The Love Series Complete Box Set (95 page)

Crouching down on the lawn, I start ripping and tearing at the overgrown weed garden. After ten minutes, my nails are caked with dirt; sweat is dripping down my face and my shoulders burn both from the sun and the strain. But I’ve made progress and I’m excited to get a few flowers to plant.

After tossing the weeds into the pail, I wipe my dirt-covered hands on my sweats. Lifting my arm to wipe a drop of sweat from my face, I catch a whiff of myself and oh dear Lord do I stink. The girls will all be home in a little bit so I’ve got just enough time to shower in peace before the battle over the bathroom begins. One bathroom. Four girls. That’s never fun.

Before turning to walk back inside, something across the street catches my attention. I should say someone, actually. I don’t know how I missed it before, but that’s Bryan’s car parked in the small dirt lot. Just as my heart lodges in my throat and my stomach crashes down to the floor, Bryan catches sight of me.

Of all freaking days.

By some magnetic force, instead of walking back into the house, I am pulled to him. He must feel it too, because instead of getting in his car and driving away, he crosses the road walks right up the small walkway that leads to where I’m standing.

“Hey,” he says tentatively as he rakes his hand through his hair. It’s grown longer since I’ve seen him last and a few strands fall back into his eyes even after having pushed them away.

“Hi.” My voice is shaky and uneasy. I hate that.

I raise my arm to my head to block the blinding sun that’s beating down on us from behind Bryan, then I remember that I’m a smelly mess. Swiftly dropping my arm to my side, I hope he didn’t just smell that.

“So you moved, huh?” Bryan scans the front of the house and nods in approval. It is a cute place, if I do say so myself.

“Yeah, just last week actually.” Out of nervousness, I wipe my hands on my pants once more. His face is cast in the shadow created by the sun glaring from behind him so I’m forced to squint in order to see him.

“It’s nice,” Bryan states blandly.

“Uh huh.” Oh God, this is going nowhere and fast. This conversation, if you can even call it that, is jilted and awkward. We haven’t talked in three months, but it shouldn’t be this difficult to talk to the person you once loved.

The person you still love, in my case at least.

Needing to fill the void of silence that is threatening to swallow us whole, I say, “So,” as I shrug my shoulders lamely.

He shrugs his. “Well, I should get going.” Just as he turns to move away, I grab for his arm. I forget about my dirty hands and my stinky pits. I need to talk to him. I want to talk to him. I know that I can’t let him get away.

Staring down at my filthy hand wrapped around his tanned forearm, his face takes on a resigned look. I wonder if he feels
it
—that fiery crackle of heat that has existed between us since we first met.

I feel it.

Extending my arm to the small porch, I ask if we can sit and talk. He simply nods and we arrive at the steps in three short strides. Thinking back to just a few weeks ago when I saw him through the window at the lab, I remember wanting to ask him a million questions. But now, sitting here on my front steps, our legs almost touching, my fingers still vibrating from just having touched him, I can’t remember a single one of them.

I opt for the topic that I think will make him the most happy. “How is Emmie? Is she excited about the summer?”

His lips tip up in the corners and his tense shoulders relax as her name comes out of my mouth. “Emmie’s good. She loves the summer. Her birthday was just the other day and she went on and on about her party for days.” Then his lips turn down and then tension is back. Hanging his head low into his hands, he sighs agitatedly.

“What’s wrong, Bryan?” My fingers itch to be laced through his; my hands are almost shaking with the need to rub comforting circles on his back.

“It’s the divorce. That’s all.” The abrupt curtness of his words tells me that things have not been going well.

“I’m here for you.” He lifts his face from his hands and looks at me strangely. “I know we haven’t talked in forever and I know that things didn’t end well, but I can be your friend. We can talk. I hate seeing you like this, Bryan.”

The strange look that was in his eyes morphs into something that looks a lot like longing. “No, we can’t be friends, Melanie. I can’t get over how you didn’t trust me.” He shakes his head and sighs loudly. “You know after we broke up, Courtney came after me again. I still didn’t want anything to do with her. When I said something to her about texting you, she came clean—told me it was an old picture. I think she felt like if she told the truth, she would have a chance of getting back with me. But, I still can’t wrap my head around how
you
couldn’t trust me. I still can’t . . . We can’t be friends.” He stands from the steps and turns to leave.

“Wait!” I call out when he’s at the edge of the lawn.

Walking up to him, I only hope that he’ll accept what I have to say. “I understand if you don’t want to be friends. I just want you to know that I’m here for you if you need me.” He nods and it makes the next words get caught up in my throat. “Just before you go, there’s one thing I need you to know. I never meant to hurt you. I’m so sorry for immediately thinking the worst with the text.” I start nervously fidgeting with the hem of my shirt and stare down at it like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

What looks like anger and sadness swirl together across his face. He simply says, “Yeah, I’m sorry too,” before tipping his head to the approaching mailman. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I mumble but quickly realize that he’s already too far to even hear me. All apologies about what I didn’t do are lost to his retreating back.

“Here you go,” the cheerful mailman says as he hands me a large padded envelope and a few flyers.

“Thanks.” When I’m at the door, I turn back to look in Bella’s parking lot and see Bryan in his car staring at me from across the street. When he sees me looking at him, he coolly slides on his sunglasses and pulls out of the lot.

And out of my life.

