12. Ray
12
RAY
T he living room buzzes with an energy that’s foreign to me—an invasion of color, warmth, and noise that twists my gut and tightens my chest. Sophia’s family has taken over like they own the place, hauling in boxes of ornaments, strings of lights, and a massive pine tree that fills the house with its sharp, clean scent. My house, always so quiet and sterile, vibrates with their chatter and laughter. To my surprise, that doesn’t annoy me. On the contrary, it fills my heart. It’s too bad that I’ve forgotten how to interact with people like a normal human being.
I lean against the doorway to the kitchen, arms crossed, trying to keep my distance. The minimalist design of the living room—white walls, slate fireplace, and oversized beige sectional—isn’t my domain anymore. Not with her dad cracking jokes while stringing lights, her mom bossing Pete around with the authority of a general, and Pete himself squealing with unrestrained joy as he dives into yet another box of ornaments.
And then there’s Sophia.
She stands by the tree, untangling a strand of twinkling lights with a patient smile that’s so genuine it hurts. Her red hair catches the glow of the lights, making her look like she belongs in a perfect Christmas card, not here, not in my world. I should walk away. I should send them all home and put things back the way they were—quiet, controlled, empty. But I can’t. Not when she’s preparing my house for Christmas. Not when all this chaos is making Pete light up in ways I haven’t seen … since Nadya.
“Dad, look!” Pete calls, holding up an ornament shaped like a snowman. His cheeks are flushed with excitement, his hair messy from tumbling around. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”
“It’s cool, buddy,” I say, forcing a smile. My voice sounds wrong, too rough, too restrained, but Pete doesn’t notice. He’s too busy dragging Sophia over to show her his newfound treasure.
Her green eyes meet mine for a fleeting moment as she lets Pete pull her across the room, and something inside me stirs—a dangerous, aching pull that I’ve been fighting since the moment she walked back into my life. She crouches beside my son, laughing at whatever he’s saying, and I can’t look away. She’s too much. Too vibrant. Too alive.
This isn’t my world. My world is shadows and blood, the quiet hum of danger always lurking beneath the surface. It’s late-night calls from men like Shelby Boyle, reminding me that the peace I’ve carved out here is nothing but an illusion. And yet, watching Sophia laugh with Pete, I want to believe in that illusion, just for a moment.
When I can’t take it anymore, I retreat to the kitchen. The open layout offers no real privacy, but at least it’s a step away from the hectic activities. I grab a glass from the cabinet and fill it with a generous dose of whiskey. I keep the bottle on the top shelf, where Pete can’t reach it. I empty the glass in a swig, relishing the sharp sting of the liquid burning me as it goes down my throat. Maybe this will calm the storm brewing inside me. The granite countertops are cold under my hands as I lean against them, staring at the empty glass like it holds answers.
“Running away already?” Her voice is soft and teasing, but there’s an edge of concern in it that tenses up the muscles in my shoulders.
I turn to see Sophia standing by the counter, her head tilted slightly as she studies me. She’s shed her coat, revealing a fitted sweater that hugs her curves.
“Just needed a breather,” I say, my voice low. “Your family’s… intense.”
She smiles, stepping closer. “They mean well. And Pete seems to be having the time of his life.”
I glance back at the living room, where Pete is now hanging ornaments under her brother’s watchful eye. “Yeah. He does.”
Her expression softens, and for a moment, we just stand there, the noise from the living room fading into the background. She’s too close. I can smell the faint scent of cinnamon on her skin, mingling with the pine and gingerbread that’s overtaken the house. My pulse quickens.
My gaze falls to her prosthetic arm as it glints faintly under the kitchen lights. I’ve seen it before, but now, with her standing this close, it feels like a challenge—a symbol of her strength and resilience that puts my own emotional scars to shame.
I take a deep inhale, letting the air out slowly as I gather the nerve to ask her something that might be too painful for her.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you this. I understand if you don’t want to talk about it. But I really want to know you better.” I pause for a heartbeat to collect my thoughts. She nods as if to give me permission. “What happened to your husband? How did your marriage end?” My questions hang between us, rough and jagged.
Her face stills, the playful light in her eyes dimming as she draws a ragged breath. Slowly, she lifts her left arm, pulling back the sleeve of her sweater to reveal the charred, mottled skin above the prosthetic. The sight of it hits me like a punch to the gut. Not because it disgusts me or anything like that. My body reacts to the idea of her suffering. This kind of damage results from prolonged agony, and this realization shatters my heart.
“This,” she says, her voice soft but laced with bitterness, “is what happens when someone you love loses control. It’s a charming memento my late husband gave me when he woke up one night from a drunken stupor.” She tilts her head, a smirk that doesn’t reach her eyes playing on her lips. “He thought our bedroom was too cold. So he poured kerosene on the bed and set it on fire.”
The images flood my mind, sharp and raw, stealing my breath. My chest tightens as I envision her in that moment, trapped with a man she once trusted, a man who destroyed her. And yet here she is, standing in front of me, unflinching and unbreakable.
My hands tighten into fists at my sides, the sharp bite of my nails digging into my palms the only thing grounding me. I want to reach for her, to brush my fingers over her sleeve and tell her that she’s safe now and that I’d never let anyone hurt her again. But I can’t. I’m frozen in place, the weight of her pain pinning me to the spot. All I manage is a step closer, hoping my presence might somehow bridge the chasm her words have opened.
“He didn’t survive,” she continues, her tone flat and distant, like she’s reciting the facts. “And honestly, he didn’t want to. He’d given up long before that night. He drank until he passed out every single day. Nothing I did to try to help him mattered in the end. Even though I believed him all the times he promised me he’d changed. Nothing I did could’ve saved him. He didn’t want to be saved.” She shakes her head as if pulling herself out of that nightmare.
“Sophia…” My voice falters, and I hate myself for it. I’m supposed to be the strong one, the one who doesn’t flinch in the face of darkness. But this—her pain, her strength—it’s too much.
She shrugs, pulling the sleeve back down as if to close the door on the conversation. “I’ve put it all behind me.”
Not really. I can see it in her eyes, the way the hurt lingers just beneath the surface, as fresh as the day it happened. And it makes me want to burn the whole fucking world for her, to set things right. If that sorry excuse for a husband hadn’t killed himself, I’d gladly tear his limbs apart, watching him squirm.
Before I can say anything else, Pete bursts into the kitchen, oblivious to the tension crackling in the air. Bubbling with energy, he announces, “Dad! Cynthia’s here!”
I clear my throat, turning away from Sophia to face my son. “Okay, bud. Go grab your stuff.”
He nods and darts back toward the living room, and I take a steadying breath before looking at Sophia again. Her expression is guarded now, the moment between us slipping away.
“I promised Pete he could stay over at his nanny’s tonight. She’s having a sleepover,” I say, my voice rough from the emotions I’m trying to swallow. “I should get him ready.”
She nods, her smile small and tight. “Of course.”
I walk toward the front door, where Pete’s bouncing and waving at me. Sophia’s words echo in my mind, a poignant reminder of the pain we both carry. Sophia went through hell and came out on the other side. She’s dealing with her past trauma in a much healthier way than I am. I admire her resilience. I enjoy her company. Could I make room for something more than shadows in my life? Dare I dream of something brighter for myself? Do I deserve light at all?