Chapter 18 Lucas
lucas
Today is Wednesday, meaning it’s book club night, and after much convincing from Lettie, we step through the doors of Greyson and Hannah’s house, it’s homey and lived in.
Currently decorated to the nines for Thanksgiving, no doubt the work of Amy Wilder, the woman is a decorating wizard.
It also smells like heaven, cinnamon, and something citrusy.
A high-pitched, “Monroe!” Is the only warning I get before I’m body checked by a five-foot something blonde woman.
I wrap my arms around Abby’s waist, lifting her from the floor as I swing her wildly from side to side. “Hey, Abs,” I whisper, trying my hardest to keep my voice steady. I hear a sharp inhale from my right, and when I turn, I see Hannah with her hand over her mouth, tears forming in her eyes.
I don’t even think before I open my arms to her, too.
She runs and jumps, and I now have two of the three women who mean the world to me in my arms. It’s about enough to bring me to my knees.
I’ve ignored everyone but Lettie since the funeral, and that’s only because she’s strong armed her way into my house more times than I can count.
“Hey, Hannah Banana.” I squeeze them both a little tighter before the clearing of a throat has me turning all three of us to see both Wilder brothers.
Tatum, with his arms crossed and his trademark scowl, and Greyson with a shit eating grin plastered on his face.
How these two are related, I will never know.
I drop the girls as I walk toward the two of them, as the rest of my teammates slowly gather in the living room.
“It’s nice to see you, man,” Wilder says as he pulls me in for a hug.
The familiarity pulls at my heart. This is how it should be.
So why can’t I pick up the phone and phone a friend other than Lettie when the weight of everything gets too heavy for me to carry alone?
“Hey, Scarlett,” Hannah says, throwing her arms around her next. “I don’t know if you’ve gotten a chance to meet Greyson’s brother, but this is Tate.”
Lettie waves, and Tate gives her a quick nod before turning away. “That’s not unusual, don’t take it personally.” Abby tacks on before she follows after him. Interesting.
We follow Hannah and Wilder into the living room, and while they all sit in their normal spots, all I want right now is the comfort of my girl.
Well, I see her that way at least. We haven’t really talked about it.
Taking her hand, I drag her over to the recliner in the corner, pulling her down with me.
She settles across my lap, legs thrown over the arm of the chair, her head resting against my shoulder. “Thank you,” I whisper.
She grabs my hand, lacing our fingers together before crossing my arm over her stomach. “I’ve got you, Goldie.”
I blink at her once, waiting for the doubt to creep in, but it doesn’t. Instead, it’s like something in me shifted, and I’m suddenly hyperaware of everyone else.
In a room full of people, ones I consider family, their laughter almost feels too loud.
The little nuances I normally wouldn’t pick up are front and center.
Like the way Reed turns his body toward Sammy when he brings up Cecilia.
Or when someone brings up a stalker romance, Wilson flinches.
The way Hannah’s snapping a hair tie against her wrist, her nervous tell.
It’s overwhelming, like an out of body experience. I’m here, but not here.
“Lettie,” I quietly croak.
Her head snaps back, and she must see the panic in my eyes because she immediately puts her hand over my chest, acting as the tether keeping me from floating away, “Breathe with me,” she whispers.
And I do. One. She nods. Two. She smiles.
Three. My heart rate slows. Four. I smile back.
Five. And then the voices around the room rush back in.
No one else seems to have noticed my struggle, and while I don’t think they should all be focused on me, it stings.
They don’t know me the way she does. My friends get the version of me that she spent years unknowingly building.
They’ve never truly seen the broken pieces of me, the parts of me I’ve hidden from the light.
I didn’t let them see, afraid to be a burden to anyone else, afraid that the pathetic kid who cried himself to sleep, lying hungry outside his mom’s bedroom door, would get left behind again.
“Monroe, did you read any of this, or do you want the Cliffnotes?” Hannah asks, flipping through the pages of a book with a black-and-white cover. I haven’t picked up a book since we finished Second Chance Ranchers.
“I haven’t read any of it,” Lettie cuts in, my saving grace as always. “Fill me in?” She squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back twice. Our silent way of saying thank you, one we made up when I was ten. It was the first summer I realized I liked her a lot more than I liked anyone else.
They just started reading a book called Will She Choose, apparently it’s a love triangle.
The girl, Callie, is pregnant with one of their babies.
One is a jerk, but also not. Then there’s the guy who was her best friend growing up, but now he’s all man and a cop.
Which, according to my sources, is a lethal combination.
The girls jump into their usual routine of reading the different characters' lines, but I can’t focus.
My head is spinning, I’m itching for a drink, just so I can stop thinking for half a second.
I feel like an outsider, even though I know nothing has changed for them.
My mind doesn’t want to cooperate, though.
In the jacked-up confines of my brain, I don’t belong here.
I’m not worthy of being here. The proof is buried in the dirt.
My gaze locks on the bottles lined up on the kitchen island. Amber glass under soft light. One drink could make the noise stop. Just for a little while.
“You don’t need it.” Lettie’s voice cuts through the haze. My guiding light, calling me out of the darkness.
