Chapter 11 The Moving Pieces
the moving pieces
Soft morning light streamed through the massive, floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing the loft's interior in a pristine, almost sterile glow. With the stark white walls and gleaming marble floors, the place looked practically heavenly. But the atmosphere was anything but.
Kayden stood by the glass, a mug of coffee clutched in his good hand, letting the warm rays envelop him.
The heat felt superficial, failing to touch the cold, hard knot of dread in his stomach.
He’d meant what he said the other night.
He was done waiting. He was going to demand the truth, all of it.
He stared out at the sprawling city skyline, his eyes shifting to the tiny, ant-like cars far below, weaving in and out of traffic.
He idly wondered where they were all off to in such a frantic hurry.
No one in this giant, roaring city ever seemed to just..
. stop. To enjoy the beauty of the day itself.
The relentless, impersonal hustle was one of the main reasons he’d fallen in love with Hamby.
A slower-paced life. A place where you had time to stop and breathe, to collect your thoughts, and appreciate what was right in front of you.
He couldn't wait to get back there, to that hard-won peace, and finally move on with his life with Lana. Again.
The thought of her and the life they were trying to build solidified his resolve. But first, he had to get through this. The silence of the loft was broken by the sharp, clinical tap-tap-tap of high heels on the marble floor. Maureen. She was making her way out of her bedroom.
Kayden didn't move. He took one last, slow sip of his coffee, his gaze remaining fixed on the chaotic city below.
He heard the tapping stop, felt her presence behind him.
He set his mug down on the wide, marble windowsill, the porcelain making a sharp clink in the quiet room.
He took one final, steadying breath, then slowly turned to face her.
“Morning,” she said, smiling confidently, folding her arms across her chest.
Kayden could sense the anxiety rippling beneath the surface of her facade.
As hard as she tried to hold it all together, it was unmistakable.
Just what in the hell did she do that was so bad, he thought.
He shifted back to the window, and a smile crept on the corner of his mouth as he took another sip of coffee.
He would let her sweat it out all day—it was a little cruel, but so was she.
“Morning,” he replied, flashing her a quick smile as she stood next to him and gazed over the skyline.
“Breathtaking view, right? I almost forgot how nice it could be,” she breathed, gazing at the skyscrapers in the distance.
“It is. What time will the car be downstairs?” he asked before taking another sip of the mocha latte Rochelle made for him.
“Ten. We still have about thirty minutes to go,” she answered hesitantly.
She stood as still as a statue, as if waiting for more questioning, but he only nodded and continued to sip his drink. She sighed lightly, then turned and walked into the kitchen.
“Have you spoken to Lana yet? How is she?”
“Oh, she’s doing fine, just getting her place packed up and spending time with her family,” he replied. “She may make a stop up here before heading to Hamby, but I’m not sure.”
He walked into the kitchen and rinsed out the empty coffee mug, then placed it in the dishwasher.
“When did you start that?” Maureen asked, amused, as she wiped a thin layer of cream cheese on a bagel.
There was a complete breakfast platter, ready and waiting, with pancakes, waffles, bacon, and fruit, that sat practically untouched before them.
“Lana, she’d have my head otherwise,” he replied as he dried his hands with a paper napkin.
Maureen watched his face as he talked about her, a familiar, painful ache tightening her chest. Even now, after all the wreckage, his eyes still lit up whenever he said Lana’s name.
It wasn't just a flicker; it was a deep, steady warmth that softened the new, hard lines around his mouth, erasing years of grief in an instant.
A memory, sharp and sudden as a paper cut, lanced through her: Vincent, decades ago, looking at her with that same unguarded, absolute adoration, as if she were the only person in the world.
The nostalgia evaporated instantly, leaving a cold, suffocating wave of regret in its wake.
Panic clawed at her throat. She wished, with a desperate, nauseating lurch, that she had just left him alone.
If she had just let him have his happiness with Lana from the very first, maybe none of this.
