One to Take (Stuart & Mariska): Sexy Cowboy (One to Hold Book 8) (12 page)

He exhales deeply, leaning back. “She’s coming home. She’s asking for you.”

More pain twists in my chest. “As if she needs me.” My voice is ragged. “As if I didn’t take everything from her.”

“You’re working on it.” Brown eyes level on mine, and for the first time, I detect a slight edge in his voice.

Confused, I meet his gaze. “It’s not a work in progress. I’ve done a damn good job.” Pushing all the way up, I go to the window and look out at the miles of empty grassland. I wonder how long this torment will rage in my chest. “Everyone was right. I’m just like him. I’ll only break her down, make her unhappy…”

“I don’t know what kind of lies you’ve been out here telling yourself, but you’re not your father. The choices you make right now are your choices, not his.”

A small echo seems to resonate in the cabin behind his words. I feel his eyes on me, but I don’t turn. I search for a point far on the horizon as I think about what he just said.

Clearing my throat, I answer. “I have to let her go. She needs someone more like her.”

He pushes off the couch and walks to where I’m standing. “How about you let Mariska decide what she needs.” He pauses, and the warmth of his hand is on my shoulder. “Your sister planned a memorial service. Get yourself cleaned up and come to the house.”

Going to the door, he pauses to look back at me, but I don’t turn. I don’t believe he’s right, but I will go back to say goodbye.

I
t’s evening
when we gather for the memorial service. Amy found a secluded location on a hill not far from the house. A cluster of young trees provides shade over a small thicket, and a spray of happy yellow flowers mixes with bluebonnets in the tall grass.

The hospital sent me a certificate stating how she died. I don’t want to look at it, so I tuck the envelope into my suitcase. The doctor released me to return to Bayville on the condition I would see a doctor there. I agreed, although I doubt I will. I’ve reached a point where I don’t care. It doesn’t matter anymore.

I watch as Amy sets a bouquet of purple flowers in front of a small white cross that stands near a mound of dirt where we buried a small box containing the yarn we used to measure my waist and the Polaroid. The only thing I kept were the ultrasound pictures and my wish for her to find her true love and live happily ever after.

“It’s the best I could get on short notice, but I ordered something more official,” she says, backing up to stand beside me. “A headstone with her name engraved on it and the year.”

“It’s very good,” I say, looking at the cross and the tiny mound of dirt beside it. She was so tiny.

Amy and I hold hands as we gaze down on her memorial. Bill stands across from us with his arm around Sylvia, who touches her eyes with a cloth handkerchief.

“Lord, in your infinite wisdom, you know the beginning from the end,” he starts, and we all bow our heads. My eyes close, but I’m far from here. “I pray that in this time, you will be near us as we mourn, weep, perhaps even harbor bitterness. I pray you will bless us with hope for the future. Help us to know that in our deepest sadness, you are comfort. You are hope. Amen.”

We’re all quiet, and Sylvia steps forward to put a bunch of small roses on the little grave.

“There he is,” Bill says. He’s smiling warmly, and his eyes are focused behind me.

I turn, and a flash of pain steals my breath as my eyes connect with the ones I’ve been longing to see. Stuart wears jeans and an untucked long-sleeved shirt. Scruff covers his jaw and dark shadows are under his eyes. Instead of joining us, he stays away, down beside a tree. A bouquet of yellow daisies is in his hand.

I have to look away. I can’t bear to analyze his expression or try to understand what he’s feeling. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since we lost everything.

As if on cue, Bill touches Sylvia’s hand, and they approach me. Sylvia gives my arm a squeeze, and they continue on in the direction of the house. Amy wraps her arm over my shoulder and gives me a hug.

“Take your time,” she says quietly before releasing me and following her mother and uncle.

We’re alone, but I won’t look at him. The nonstop breeze pushes tendrils of my hair around my shoulders. I’m wearing a black shift dress that stops at my knees. A flesh-toned bandage covers the crescent-shaped bruise on my upper arm. The hideous bruise on my hip is gradually fading from purple-black and blood red to a nasty yellowish green. The only invisible wound is the one that will never heal, the one on my heart.

Neither of us moves. I study the small mound where my heart was buried along with my childish dreams of a family. At last, I can’t take standing here any longer, wishing for something that isn’t going to happen.

