| |
CILLA WENT TO BED THINKING of Cary, of his hands and of his heart. The way he’d rubbed at the ink stain on his thumb. The lengths he’d gone to to rescue the cat who had saved him. How he had saved her so many years ago... something she was only now in a place to understand. His kindnesses had changed everything for them both.
He had paid a huge personal price because of her.
She had done nothing for him. The truth ate at her.
Turning from her back to her side, she plumped her pillow then stared at the strip of light shining under the door. It wasn’t enough to see by, just enough to use to make her way out of the room—which she was going to need to do soon. Again. Her bladder would never be the same. She was so ready for her daughter to be born.
She thought about Cary lying in this bed as a child, seeing the same light. Was this the mattress he’d slept on? Was this the bedspread he’d used? Learning what she had about his life here, she couldn’t imagine his parents replacing either after he left. And he didn’t use the room so there’d been no reason to make the change when he’d returned.
She was surprised he hadn’t gutted the room to get rid of the memories. As desperate as she’d been to escape, it would’ve been the first thing she’d done—except that wasn’t true, was it? She would’ve lived in a homeless shelter before returning to her family’s home—though her parents had moved to Las Vegas and sold it years ago. But that was her.
And she was coming to realize how differently she and Cary had dealt with their very similar damage.
She was the one who’d pushed her past from her mind when leaving home, who hadn’t learned anything from those early years, who’d lived up to the hoary cliché and chosen a man like her father—though at least she hadn’t married him.
Oh, they’d made plans. The wedding. The reception. The honeymoon. The renovated Brooklyn brownstone where they would raise their family. Down the road. When it was time. But not now. Her pregnancy had been a thoughtless inconvenience.
Her fault, of course. Ken wasn’t ready and really, the more he thought about it? He wasn’t sure he wanted kids. Their life was too perfect. They could pick up and go anywhere on a whim. They didn’t have to haul kids with them or arrange for childcare. They didn’t even have to arrange care for pets. Life was so much easier without.
Cilla had to give it to him. He knew what he wanted. A selfish life. His life lived his way, shared with no one who didn’t want to come along for his ride. He’d swept her off her feet. He’d whisked her away. And she’d let him. Forgetting her craft-shop dream because he’d promised her the world. Not until the newness and excitement been replaced by the day-to-day had she been forced to admit she’d made a mistake.
The laughter she’d so loved was the same she’d lived with at home.
Laughter fueled by excessive alcohol over things not the least bit funny.
That wasn’t the life she wanted. For herself. For her child. What she wanted was, well, everything that Cary offered. His decency. His awareness. His presence in the moment. He was smart and capable, good and kind. When he made her laugh, it was authentic. Cary was true. And real. And until seeing him again, she hadn’t been aware of how closely tucked to her heart she’d kept his memory. The thought had her hugging the spare pillow, trembling with a flood of rich and unexpected emotion.
She thought about his hands again, having him find her scars. She thought about his heart again, how he’d put her first when he’d picked up her razor. How, when two teachers had seen him with it, he hadn’t argued that it wasn’t his, or denied being in possession of a weapon on campus. He’d accepted his fate. He’d been punished for her crimes. And she hadn’t said a word, too ashamed of being discovered.
What in the world was wrong with her? Why had she let all these years pass without making things right? She wasn’t any better than her ex, living her own selfish life. Making no attempt after Cary’s expulsion to check on him, to talk to him.
To thank him.
Throwing back the covers, she eased her legs over the side of the bed and levered her body up. It was probably hormones, but she needed to see him. To apologize. To dig up the past they’d been skirting around and flay it open for the autopsy it deserved.
Only then could they bury it properly and move on, understanding.
Definitely hormones, she mused. And ridiculously dramatic ones at that.
The stairs creaked as she descended. If he hadn’t still been awake, no doubt he was now, what with the toilet flushing, the water running, and the old wood having its say.
Still, she hesitated before she knocked on his door, her stomach a mess of nerves. This was what she wanted. It didn’t make it less hard. Or stop her hands from shaking.
“Cary?” She spoke softly, twining her fingers together.
“Yeah?” His response was immediate.
“Do you mind if I come in? Just for a minute?”
“Sure,” he said, reaching for the lamp on his bedside table as she opened the door. He wore a white T-shirt. His stubble shadowed his cheeks. His hair fell in disheveled chunks and her fingers itched to comb through it, to smooth it, to mess it up again.
“No.” She waved a hand before he pulled the chain. “Leave it off. There’s enough light coming in through the window.”
“What’s going on?” He rolled up to sit. “You okay? The baby?”
“I’m fine. The baby’s fine.” She crossed the room and perched on the edge of his bed, leaning more than sitting, not sure where to begin. In the end, she rushed out with something else she’d been thinking about. “Could we get a Christmas tree tomorrow?”