.. this disaster... would be happening right now.
But she hadn't. And she knew, with a sickening certainty, that the impending, toxic fallout with Kim was a shit-storm that would rain down on her for the rest of her life.
Kayden, oblivious to her internal spiral, tossed his napkin into the garbage and then started walking back toward his room, a silent, final retreat.
The sight of his back, of him walking away from her again, was more than she could bear.
It broke her resolve. It had to be now. She spoke, her voice thin but transparent in the heavy silence, readying herself to finally, finally, confess her sins.
“Kayden...” she started.
He stopped in his tracks and raised his hand, which prevented her from continuing. He turned back to her, ice blue eyes over his shoulders, meeting hers.
“Mom, not now. We can discuss everything over dinner later. Let’s go see this specialist in good spirits, and pray that he has some good news for me. Okay?”
Maureen nodded. Although she was on the precipice of losing him, she had to do what was right this time and come clean with everything, regardless of the repercussions.
The lies and secrets stored in the dark were coming to light, destroying everything she thought she was protecting.
As Kayden disappeared into his room, she pulled her cell phone from her purse and hit redial.
“Heathcliff ” showed across the screen, and after two rings, he picked up.
“Did I wake you?” she whispered into the phone.
“No, I was already up,” he lied.
The truth was, he’d spent all night drinking after getting the ax from Hamby P.D. the day before. The Chief had finally made a decision, and it wasn’t in his favor. Now he’d be a laughing stock in his former department and the rest of the town, for that matter.
“Will you come to New York? Please, Heathcliff? I know you said you had to work, but I don’t think I can do this alone,” she pleaded.
“Sure,” he groaned, rubbing his eyes awake.
“Thank you,” she beamed.
“DON’T MENTION IT,” Heathcliff replied, then hung up the phone.
He crawled out of bed in his dark bedroom and grabbed his lower back.
He’d only been out of work for twelve hours so far, and it felt as if his body was rusting on him already.
He kicked empty beer bottles out of his path as he lumbered his way into the bathroom and turned on the sink.
I guess breaking up with her face-to-face would be the right thing to do, he thought, as he wet his toothbrush and got ready to pack a bag—a small one.
BOXES CLIMBED HALFWAY up the wall, and Lana paused with her hands on her hips, panting as she surveyed the chaos.
She’d spent the better part of the morning boxing up the townhouse and arranging for a do-it-yourself moving service to transport everything from Florida to Georgia.
She wasn’t completely finished and still had several more days’ worth of work to do, so when Carmen offered to come over and help, she agreed after first declining the offer.
She was pissed that her best friend hadn’t given her a heads-up about the dinner from hell, and wanted the time alone to pack and think.
After box twenty-five, she called Carmen back and decided to stop focusing on her personal drama.
Besides, she really needed help with the endless cardboard village growing in the living room.
She would be over soon, and Lana anticipated that not much work would get done if Carmen kept the conversation about Sam.
That would be off-limits because the plan was to transport the boxes into the metal crate outside her apartment.
Not to talk about Sam and the drama that came with him.
The crate needed to be packed and ready to go whenever the movers decided to arrive, and that was Lana’s goal. Get it done and fast.
After that, a bottle of wine would be opened, and bad television was all she wanted to discuss.
Lana wiped sweat from her brow and grabbed the bottle of water on the edge of her computer desk, taking a deep swallow.
The cool water cleared away the dry cobwebs that formed, and she sighed.
No drink could beat water when you were that thirsty.
She tossed the empty bottle into the garbage can in the corner of the room, then picked up a box with the words “kitchen” scribbled in permanent black ink.
She carried it into the small space and admired the untouched stainless-steel appliances.
She didn’t even have enough time to use them before she was whisked back to Hamby and realized she wouldn’t really miss the townhouse once she left.
No bonds were formed there, no dinners, no movie nights—nothing—just her wallowing in endless tears and agony.