I step forward and place my little bunch of bluebells on Jessica’s grave then I turn and begin walking to the house. I’m at his side when he stops me.

“Wait.” His voice is rough. I stop walking, but I don’t meet his eyes.

Several moments of silence pass, and I’m sure he’s trying to decide what to say. I’m not sure what I want him to say. He doesn’t reach for me, but his eyes are like heat on my skin.

“How are you?” he finally says.

I don’t think I can answer that question without tears, so I only nod.

“I wanted to be there…”

I’m not sure what he means, so I do look at him then. Up close, I see what I couldn’t see from the grave. I see the break in his eyes. I see the emptiness in his face. Even when I met him that day at the gym so long ago when he was struggling against an addiction threatening to overcome him, even then he had a spark of fight in his eyes. Now that spark is gone, and I’m the reason.

Again I only nod. It’s time for me to go. I have to drive into town and catch my flight to Bayville. I linger a moment at his side, wishing for something, a touch, a sign that I’m not alone. A reason to believe we might survive this.

I’m a breath away from the man I once believed I’d build a life with, and we couldn’t be farther apart. He doesn’t move, and with a fortifying inhale, I start walking again. I’m going back to the house then back to my old life.

I’m back on the couch in the cabin, my head is in my hands, and the fifth of Crown is empty at my feet. She left me. I went to the house thinking I’d take my uncle’s advice. I’d try to find the words I’ve been struggling with for a week. I would apologize. I’d tell her I’d do whatever she needed to make it right. If she wanted to try and get pregnant again, we could. I’d do anything to put the gold back in her beautiful eyes.

Instead, I found our room empty. Her engagement ring was on the dresser and the closet was bare except for my things. Opening drawer after drawer, all I found were my jeans, my socks, my grey Henley…

Her message was loud and clear. We were done.

The memorial service gutted me. Watching her cry from afar was like standing in the hospital all over again, seeing her battered body for the first time. I wanted to hold her, but I couldn’t seem to move. I couldn’t take her away from the comfort of the people who had never hurt her, who had never put her in this place of pain and loss.

When she came to me, the distance in her eyes twisted my insides. She stood as if trying to protect herself from me. She wouldn’t even speak to me. She only nodded.

It all wound together into a pain worse than anything I’ve ever experienced. My physical injuries couldn’t compare to this. My withdrawals were closer, but still not like this. This pain is despair and hopelessness and knowing I’ll never find another reason to care as long as I live.

A scuff across the wooden floor, and my uncle enters the cabin. “Didn’t think I’d find you back out here.”

He walks to the small sofa where I’m sitting and leans over, retrieving the empty bottle at my feet and reading the label.

“I remember a time when I thought I could find the answers in a bottle.”

My mind is fuzzy and my insides are gaping wounds, but I manage a bitter laugh. “I’m not looking for answers.”

I’m trying to find an escape. I’m trying to find anything that will dull the burning rubble that’s left of me.

“Hmm,” my uncle grunts, dropping down beside me. “You’re looking for the same thing you thought those prescriptions would bring.”

I bristle at the insinuation. “I was trying to stay in the game. Killing the pain was the only thing keeping me going.”

That addiction was also killing me. I finally saw the light and left the desert. I came here to fight out the withdrawals, and here I found Mariska.

“What happened after we left yesterday?”

“She left.”

“Did you talk to her?” He leans forward to catch my eye, but I’m not in the mood.

“I tried. She didn’t want it.”

“That doesn’t match what I’ve seen of her.”

My head is hazy. I’m drunk, I’m hurting, and I’m angry. I don’t feel like hearing any more of his hippie shit. He wasn’t there to see how she looked at me, the emptiness in her eyes.

“I’ve decided to stay,” I say, changing the subject. “Give me work. I want to work. The harder the better.”

Pushing off the couch he nods. “Sleep it off and head back to the house tomorrow.” He’s at the door when he pauses and looks back. “Stuart?”

Looking up with bleary eyes, I wait.

“I’m not going to subsidize this. You have to get your shit together if you’re staying here.”

Nodding, I lean down to rub my face. “I’m done here.”

I’m surprised to find everything is the same as I left it at my little apartment in Bayville. The front room is buried in a stack of books, and Ganesh, my favorite Indian elephant statue, holds a tray of even more books on his trunk. Silky pillows in jewel tones cover a gold velvet couch. A beaded lamp sits on an end table, and huge sitting pillows are arranged around the coffee table.