I didn’t get the chance to tell him the things I wanted to say. He deserves to know about Tyler and what didn’t happen. I want him to know about my new perspective on life. I think he’d be proud of me for all of my changes. As the dust of his departing car settles, I wonder if I’ll ever have the chance to say those things to him.

After a much-needed shower, the girls pull up with some Chinese take-out and a box; yes I said a box, of wine. Jack left today, and based on the puffy redness to Cammie’s eyes, I can tell she needs some girl time. When she puts down her bags, I pull her into a big hug.

“Oh come here, Cam. It’s going to be just fine.” I try to calm her down as I hand her a mug of wine.

Taking a big gulp of it, she says, “Yeah, I know. Just a little sad, I guess.”

“Well, we’re here to distract you for the night,” Lia chimes in as she waves a DVD of
Magic Mike
in front of her.

Snatching the DVD from Lia’s hands, Cammie’s eyes roam all over the case. “Yeah, this’ll do.” A seductive grin plays on her face and we all share a laugh as we make up our plates for our little dinner date with a few shirtless hotties.

“He is so freaking hot,” Peyton calls out as Matt Bomber struts his stuff across the screen.

Gulping down the last of her third, or maybe it’s her fourth glass, Lia shakes her head wildly. “Oh no! Him. He’s the one I’d do.” Pointing at Channing Tatum, Lia looks like she needs to wipe the drool from her chin.

“What about you, Cammie? Who’s your hottie tonight?” I elbow her in the ribs, literally prodding her to have some kind of reaction to the girls’ night that we planned all for her.

She takes a sip of her wine and shrugs he shoulders. No response. “Come on, Cammie. Given the chance, who would you spend one hot night with?” Cammie flushes red at Lia’s little quiz.

“None of them.” Wow, she’s in full-on pout mood. I suddenly realize what it must have been like to live with me back when Bryan and I broke up.

Determined to lighten her mood, I pause the movie as Alex Pettyfer’s abs ripple on screen. “Not even him, Cammie. Look at him! His abs have abs. That man is a God. You’re telling me you would kick him out of bed?”

With her lips up against the rim of her mug-o-wine, she mumbles, “Fine. No. I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.” When we all whistle cat calls and rip with laughter, Cammie rolls her eyes but eventually gives into the laughter as well.

After my third glass of wine and some quality time with the girls, I decide to turn in and get some sleep. I walk past my desk and pick up the envelope I got in the mail today. It’s from Mom, but even through the padding, I can tell that it’s a spiral notebook.

Sitting on my bed, I tear through the paper and pull out the notebook. There’s a letter taped to the front of it across which is my name scrolled in my mom’s handwriting. I absentmindedly trace my fingertip along the curved lines of my name and instantly miss Mom. She’ll be here this weekend, but after seeing Bryan today, I could use some comfort.

I open the envelope and pull out the letter.

Dear Melanie,

I was going through the attic the other day and came across this notebook. I know that he would have wanted you to have it. Please know that I love you more than the sky. He did too.

Love,

Mom (and Dad too).

With shaky hands, I drop the letter and run my fingers along the faded blue cardboard cover of the notebook. This belonged to my dad. He actually touched the same spot that I’m touching right now. Gently opening the tattered cover, I see his words scribbled on the lines of the paper and tears spring to my eyes. Thumbing through the pages, I see a few dozen entries and they all seem relatively short.

March 1995

Your mom told me about you today. I’ll never forget how she looked and how happy her words made me. I just wanted to let you know that today was the first day you became a part of my life and I’m very excited for the day that I’ll be able to hold you in my arms.

Tears stream down my cheeks, and no matter how quickly I try to brush them away, they’re immediately replaced by new ones. My dad wrote this book to me. He didn’t even know me, but he wrote these letters to me because he wanted to let me know how much he loved me.

I read through more of them, but one in particular catches my attention and makes me smile through the tears. By my quick calculation, my mom would have been just about half way through her pregnancy at this point.

May 15, 1995

I felt you kick today. It was kind of weird and creepy, but it was also the most exciting experience of my life to date. Your mom and I were just watching a movie in bed. She grabbed my hand and placed it on her stomach. It wasn’t at all what expected—a small bubble of movement at best. But, from that one little kick, I caught a glimpse of your tiny fingers wrapped around one of mine, of your little feet poking out of a blanket. Today, you felt real to me and I just knew I had to share that with you.

The next letter that I stop at has a sonogram picture taped to the top. It’s a profile shot and I trace over the curve of my tiny nose.

June 1995

We found out that you’re a girl today. A girl. Your mom started crying right away. I was . . . well, I was just scared. I want to protect you from everything. From scratched knees, to failed tests, to broken hearts. But what if I fail? What if you get hurt because I couldn’t do my job? I just hope you know that no matter how many times we fight over curfew or sleepovers or whatever things dads and daughters fight about, just know that I’m fighting with you because I love you.

That last entry makes me laugh through the tears. Now I know where I got that pesky need for perfection from. I flip through the journal and read about how he set up my nursery and helped Linda surprise Mom with a baby shower. It’s weird how I’ve never known him, but through his words, simple strokes on a piece of paper, I feel like he’s right here in the room with me. When I get to the last entry, the tears return. He wrote it the night before he died.

September 29, 1995

Dear Melanie,

Your mom and I have been discussing names lately. So if one day down the line when you’re reading this and your name is Jessica or something like that, just know that I lost the battle. But on some off chance that your mom decides in my favor, I hope that I’ve addressed this to the right person.