“I know.”
She cuddles in closer, pulling her feet into my lap and tipping her head back. “You know, I could really go for a grilled cheese right about now…”
My head tilts until my forehead is resting on hers, “I’ll make you as many grilled cheeses as you want. Just don’t give up on me. Not yet.”
“Not ever, Lucas.”
The night fades around us, words float by, but I can't hold onto a single one of them. I exist in fragments, part of me here, part of me at the ranch, and part of me buried six feet under with a woman I never got the chance to forgive.
We say our goodbyes on autopilot, promising everyone I’ll be back at the rink next week. Lettie’s hand sits warm in my own. It fits so perfectly, it’s as if she were made to slide into the pieces of me I deem unlovable.
The sound of my tires on the asphalt is the only soundtrack playing right now. The low rumble is oddly soothing as we leave the city and head for the ranch. “Will you come to family night with me?” I break the silence.
Her head turns to me, a shy smile playing on her lips as she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “Lily already asked me to come. I meant to ask you, but things got a bit crazy.”
Crazy sure is one word for it.
The thought should make me happy that Lily has taken to her.
But it doesn’t. Not right now. Right now, it feels like I’m losing someone else, but this someone just so happens to be a nine-year-old who stole my heart two years ago at the charity carnival Hannah put together.
She’s been instrumental in helping me heal my own inner child, though now, you can’t really tell I’ve done any work in that department.
“Oh, okay.” I take my hand from hers, anxiously drumming my fingers against the steering wheel.
She turns in her seat so that her knees are tucked underneath her, “Is that not okay?”
I point to the buckle that’s not over her hips at this point, “I don’t think that’s safe. Can you sit right, please?”
“Lucas, I’m fine. What’s the problem?” But she’s not fine.
If we get hit, she could be thrown from the car.
She could go through the windshield, and if I try to save her, which I would, I could get hurt too.
One of us could die, or maybe both. But regardless, we could end up like my parents.
The thought has me pulling off to the side of the road, arms crossing over the steering wheel as I suck in air as fast as I can.
“Goldie, what’s going on?”
“Your seatbelt, Lettie.” My voice rough, as if it’s spent the day being sandblasted, only getting rougher when I say, “If we got hit, it’d do nothing to hold you back. I’d lose you like I lost my dad.”
She freezes, the buckle partly over her lap. “Shit.”
Her hands land on my face, soft and trembling against the scruff of my beard. And I break, because it’s not about the seatbelt, or a crash, or even the bottle I so desperately wanted to reach for all night. It’s the ghosts in the back seat whispering, you weren’t enough to save us.
“I can’t do this, Lettie,” I rasp. “I need a drink. I need my brain to turn off. I need to not feel.”
The familiar, viscous pull toward the one thing I’ve been thinking about all night. The one that quiets the noise, the confusion. My fingers twitch over the steering wheel, and blood rushes through my ears like a roaring wave. It would be so easy. One sip and I’d be on my way to blissful silence.
The thought makes bile rise in my throat because damn it, I don’t want to want it.
“No,” she says, voice barely a breath but solid nonetheless.
Her thumb continues to brush against my cheekbones, my head cradled in her hands. The gentle strokes calm my fears in a way that shocks me. I let my eyes slowly fall closed, because looking at her feels like admitting failure.
“You don’t.” She whispers. “You're stronger than this. I can drive if you need me to, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t even think about that.”
She kisses me softly, patiently, like she’s trying to breathe steadiness back into me.
When she pulls back, her forehead rests softly against mine.
“Let’s go home,” She says, swiping at my cheeks one more time.
“We can eat grilled cheese until our stomachs hurt, then watch a movie while we fall asleep. I won’t leave.
I can talk all night if that’s what you need. ”
My throat tightens, the fight in me writhing.
Part of me still wants the drink, the numbness.
But the other, quieter part of me wants this.
Her. Wants not to disappear into the darkness again.
I promised I’d tell her. I promised I’d let her help.
And I may be a broken man, but I’m not a liar. I don’t break my promises.
“But you don’t need a drink.” She continues. “You need to feel, to acknowledge it, and to move through it. Where you go, I go.”
Damn it. She’s right. It takes me a long, jagged inhale before I can get the words out. Before my mind can decide which part of me wins out. “Yeah, where you go, I go.”
Her smile is bright enough to push the shadows back a bit. Allowing me a moment of clarity, letting me call on the strength she exudes.
“Then take me home, hockey star.”
I nod, pulling my Jeep back onto the road, hands tight on the wheel, breath still a bit shaky. Lettie settles beside me, her fingers find their way to the back of my neck, her nails dragging back and forth across my scalp, grounding me every time a thought of a drink comes up.
Tonight, the ghosts stay in the back seat. I can feel them there. But she’s beside me, real, warm, and choosing me.
I reach over and squeeze her thigh.
Where you go, I go. I repeat over and over until finally, my headlights catch the sign hanging over the entrance to the ranch.
We made it. I made it. And for the first time since Mom died, I realize I can do this as long as she’s by my side.