Chapter Twenty-Six
Twenty-Six
As pale light started to seep through Casey’s eyelids the next morning, the first thing she was conscious of was Kyle. Her back was to his front, their knees bent at the same angle, his arm wrapped around her middle. She kept her eyes closed, fought to hang on to that drowsy, half-awake state and enjoy the solid weight of him against her. Star hadn’t yet nudged for her morning pets, but she’d been in the room all night, so maybe she was being gracious and giving Casey extra time. They hadn’t fallen asleep until late, but she didn’t feel tired. Or maybe she did, but in a good way. When they made it up to the bedroom last night things had moved quickly at first. They’d both been fairly frantic, neither willing to slow it down until that initial itch had been scratched. But a little while later, when they reached for one another again, they spent a while getting reacquainted with each other’s bodies.
It had not been lost on her that she was a little older, and probably a little softer, than the last time he’d seen her naked, but when she started to turn off the lamp by the bed he asked her not to— I want to see you . There was no denying Kyle still looked good. She’d always been a sucker for the lean muscle and the ink that told his story. The one thing they didn’t do much of in bed last night was talk. They’d been talked out, they’d said it all. She’d told Kyle everything, and he’d said There’s nothing to forgive .
He stirred, and even though he tightened his hold on her she felt unmoored, lost in time. This is how they’d slept in the beginning for many years, tucked into each other the whole night. To the point where if one of them turned over the other did as well, seeking to stay as connected as possible. Later, as time went on, that changed. They started out that way when they went to sleep, but then they’d drift apart during the night. Though, even then, they liked to be touching in some way, her hand on his chest, his leg against hers. After sleeping in king-size beds in a few hotels they’d vowed never to own one. It was too easy to end up with several feet of cold mattress between them.
But when had that happened, that drifting apart during the night? When had they decided that was okay? The answer came to her, and her eyes shot open. Charlie. It was after Charlie was born. As a baby he’d slept in a bassinet in their room, and when he woke hungry in the middle of the night she would take him into bed with them so she could nurse him. He would end up staying there, between them, for the rest of the night. Kyle grumbled about it at first, but not for long. For one thing, there was nothing that even came close to the glory of seeing Charlie wake up first thing in the morning, open his eyes and come alive, huge smile spreading across his face as he greeted them and the day. And as he got older and slept longer, eventually moving into his own room, he came into their bed later and later, until it was just to snuggle for a while before the alarm went off…
This was how every morning started for Casey. The very first thing she thought about was Charlie. She woke up, stared at the picture of him she kept on her nightstand—like she was doing right now—a school portrait taken a few months before he died. She studied his face, committed every inch of it to memory again. Then she would watch old videos on her phone to recapture his voice and his laugh accurately. One of her greatest fears was forgetting. Forgetting that the right side of his smile pulled up a tad higher than the left side, forgetting how incredibly soft his blond hair was, forgetting exactly how he sounded when he said “Hey, Mom” every time she entered the room. So, in order not to forget, she went through a certain ritual first thing every day. Only, this morning, it wasn’t Charlie she’d thought of first thing. It was Kyle.
As if on cue, he gave her a squeeze with his arm and said, “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“How are you?” he asked, his breath warm on her shoulder.
“Okay. How about you?”
He propped himself on an elbow and looked down at her. Then he smiled a wide dreamy smile. “I’m good.”
She couldn’t help but smile back, and she ran her hands through his hair, which was pointing every which way.
He examined her face, lightly touched the bridge of her nose, the skin under her left eye, which felt tender.
“How does it look?”
“Slightly bruised, but not very noticeable.” He slid his finger down her cheek and neck, along her clavicle.
“Does it feel weird to be here?” she asked.
“Not really. To be honest, it feels like I finally came home.”
She understood what he meant, and it was true in many ways. But she also experienced an unsettling shift in her stomach at that idea, that he’d come home. Is that what this was? Would it be that simple? Kyle back here, in this house, in her life—every part of her life—after all that had happened.
Both of them, as well as Star, looked toward the window at the sound of Wyatt’s chair on the boardwalk. Kyle’s truck was parked out back, right behind hers. Wyatt would have known as soon as he saw that.
“Maybe I should go talk to him,” Kyle said.
“What will you say?”
“I don’t think I’m going to need to say much, do you?”
