Chapter 6 The Broken Things
The Broken Things
Ethan
The couch is a piece of shit.
I punch the flat cushion for the third time in ten minutes, trying to find a position that doesn’t make my back scream. But it’s not really the couch keeping me awake; it’s the sound of Cassidy moving around upstairs.
When the temperature dropped earlier tonight, I’d hauled Axel’s mattress downstairs. The living room was the only place we could keep reasonably warm with the fireplace.
I’d offered to bring down the mattress from the guest bedroom for Cassidy, but she’d stubbornly declined, insisting she would be fine upstairs. Pride always was her favorite weapon, even when it’s aimed at herself.
I can hear her restless movement overhead. Probably freezing but too stubborn to admit it. Too stubborn to come down here where it’s warm. Too stubborn to accept any help from me.
Another creak from upstairs, and my dick hardens at the thought of warming her up by sliding into her tight, warm—
Fuck this.
I sit up and scrub my hands over my face, trying to push away the memories that surface every time I close my eyes. Cassidy beneath me, her coily hair spread across the pillow, whispering my name. The way her toes curled when I petted her sweet pussy...
And now I have fresh memories to torment me. That kiss in the kitchen today was unexpected, electric and over too soon.
It was as if the last eight years never happened. Her lips were just as soft, her body just as responsive pressed against mine.
Until that damn timer went off.
At dinner, she barely looked at me, focusing all her attention on Axel while I sat there remembering how her lips tasted, wondering if she was doing the same.
Stop.
Cassidy made her choice eight years ago. Chose to believe what she saw instead of trusting the man she claimed to love. Chose to cut me out of her life without giving me a chance to explain myself.
She took one look at Britney and me in that bed and decided I was exactly the kind of man who would betray her with her own sister. After six years together. After talking about marriage and kids and growing old together.
She treated me as if I were a fuckboy. Like everything we’d built meant nothing.
The anger that’s been simmering in my chest for eight years flares hotter. She’s upstairs right now, probably thinking about her ruined vacation, playing the martyr who’s stuck caring for her sister’s unwanted child.
Poor Cassidy. Always the victim in her own story.
Except she’s not the only one who lost everything that day. I lost her, lost the life we’d planned, lost any chance of proposing to her that Christmas morning. All because she was too proud or too hurt or too goddamn stubborn to let me speak.
My phone lights up with notifications. Three missed calls from my assistant and a string of urgent emails asking when I’m returning to LA.
I silence the phone and set it aside. Whatever crisis is brewing will have to wait until I can think clearly.
From across the room, comes the soft sound of Axel shifting in his sleep, and my body tightens with a wave of sickening guilt and resentment that I hate myself for feeling.
It’s not the kid’s fault. I know that. Logically, rationally, I understand that Axel is as much a victim in this as I am. But every time I look at him, I see what was supposed to be mine and Cassidy’s.
What kind of man does that make me? What kind of person resents a seven-year-old for existing?
I stand up and pace to the window, looking out at the wall of snow that’s imprisoned us here together. After eight years of silence, we’re finally in the same place with nowhere to run.
Maybe it’s time to tell Cassidy what really happened. Maybe it’s time she learned she’s not the only one whose heart was broken.
With a sigh, I grab a couple of logs from the stack by the fireplace and carefully arrange them in the fireplace. The wood catches and flames lick up the sides of the bark.
I settle back onto the lumpy couch, pulling the thin blanket over me. Despite my racing thoughts, exhaustion eventually wins out, and I drift into an uneasy sleep.
I wake to the sound of muffled crying.
For a moment, I’m disoriented. Then I remember where I am, and why, and the crying registers as coming from across the room.
Axel.
I lie still for a moment, hoping it would stop, but the crying continues. I sit up, running my hands through my hair.
The house is freezing. The fire has died down to almost nothing, and I can see my breath in the dim light. Outside, the wind is still howling, making the old house creak and groan.
I stand, and my joints protest, but I pad over to where Axel’s mattress is. The floorboards are ice cold and creak under my weight.
Axel is curled up in a ball under the covers, his small shoulders shaking. I hesitate.
This isn’t my job. This isn’t my kid. This isn’t my responsibility.
“Hey,” I whisper. “You okay?”
He goes completely still and slowly turns toward me. His face is tear-streaked and blotchy.
“Sorry,” he whispers immediately, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. “I didn’t mean to be loud.”
“You didn’t wake me,” I lie, squatting. “I was already up. Couldn’t sleep.”
He watches me carefully as I squat beside his mattress. “Bad dream?”
He nods, still watching me like he’s waiting for me to leave. Or yell. Or both.
“Want to talk about it?”
He’s quiet for so long I think he’s not going to answer. Then, in a small voice says, “I dreamed about Mama. She was really mad, and she slapped me. She hit me again and again when I cried. Like before.”
The rage flooding through me takes my breath away. Not at him, but at her. At Britney, who’s dead and beyond my reach but who left this little boy behind.