A smile crept into his eyes. “If you’d like.”
“I would.” Why did he have to look at her like that? As if he was happy to see her. As if he’d do anything for her. As if she meant as much to him as he did to her. She swallowed, searching for her voice. “But only if it’s not an imposition.”
“It’s not.”
“Thanks.” C’mon, Cilla. Spit it out. “That’s all I guess.”
The words hung in the air, an usher showing her the door, but she made no move to leave him. Instead, she searched for something else, something she could turn into a confession, an admission of guilt, an apology. A something that might get Cary talking, to start a conversation she could use. She loved listening to him, learning all the things she didn’t know. Things she’d caused to happen to him. And that was the worst.
Knowing that she was to blame.
“Good night again,” she finally said. She had to go. Damp emotion welled in her eyes, clutched in her chest, an unfamiliar pang, and weakened her. She feared getting to her feet, a stupid sensation because she was perfectly strong.
Just not strong enough in this moment for what she needed to do.
She curled her hands over the mattress at her hips to push herself up, but Cary stopped her, reaching out and wrapping his fingers around her wrist.
“Stay.”
That single husky word had her skin prickling as if dusted with evergreen needles, or sugar in the colors of Christmas. “In your room?”
Her voice was breathless, Cary’s equally so when he said, “In my bed. To sleep. Nothing more. Just... sleep.”
Because she couldn’t speak, her throat strangled by ribbons of wonder, she nodded, and he moved to the side to make room. She climbed in next to him, a lumbering, bulky, graceless form, settling into sheets still holding his warmth. Eyes closed, she faced away, smelling his clean scent on the pillowcase.
He curled around her, his chest to her back, his knees in the bend of hers. “If this makes you uncomfortable, I’ll scoot over.”
“No.” It was all she could do not to grab for him. So silly: needing him, wanting him, unable in this moment to be on her own. But she was. And no one but Cary would do.
They remained unmoving and silent for several minutes absorbing one another’s body heat, learning how they fit, their breathing settling into the same rhythm. Cary rested his hand on her hip tentatively. She reached down and slid hers beneath, twining their fingers together and curling them into her palm possessively.
His heart thudded against her back; she wanted so badly to press his hand to her chest to feel the beat of hers but she didn’t. That intimacy would have to wait until she’d dealt with the turmoil consuming her. “Something changed that day you picked up my razor blade. Something between us. What I saw in your eyes... It scared me.”
He shifted behind her, adjusting the comforter, moving his pillow. He rubbed his socks against hers. “Yeah. I’ve never been able to shake it. The way you looked at me.”
They were a pair, weren’t they? Dread rippled through her and she shuddered. “Nobody knew, Cary. Having you find out...” She closed her eyes. “I was so ashamed.”
He took a deep breath, stirring her hair when he exhaled. “Because of the discovery? Of you cutting yourself? Or because it was me?”
“Both.” Honesty time, Cilla. “But mostly because it was you.” There. She’d said it. So why was she a quivering mess inside? “We barely knew each other. We rarely spoke. I’m not even sure we were friends—”
“We weren’t.”
She wanted the truth but still, it jolted and she stiffened. “So why did you do it?”
Cary shrugged; she felt the movement against her shoulder. “It was a gut reaction.”
“Because it was dangerous? Or because it was mine?”
“Because it was yours.”
He hadn’t even hesitated.
“So you wouldn’t have picked it up if Robin Carter or Katey Nix had dropped their purse?”
In answer, he tucked himself closer to her body.
“Why me?” she asked, hoping his answer would help her understand her attachment to him.
“Curiosity?” Another shrug. “Wondering how the other half lived?”
No. She wasn’t buying it. It had to be more. “That seems so... shallow. Not to say we were particularly deep in those days. It’s just... I can’t define it.”
“Kindred spirits, then,” he offered, the concept sounding strangely... right, comfortably so. “Somehow I knew the laughter in your house wasn’t a fun family evening. And you knew... I don’t know.” He took a deep breath and she waited. “Maybe I needed to feel as if I mattered. And helping you out did that for me.”
Tears seeped from her eyes, dampening her lashes and his pillow. The idea of his feeling as if he didn’t matter was like a knife slicing into her heart. “Is that true?”
“It’s either that or...”
“Or?” She waited for what seemed like forever. And then she waited more.
He swallowed and cleared his throat and still his voice cracked when finally he said, “Chemistry.”
Something tingled deep in her center. It blossomed there. It grew, reaching up with arms outstretched and fingers spread wide and seeking.
That thing... It was hope. Glorious, glorious hope. “Would chemistry be such a bad thing?”
He chuckled into the hair at her nape. “You asked me the other day if I’d ever been in love.”
“You said no.” Again she waited, anxious and trembling.
“I lied.”