Chapter 27
Noah
Grief is weird. It’s a combination of sadness strangled by guilt. Guilt I wasn’t there when my mom died.
When we first got her diagnosis, I was optimistic she could fight lung cancer.
She was fairly young and healthy. After the failed chemotherapy and the doctors moved more toward making her comfortable, I was still optimistic that I would be there with her.
That we’d have specific signs her time was coming to an end, and I could be prepared.
I knew I’d be there in those final moments.
I wasn’t.
I’m not sure if it was the distraction of Lily the past few months, or maybe the joy Lily brought my mom that masked her truly deteriorating condition, but I didn’t see it. When Lily called … shocked and devastated is an understatement. Even though on paper I knew it was coming.
Max whines at the sliding glass door, and I let him out, only to watch him bolt down the porch steps and to the pasture fencing, attention on the new foal hiding behind his mom.
I unfold a sheet and snap it the air, watching it float down over the living room loveseat.
It’s been two weeks since the funeral, and every time I come over to my mom’s house, I don’t get much accomplished.
And Lily … evidence of her in this house has been scant. Her bed is always made, barely any food in the fridge, and I’m not sure she’s around much. She isn’t around much at all.
It’s my fault. I’m a mess. I scared her away. I wasn’t thinking clearly that day.
The grief was too much.
I made her feel like the problem, and that couldn’t be further from the truth.
Then what did I do? I decided I needed her, and all I could do was reach for her. To know she was there, and I wasn’t alone. It wasn’t gentle. I wasn’t gentle. I didn’t mean to be rough, but the anger and pain in my chest bled into that line of lust and what came out was … something else entirely.
That isn’t me, is it? I’m not a brute dominating and demanding, yet the way she moaned—those breathy sounds she made when her backside was pressed into me—they shredded what little control I had left.
She let me. She liked it. But I should’ve slowed down, should’ve seen her instead of burying myself in her, because it wasn’t just about wanting her.
It was about not wanting to feel anything else, either.
Now, I can’t stop thinking I made her feel like she was an escape.
The thing is, she holds me together. There’s a steadiness to Lily, one that—when I think back to the first moment I met her—wasn’t there. I know Lily has put in the work, but I also like to think I had something to do with it as well—the friendship and connection we’ve fostered.
If my mother was here, she’d tell me to stop questioning and to break every rule in the book for Lily.
I went to the diner the other day, though I stayed in my truck across the street.
I watched her through the front windows floating around the diner refilling fountain drinks and taking orders.
Pretty sure I freaked her out. She kept glancing at me with a nervous smile, probably wondering if I was going to snap or something.
We haven’t talked enough, and it crushes me.
No breaks. Full weekends. Just the steady grind of workdays that bleed into each other over the last couple of weeks.
Max does better when he’s working, so I’ve done my best to maintain my work schedule, but today I had to meet with the estate lawyer to talk about the plan going forward with the house.
As expected, the house has been willed to me, and I’m torn with what to do with it. I want to talk to Lily. I need to talk to her. It just seems there’s never the right time.
When would be a good time to tell her I want her to move in with me? Be it at the cabin or if she’s comfortable living here. We could renovate, make it our own.
I’d love to keep the home my mom sacrificed so much to secure for, but I’m not willing to sacrifice Lily for it. She wouldn’t want me to.
I sigh, flicking out another sheet to cover my mom’s worn recliner.
I smile, thinking of her and Lily in here yelling the Jeopardy!
answers at the TV. Most nights after dinner, instead of cleaning up right away, Lily would go watch a game show with my mom and they’d complain the whole time.
At first, I was shocked how they egged each other on, but I’d come to appreciate the heckling and the life they brought to this house.
I pause, realizing the memories flooding my mind today are all ones we’ve had in the past few months.
All of them with Lily.
Life didn’t truly start until she wandered into mine.
She’s my future, and I’ve done a horrible job conveying that over the past few weeks.
I could make excuses, pretend I’ve been a worthy partner, but the truth is, I failed in helping my mother, and I’m terrified of failing Lily. Will I fail with her? Have I already?
Max whines at the sliding door, and I ditch the other sheet in my hand in favor of letting him in. He bolts in, and I rub his back the way he likes it, aggressive and rough. Truly a Malinois.