“When I go to my new family,” Axel continues, his voice trembling, “will they hit me when I cry too?”
And just like that, the last wall around my heart crumbles.
“No.” The word snaps out, and I clear my throat. “No, buddy. Good families don’t hit kids. Ever.”
“But what if I’m bad? What if I spill my milk… or wet the bed?”
“Even if you mess up. Even if you cry. Even if you’re scared. They won’t hurt you.”
“How do you know?”
“Because there are people who want to take care of kids. People who are kind.”
He’s quiet again, but I can see him thinking about this.
“Are you really my dad?” he asks suddenly, and the question is like a knife between my ribs.
I look at this little boy who shares my DNA but not my choice, who’s innocent of the circumstances that created him, and who’s been hurt by the same woman who hurt me.
Before I can figure out how to answer, Axel’s eyes shift to something behind me, and his body goes rigid.
“Sorry,” he whispers urgently. “I’m sorry, I was being quiet, I’m sorry—”
I turn to see Cassidy standing near the entrance of the living room, her satin bonnet askew, and wearing an oversized T-shirt hanging to her thighs.
“You have nothing to apologize for, sweetheart,” she says, moving closer and kneeling right beside where I’m squatting.
Axel studies her face, noticing the tears. “Were you sad, too?”
Cassidy nods. “Sometimes grown-ups have bad dreams too.”
“I can share my blanket,” he offers, tugging a corner loose. “It’s warm.”
“Oh, honey, that’s sweet, but keep your blanket,” Cassidy says. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to sit right here. We’ll both feel safer that way.”
“Will you both stay?” he asks quietly.
“Of course,” I respond.
My legs start to cramp, so I shift to sit cross-legged on the floor beside his mattress. Cassidy settles beside me, close enough for our shoulders to touch.
Every time the wind rattles the windows or the house creaks, Axel startles awake, but gradually his breathing evens out and his small body relaxes into sleep.
We sit in silence for several more minutes before a sob breaks free from Cassidy’s throat.
I reach for her, pulling her against my chest. She collapses into me, burying her face in my shoulder.
“What kind of life has he been living, Eth?” Her voice is thick with tears. “He apologizes for crying. He eats as if someone will take the food from him. He thinks that he doesn’t deserve Christmas presents because he has no family. He asks if his new family will hit him. What did she do to him?”
I hold her tighter, my throat burning. “I don’t know.”
Yet that’s not entirely true. I sent money to cover living expenses, food, clothes and school through my lawyer every month for the past seven years. But money doesn’t buy love or patience or kindness.
Maybe I should have pressed charges eight years ago. Maybe if Britney had gone to jail, Axel would have been placed with a family who wanted him. Maybe the threat of prison would have forced her to get clean, to be the mother he deserved.
Cassidy leans back enough to look at my face. Her eyes, wet and wide, fix on mine before she closes the last inch of space between us and kisses me.
It’s desperate and salt-sweet from her tears, and I’m kissing her back like we’re fifteen again and madly in love and the world hasn’t broken us both into pieces.
I slide my hand up to cradle her face, and use my thumb to brush away the wetness on her cheek.
Her hands fist my shirt, pulling me closer, and I can taste eight years of grief and longing and regret in the space between our mouths. My body responds instantly; every nerve ending comes alive at her touch.
My free hand slides up, skimming the curve of her hip before settling at her waist. She’s warm, so damn warm, and I can feel the pebbled tightness of her nipples through the thin material.
I drag my thumb along the underside of her breast, grazing the sensitive peak, and she moans into the touch. The sound goes straight to my cock.
“Eth—”
Her voice is a broken whisper, but she doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t push me away. Instead, her fingers tighten in my shirt, her breath hitching as I trace the hardened bud through her sweater, circling, teasing.
She’s so responsive—always was. A flick of my thumb, and she’s melting against me, her hips rolling restlessly, seeking friction.
I want to push her back onto the floor, to lift this damn T-shirt and take her nipple into my mouth, to remind her body of mine. I want to lose myself in her until we both forget everything but us, together, the way it should have been all along.
She makes a soft sound against my mouth, halfway between a sigh and a whimper, and it nearly undoes me completely.
A small, distressed murmur comes from Axel’s mattress. We freeze, lips still touching, before we both pull back quickly, our eyes darting to the boy. He shifts restlessly, his face scrunching up before relaxing again as he settles deeper into sleep.
The spell breaks. Reality crashes back.
Then she jerks back, gasping for air. Her nipples are still tight and straining against the fabric.
“I’m sorry,” she breathes. “I didn’t mean to—I came down to ask if your offer to bring the mattress down was still on the table. It’s freezing up there.”
The explanation tumbles out like she’s trying to convince herself the kiss was another mistake. But her hands are still fisted in my shirt, and she hasn’t moved away.
“Yeah.” My voice is gravelly. “I can help with that.”
She nods quickly and finally releases me. “Thank you.”
As I follow her toward the stairs, I wonder if some broken things can ever really be fixed.