Chapter 3
The warm breeze whipped through the trees as I stared at the grassy patch of earth.
Small dandelions had pushed through the ground, and the fuzzy pappi swirled around me.
I gripped the plastic cellophane around the tulips, listening to it crinkle, and grumbled at the white seeds now clinging to my polo.
I’d always been a man of few words, but just like the last time I visited—and the time before that—I couldn’t think of anything to say.
Going down to one knee, I laid the tulips beside me and brushed my hand against the cool stone.
Yellow pollen had been collecting in the carved letters, so I took a cloth from my back pocket and gently touched the smooth surface.
My fingers grazed along, tracing each word in the hope it would ease some of the pressure in my chest.
It didn’t.
The ever-present ache remained. I rubbed my knuckles against my breastbone and glanced at the sky.
The sun’s warmth heated my cheeks, and I closed my eyes for two beats, then focused back on my task.
Along with the dandelions, clovers were blooming among the swaths of neatly trimmed grass.
I plucked the weeds and tossed them aside, still unable to find the will to speak.
It wasn’t that I couldn’t—more like everything that crossed my mind was nothing more than broken promises.
A sharp yip cut through the silence, and I smiled, glancing at Malibu, who’d poked her head out of my open truck window, her tongue lolling and dripping drool.
It felt like my first real smile of the day, so I shook my head at the great beast who was always happy to see me, even if I didn’t deserve her love.
“One more minute, darlin’,” I called, raising my hand as she yipped again.
The last clover tossed aside, I plucked the dead lilies from the marble vase and replaced them with the tulips. Still, there were no words to say. I rubbed the back of my neck and shrugged, then stood and went back to my truck, tossing the dead flowers into the cab.
Malibu lunged across the center console and licked me twice before I pushed her away and put on my seatbelt, making short work of the drive to Mom’s condo.
“I think you went a little overboard at the pet store,” she said, taking hold of Malibu’s leash as I struggled to carry the two plush beds and several grocery bags.
“You know you don’t need an excuse to come over here, right? Your visits don’t always need to be about replacing a light bulb or bringing over entirely too many puppy supplies.”
She unclipped the leash, laughing as the Rottweiler ran into the living room and jumped into her oversized dog bed. Turning in three complete circles, she sniffed the air and then plopped down, resting her head on her front paws with her big brown eyes landing on Mom.
“Of course I know that, but why not enjoy your company and be efficient? Plus, most of this is left over from the mutt currently occupying your living room.”
She eyed the price tags on the chew toys in one bag and lifted a brow. My poker face didn’t crack, and she gave up after ten seconds, waving me further into her space.
“Are you making cinnamon rolls?”
“Smell this delicious kitchen and answer your own question. I’ll need you to deliver them for me, please.”
“Deliver?” I asked, stalking to the kitchen and scowling when I saw the dessert neatly wrapped in tinfoil on the counter. My stomach grumbled, and the rolls beckoned, mocking me with their cinnamon deliciousness.
I knew only having a cup of coffee this morning was a mistake.
“Yes. Cam had heart surgery.”
“Oh. You didn’t replace the sugar with salt in those, did you?”
“Maverick Hansen, shame on you. I’ll have you know we called a truce until he recovers.”
“Do you think you could go on for longer than that? It’s getting a little silly, isn’t it?” I said, piling more supplies on her kitchen counter. A treat container fell over, and Malibu lifted her head at the noise. Her hearing was perfect, even from across the bar and into the living room.
“Nope. The way we left things before his operation, he had the one-up on me.”
“Ah, and you definitely can’t leave things like that.”
“Exactly. I knew you were my favorite for a reason. Now, back to these supplies. Mark brought over food, water bowls, and the like two days ago, and he and Jenna are bringing the puppies within the next half hour.”
“You only agreed to take two, right?”
“Yes. Only two. But your faith in my abilities is astonishing.” Her voice was clipped, but her eyes twinkled behind her glasses.
“You know that’s not the case at all, Mom. It’s just Mark and Jenna have the baby, and now a litter of puppies, while Magnum and Brooke are away on their honeymoon. Miller and Emma are in that ridiculous phase where they’re joined at the hip.”
“And?”