I have a few more items on my agenda while at the house, though. Clean out the old china in the upper cabinets, finish covering the furniture we don’t use while here, and if I have time, perhaps make it back into the garage to start that massive undertaking.
Before I head to the kitchen, I pull out my phone, checking my messages for any from Lily. When I don’t see a message from her, I fire one off.
Thinking of you. How is work? Debating another sandwich and fries. Why do you have to be so addicting?
Flirting with Lily is on a temporary pause, and every time I try, she shuts me down. I’m worried she’s pulling away. Or maybe she thinks I’m using it as a deflection from grieving.
But I’m not.
I need to explain my terrible behavior. Tell her I’m disappointed in myself, not her.
Pounding on the door makes me freeze halfway toward the first cabinet, and I detour to open it. It’s nearly impossible, but the hope it could be Lily—I desperately want to see her. Explain to her.
Though, as I slide on socked feet to reach for the door handle, I realize two things: she wouldn’t knock, and the shadow standing on the other side of the glass pane in the door is too tall to be hers.
It’s too late. My hand has already twisted the handle to reveal a sweat-soaked Brent wringing his hands in front of his body.
He shakes and wipes at his forehead with the back of his hand.
I step forward, pulling the door so it’s cracked behind me. “What the hell?” I bark.
“Noah, man, sorry about your mom.” He says it and his teeth chatter, except it’s not that cold today.
“Thanks,” I say, but really, I want to grab him by the throat and toss him off the porch. Why is he bothering me at such an awful time?
“Boss thought you may want to reconsider things, now that taking care of your mom isn’t a factor.” He tucks both hands into his tattered coat pocket—the boss can’t take care of his men, clearly.
My nostrils flare. “I don’t.”
“Look, man, I’m not supposed to leave here until you’re willing.”
Max growls from behind the door and noses it. I pull it shut, then step farther into him on the porch.
Brent hisses.
“It’s not just for my mom, Brent. I’m not working for thugs. I’m not breaking the law. I have people that depend on me to be here. It’s not worth it.”
“Your chick? From what I’ve seen she’s been pretty busy this week and not making time for you. There’s money in it, man. You could be set for life.”
He prattles on, naming benefit after benefit, but I tune him out. There will never be a time I put myself in a position to prove to Lily law enforcement is pathetic. She’s been let down before.
“It’s not happening. Tell Raven to come see me himself if he has a problem with the information you relay.”
“Raven doesn’t cater to people.” He shakes. “Kinda poetic, though.”
“What?”
“You calling him by his street name when your girl calls him by his given.” He backs up, leading a leg down one of the steps, then he slaps his thigh, letting out a howling laugh.
My expression doesn’t change, but something shifts—a flicker in his eyes, a shadow. Is he toying with me?
“You’re high, as always. Tell your boss I’m not interested.”
He holds up both hands in typical Brent fashion, a mock surrender, and he smirks. Walking backward down the stone pathway, he says, “I’ll let Bran know.”
A thick stretch of silence suffocates the space between us as the name sits heavy on my tongue. “Bran …” I turn it over in my mind, and as a punctuation mark to the sick cruelty, a lone raven calls against the humid air. It itches the back of my brain, and then it clicks.
Miss me? Bran is here. He’s Raven, and he’s the one who got to Lily’s notebook.
No.
I rush him, bounding off the porch. The last step groans with a sharp crack as I leap off it. In three long strides and with a ragged snarl, I plow into him. Fist clenched and muscles wound tight with rage, I rear back and send a punch across his face.
With a bone-crunching snap against his jaw, his head flings back and to the side. Brent stumbles, ankle twisting off one of the stone pavers, but he recovers and surges forward with a swing of his own.
My training kicks in and our bodies collide in a chaotic mess of limbs. The tall grass swishes under his boots, and I wince when my shoeless feet meet the random pebbles of gravel lost in the weeds around the stone walkway.
He throws a punch into my ribs, and it lands with a full, meaty thud. I drive forward, letting out a grunt, then slam him to the ground. “You knew. You knew this whole damn time!”
We hit the grass hard, and tumble down the slope of the hill, my back scraping against the stones.
My fists fly between curses, and I jam my knee into his ribs.
His hands grip the fabric of my pullover, shoving, yanking, and wrestling for leverage.
Finally, desperate, he jabs a sharp elbow and clips my cheekbone.