown myself in this glass of bourbon and then pass out for days.

The fact that all of this is beyond my control has me snapping.

“Easy for you to say!
You
didn’t come home to find your fiancée dead and
your
bathtub isn’t covered in blood asshole!” I shout in his face. It feels good to yell. What I’d really like to do, though, is hit something. Repeatedly.