She shook her head and listened to the back door open downstairs. She didn’t feel ready for this, for Wyatt to know what happened last night. Like once someone knew there was no going back. Which, she realized, was impossible at this point.
“It’ll be fine,” Kyle said. “He’ll just want to know you’re okay. You stay here, I’ll bring you coffee.” He leaned down to kiss her, started to pull away, then kissed her again. The second time was a little more involved, and it would have been easy to keep going, but he groaned and rolled away, rose from the bed and searched for his clothes on the floor.
Though Casey already missed having him beside her, relief washed through her as well while she watched him pull on his jeans. She hadn’t finished her morning ritual. Kyle had interrupted it, and now that he was leaving she could get back to it.
He held up his bloody shirt from the night before.
“There are some of your old T-shirts in the bottom drawer of the dresser.” She didn’t mention that she still slept in them every night.
She watched him pull one out and put it on, and for a second she thought about just saying it— Kyle, there’s this thing I do each morning… He’d hear her out, he’d hold her hand and listen, offer his understanding. But then he’d want her to stop, give it up.
On his way out of the room he bent down to plant one more kiss on her forehead, and there was no missing it. How happy he looked.
Star followed him, and as soon as he was gone she studied Charlie’s picture again, tried to pick up where she’d left off earlier. After taking time to remember the details, the questions always moved in. They were, by far, the most difficult part of this process, the darkest moments of each day for her, but she’d given up fighting them a long time ago. She knew now they couldn’t be avoided, and if she sank into the questions for a while early in the morning, they would quiet down after that. First there were all the What Ifs about that day: What if she’d gotten out of the truck at Logan’s house and talked to Sara Lopez? What if she’d called out when she saw Charlie heading behind Wyatt’s shop? What if she’d run out there when Star first barked—would she have gotten to him in time?
She could theorize various answers to the What Ifs, but then other questions rolled in, ones she couldn’t even guess the answer to: Was Charlie aware that she held him while they waited for the paramedics? She’d talked to him the whole time, but did he hear her? Was he in pain? These were the things that haunted her, and she sat with them every morning while the crushing guilt settled in like an old friend. Not just guilt about what she should have done differently that day, but also guilt about all the times she hadn’t been the best mother. The times she’d gotten frustrated or raised her voice or said no when she could have said yes. This was what she did each and every morning. This was how she still dedicated herself to Charlie.
Downstairs she heard voices, and when she pictured Kyle and Wyatt in the kitchen, sitting together and making easy conversation, just like they used to, she felt adrift in time again, caught somewhere between the past and the present. And she knew she couldn’t wait for Kyle to come back up here with coffee, wearing that smile and hoping they’d stay in bed for the morning and talk about the future. She got up, threw on her joggers and a T-shirt, and walked across the hall to Charlie’s room.
Not one thing had changed since he died. His racing car bed was still there, his favorite stuffed animal—the hockey player teddy bear—still sat against the throw pillow, which she’d made from one of Kyle’s high school jerseys. Two of his old hockey sticks were crisscrossed on the wall above the bed. Fourth-grade textbooks sat on the desk, next to a pile of ball caps. Charlie had liked to wear caps, just like his dad. Being in this room put her firmly in the past, which was more comfortable for her.
One thing she’d heard over and over again in group therapy: there was no timeline for grief, no getting over losing Charlie, only learning to live with it. This was how she lived with it. Her ritual. Recalling the details, running through the questions. Making the pain greater because pain sharpened the mind and the senses, which kept her from forgetting. Last night hadn’t changed anything. Kyle may have said there was nothing to forgive, but Charlie was still gone. She stayed connected to him by staying connected to the pain. She couldn’t give it up, and she wouldn’t ask Kyle to share it.
When she left Charlie’s room and neared the top of the stairs their voices became more distinct. Wyatt was complaining about the complexity of his latest project, a bar cabinet, and Kyle was reminding Wyatt that he loved that kind of challenge and he knew it. When they both laughed she faltered while a fresh wave of guilt broke over her, because of what she was about to do. But it had to be now, not later. That would be even more unfair.
She descended the stairs to see him across the kitchen at the coffeemaker, his back to her while he reached up to the cabinet for mugs. He was so comfortable in this space, knew where everything was. Had it really been two and a half years since he’d been in here?