I narrowed my eyes, trying to think of a reasonable explanation that wouldn’t make her roll hers. “It means I’ll be picking up the slack at the office, which is fine, but might also mean I’m not over as often to help with the puppies.”
“Your life is your own and should not revolve around me. Now, enough about whatever guilt you’re harboring about only stopping by three days a week instead of five. Go wash your hands, then take the cinnamon rolls next door. There’s more in the oven for you and your brother, so I can’t leave.”
I grunted, shaking my head and walking toward the bathroom closest to the front hall.
With the door closed and the lock engaged, I closed my eyes and braced my arms on either side of the sink.
Not even the thought of her homemade cinnamon rolls with gooey cream cheese icing could dig me out of this funk.
Mom always had a borderline second-sight when it came to my bouts of guilt. She said it was because I was the most like my dad, but I knew she just paid extraordinary attention to detail and could read my mood better than most, probably because I was here so often.
Perhaps I should renew my hunting license for the season or finally take my buddy up on his offer of kayaking.
I washed my hands and stared at my reflection, then ran my fingers through the streaks of gray in my hair.
I’d noticed the first few strands in my mid-twenties, so the rest shouldn’t have been a surprise.
But when you combined them with the deep crease between my brows, they made me look older than I was—older than I felt.
Guilt. What I felt went beyond that and well into territory best not thought about, but at least I could wallow in peace after I delivered those blasted rolls.
Opening the bathroom door, I stared at my youngest brother as he casually leaned against the door frame, acting like he’d found the cure for cancer. He blew on his nails and then wiped them on his shirt, giving me a half-cocked grin.
“Mom says you’re extra moody today.”
“Did she now?” I answered, glaring at Mark, who casually crossed one black work boot over the other and adjusted the handcuffs clipped to his police belt.
“She wants me to talk to you about survivor’s guilt and all that rot.”
“Does she now?”
Did he think I didn’t know that word? I didn’t have survivor’s guilt.
I paused and gritted my teeth, turning the water back on, cupping the cold stream from the tap, and splashing it on my face.
I didn’t only have survivor’s guilt. Not that I’d ever admit it to anyone. And fuck if my family hadn’t tried to get me to open up over the years.
Mom would come over with some baked deliciousness, ask me an innocent question, and hope it would turn into a giggling session about my feelings.
It didn’t.
Miller and Magnum tried a different tactic. Taunting me until I snapped and hoping some kernel of truth would slither out between the insults.
Nope.
Mark fared no better. I could see his smug grin fading as I grabbed the hand towel and dried my face.
He’d fill the silence with phrases like I’m here for you, please talk to me, and this isn’t healthy before landing his coup-de-grace: Dad wouldn’t want to see you this unhappy. He’d pry, hoping to crack my armor.
That he always stooped so low was enough to make me give him a truly awful answer, reminding him that our father couldn’t have an opinion because he had died years ago.
If there were anyone who could perhaps understand my current emotional state, it would have been Dad.
I frowned at the reflection in the mirror.
“Must we have this same conversation month after month?” I threw the hand towel on the floor and pushed past him, hoping he’d drop it. I heard his heavy footfalls behind me, and I sighed, cracking my neck.
Perhaps Mom had the foresight of my mood, and that was why she made extra cinnamon rolls for after my errand—but I’d never been that lucky.
Luckily, Cam lived a whopping hundred feet away, and my knuckles rapped on the screen door as I tapped my foot impatiently on the front porch steps.
There wasn’t an appropriate amount of time before it was socially acceptable to cut and run, so I counted to three and bent to leave the glass Pyrex on the ground when I heard the snick of the door lock.
“Yes?” said an entirely too feminine voice. Since I’d barely interacted with him or his houseguest, it took me a moment to remember Cam had company.
I hung my head and then rose slowly, holding the container and using the seconds to arrange my features in a way that resembled a human who wanted to interact with another human.
Her legs made the ascent easier. So did her curvy hips and the way her top hugged her waist. My eyes were drawn to the sliver of skin showing where her shirt had ridden up, and I shook my head, disgusted at myself for shamelessly taking in every dip and curve of her.
“I have cinnamon rolls,” I said, meeting the gaze of that same pretty brunette with dark eyes and a tight smile I’d caught glimpses of from Mom’s backyard. Her brow wrinkled, and she tucked a lock of hair behind her left ear as she perused me.