Returning to this life I left behind feels comforting, familiar, but the specifics of how it worked before are fuzzy. Picking up my phone, I call the one person I know can help me find my way back.

“Mariska?” My best friend Kenny’s voice reaches through the line like a warm hug, and the old patterns begin to filter into my memory.

“Hey, I’m back at my place.” I try to sound upbeat, and I wonder if I succeed.

“What do you mean you’re back?”

“Um, Stuart and I are taking a break,” I lie. “I’ve moved back to my old apartment.”

“Taking a break?” Her voice goes loud, and I decide to come clean.

“More like we decided to end it.” I’m not sure if that’s true either. It implies a conversation occurred.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” She’s breathless, and I can almost see my best friend’s ice blue eyes blinking wide.

“Of course!” Even I hear the tremble in my voice this time. I clear it away. “It’s not like that. It’s cool. I don’t want to make a big deal about it.” Finally, I’ve arrived at the truth.

She’s quiet a beat. “But it kind of is a big deal.”

Closing my eyes:
Inhale… exhale
. “I was hoping I could get my old job back. What are the chances of that?”

“At the Jungle Gym?” I can’t blame her for sounding skeptical.

“I love that place! And I need a job that’s flexible for school.”

The line is quiet. I know Kenny is trying to work this out. I’ve gone from engaged to the first man I ever loved to acting like our breaking up is no big deal and I want my old life back.

I get it.

Still, I’m not going to encourage any problem solving. My problem is solved. I don’t want to discuss it or dissect it. My insides are far too raw for a post-mortem.

“I think Rook would be happy to give you your old job back,” she says slowly. “All our clients ask about you, and Pete complains daily nobody can make his cinnamon bun smoothie but you.”

Pete
. I haven’t thought about him in more than a year. A personal trainer at the gym, he’s carried a torch for me since the first day he was hired. He’s sweet, incredibly fit, very handsome, and completely unappealing to me. Still, we dated off and on for a year before Stuart came along and blew him out of the water.

“Yeah,” I say, a little less enthusiasm in my voice. “Pete.”

“Just for the record, I don’t believe a word of this shit,” she cuts through my melancholy reverie, “but I love you, and I’ll talk to Rook tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Ken.”

We’re quiet, and I don’t really want to disconnect.

“You okay?” she says softly.

“I will be.”

We end the call, and I put my phone on the table. My suitcase is in the doorway where I left it, and I retrieve it, rolling it to my bedroom. I stop at the small room I converted into an art studio. Lining the walls are figure paintings of Stuart. We’d only just decided I’d move to Princeton before we left for Great Falls, and I hadn’t moved hardly any of my stuff to his plush, penthouse condo yet.

Walking through the room is like visiting a museum of the most beautiful time in my life. Stuart was the first man I ever loved, the first man I ever slept with, and as such, I kind of became a little obsessed with sketching his body. It helped that he has an amazing physique, tall and lean, with lines that would make Michelangelo weep.

I would sit on the floor wrapped in nothing but one of his button-up shirts, sketchpad on my knees frantically drawing and shading him. Stuart naked, facing me, reading a paper. Stuart from behind, naked on the bed. Stuart sitting up in bed, lines along his shoulders, across his abs. Stuart sitting on the balcony in only his jeans, the sun highlighting all the planes of his square jaw.

Stopping in front of that one, I squat, my black sheath dress rising up my thighs. I reach out to trace my finger along his jawline, along his profile, his straight nose, full lips. Closing my eyes, I hiccup an inhale. In my dream, Jessica had his lips, his perfectly straight nose. Her hair hung in long, chestnut waves like mine, but her face was her daddy’s. She even had his eyes.

I push against my knees and leave the room. I go to my suitcase and unzip the top, reaching for the envelope I’d hastily shoved inside. I take it out and without opening it, I put it on the stand in front of that portrait. The pain is winning this time.

In my kitchen, the bottle of wine I picked up at the drugstore waits on the counter. It’s a screw top, very classy. I couldn’t give a shit. Tonight, Cupcake Chardonnay and I are going to get through this pain together, and tomorrow, I’ll gather up all my fragments and keep moving forward.