Wyatt was sitting at the table, and he looked up to see her first. A teasing grin broke across his face. “Morning.”
“Morning.” But she didn’t return the smile.
Kyle glanced over from where he was pouring a coffee. “Sorry, I got waylaid.” He went to the fridge. “You still like this vanilla stuff in your coffee, Wyatt?”
“Yeah.”
Casey felt Wyatt watching her. When she finally met his eye her expression must have said it all. His smile faded and his brow furrowed in question.
“Here you go,” Kyle said, putting a mug and the creamer on the table in front of Wyatt before going back to the coffeemaker.
But Wyatt didn’t pick up his coffee. He continued to stare at her, and she could sense his burning question— Are you and Kyle happening? When she shook her head, his shoulders slumped in disappointment, and he dropped his gaze from hers.
“Anyone else hungry?” Kyle asked, pouring the other coffees.
“Not really,” Casey said.
“Me neither,” Wyatt said, reversing from the table. “I’m going to pass on the coffee too.”
“What?” Kyle asked.
Wyatt opened the back door and shot Casey a last look that was full of frustration, maybe even condemnation. “Sorry, but I can’t watch this happen,” he said. “Let’s go, Star. You don’t want to watch either.”
Star stood from her spot under the table and trotted out the door, Wyatt following right behind her.
Kyle watched him go and turned to Casey. “What was that about?” Then he studied her, his eyes dropping to her crossed arms. “What’s up?” he asked. She heard the caution in that question even though he’d tried to keep it light.
She took a breath and tamped down the rebellious emotions churning in her chest by recalling why she was doing this, that it was for his sake. She couldn’t move on with him, so she had to let him go. “I’m sorry, but I think you should leave.”
He raised his hands. “Can we just back up a minute here?”
“I can’t do this.”
“Can’t do what? Have coffee with me?”
“I can’t do any of this with you.”
His brows ticked up. “You sure could last night.”
“I shouldn’t have let that happen.”
“Let it happen? I was there, and you did a lot more than let it happen. You wanted it as much as I did.”
She wrapped her arms tighter around herself. “It was a mistake.”
“Why was it a mistake, Casey? Because you’re not ever allowed to feel better?”
It wasn’t that simple, but he wouldn’t understand that she didn’t want to feel better. “I have a plan, I’m moving away in ten days.”
“You’re running away. There’s a difference.”
“Kyle, there’s a certain way I live my life now. You may not understand it, or like it, but it’s how I get through each day. It’s how I survive, and there’s no room for you in it.”
He shut his eyes and hung his head.
“I’m so sorry,” she said in a rush, to keep her voice from cracking.
After a long, quiet moment he took a deep breath and braced his arms against the chair in front of him. “Maybe this happened too fast, Case. We can slow it all down if you want.” She recognized the strained calm— Let’s reason our way through this . “Why don’t I go, give you some space. I’ll come over later, and we’ll talk about it. Can we do that?”
“No. I don’t think we should see each other again—”
He tossed the chair in front of him against the table. The legs screeched on the floor and Wyatt’s untouched coffee sloshed over the rim.
“I’m not trying to hurt you,” she said.
He dragged his hands down his face, then rested them on his hips with a heavy sigh. “You know what hurts the most? What really fucking kills me? Having to stand here and watch you do this to yourself—to us —knowing there’s nothing I can do about it.” He offered a helpless shrug. “I can’t fix this. You have to stop punishing yourself, and I don’t know how to help you with that.”
He was giving up; she just had to stay strong a little longer. So she dug her fingernails into the flesh above her elbows. But it wasn’t nearly enough. The discomfort that caused was a drop in the bucket compared to how painful it was to have this conversation with him.
“I’m going to go now,” he said, his voice weary, defeated. “If you change your mind or you want to talk, you know where to find me.” He gathered his boots from the hallway, where he’d kicked them off last night before carrying her upstairs. “But otherwise I’ll leave you alone, let you do what you think you need to do. I won’t come around here, I won’t ask you to stay again.”
She watched him slide his boots on, afraid to speak. If she did she might tell him not to go.
He moved to the door. “Whatever you do, I only want the best for you,” he said. “I love you, Casey Higgins McCray. I have since I was eighteen years old, and that has never changed.”
Then he was gone.