Chapter 23 Scarlett
scarlett
It’s Thanksgiving, and today I’m thankful I woke up wrapped in the arms of the man I’ve loved my entire life. I run my nails across his shoulders, stopping to massage the muscles at the back of the neck, while he drives us back to the ranch. “I’m so sorry, Goldie.”
He groans when I hit a tender spot up towards his skull.
“I can’t imagine how hard this was for you.
” It’s the first holiday without both his parents.
We spent the morning bringing flowers to their graves.
He talked, I listened. But I think, more than anything, he just needed to get the last bits of his anger out.
It’s been a couple of weeks since I’ve seen him drink himself to sleep, but he does still reach for the bottle every now and then.
“I lost my parents a long time ago.” His eyes close, arms relaxed at his sides as we come to a stop at a light.
“Dr. Williams says it’ll be harder to let go of my mom because I reopened the wound of losing her every time I went over there.
Sure, she was here, but she wasn’t, not really.
Twenty years of continual grief, or grief that hasn’t ever been given the chance to fully heal, I guess. ”
“What about your dad? Have you healed from that loss?”
His head rolls against the headrest, eyes slowly opening as a small smile crosses his face. “Yeah, he died with only good memories. I worked through most of his death when I had access to therapy in college.”
I let that sit for a moment. “I’m really proud of you. By all means, you should be a cynical asshole. But you aren’t, you’re the kindest man I’ve ever met. I’m blessed to know you, Lucas Monroe.”
“Mmm…” His head pushes further back into my hand, “Stay with me tonight? You can put me to sleep by drawing my next tattoo and giving me scratchies.” His jaw relaxes enough that his lips part. “Holy shit, I’m Moolan.”
We stare at each other for a second before the car is filled with laughter, all tension from our cemetery visit melting away as his right hand settles on my thigh.
He proclaims it’s “Sing-alongs with Lucas” time as we merge onto the highway.
I lost count of the number of songs we sang after number five, a personal favorite, “Feel Like a Woman,” complete with multiple hair flips from him.
We sing at the top of our lungs, dancing and bouncing in our seats, a genuine smile permanently on his face, and before I know it, we’re pulling into the ranch. When we turn down the dirt road to his house, I note the line of cars that line his driveway and the grassy area next to it.
“How many people are here?”
“The team and apparently the Wilders. Which is weird, they usually go to his parents’ house.”
As we walk up to the back door, movement catches our eye. “I KNEW IT!” Lucas shouts as Abby and Tate break away from their kiss.
“When did this happen?” he asks, his arms crossing over his chest.
Abby wipes her hands down the front of her shirt, ridding it of dirt that doesn’t exist. “Oh, um… Surprise. We kind of got married," she says as she immediately jumps behind Tate, her shiny new husband.
Lucas’s body visibly tenses. His hands clench at his sides, rolling his shoulders back as he squares them. The way he looks over Tate’s shoulder, but mostly, the fact that he hasn’t said a word, has me concerned. Is this going to be the thing that derails all his progress?
“Monroe?” Abby whispers as she peeks around the back of her husband.
“You didn’t tell me.” His eyes still not meeting hers. “I tell you everything, you know every detail of my life, and you kept this from me…”
She steps around Tate, her eyes search his face for a clue as to how he’s feeling, anger, disappointment, something, but she only gets a vacant stare. “We didn’t even tell Hannah. I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not. Don’t lie to me, Abby. Not now,” he whispers, voice trembling right along with the rest of him.
She gives him a smile that doesn’t quite make it to her eyes. “It wasn’t exactly planned. Hannah’s going to plan a party for us when you guys aren’t traveling.” Her arm reaches for him, but he steps back.
“No!” he hisses, “You have a person now.” He doesn’t say anything else as he turns and steps through the door, leaving me on the porch with the two we just caught macking in the corner like a couple of teenagers.
Abby’s face drops as she watches him disappear inside, “Is he okay?” she asks, like she doesn’t already know the answer to that.
I run my hand through my hair, “We just came from the cemetery, this was probably not the best time for him to find that out.”
“Shit, I’m sorry.” She says, looking down at her shoes. She steps up to me, her nervousness taking me by surprise. She’s usually so sure of herself, confident in a way that some might think is prideful, but I see it for the protective shield it is now. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”
“Do you know what he told me when he was twelve?” I ask as gently as I can.
She shakes her head, and Tate steps up behind her, resting his hand on her hip as she leans her head against his shoulder. “He said, ‘I hate when you leave every summer because I know one day you won’t come back.’”
Abby blinks rapidly, her mouth pulling down at the corners. “You guys have only gotten to see the full-of-life version of him. You don’t realize he’s silently suffering, terrified of all of you leaving him, too.”
She hiccups, and her husband wraps his arms around her shoulders as she shakes in his arms. Tears roll down her cheeks as she stares at me. “You won’t leave him, will you?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I respond before I head inside to find Lucas.
The house is swarming with his teammates, over the top laughter, and furniture pushed out of the way so they can mingle, but he’s in the corner with a beer in his hand, watching everyone else with the same blank expression he’s had multiple times in the past month.
He’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t realize I’m close until I wrap my arms around his waist and rest my chin on his chest.
“What do you need?”
He takes a drink, his throat bobbing before setting it on the counter with a quiet clink.
His hands frame my face, eyes searching mine, for what I don’t know, but he could ask me for anything, and I’d find a way to give it to him. “Just you.” His smile grows as his arms fall to my shoulders, pressing me against him.
“You don’t have to pretend with me, Goldie.”
His chest rattles, the hold he has on me tightening slightly.
“I love it when you call me that.” He tucks me into his side, turning me so that I’m facing the chaos of the room, too.
“My dad was the only one to ever give me a nickname.” He tilts his head to the side, resting it on top of mine as his thumb brushes against the hem of my jeans.
“I’m glad the only other person who has is you. ”
I place my hand over his, squeezing slightly before letting my eyes close long enough to commit this feeling to memory.
He tipped the beer out, pouring it down the sink the second his arm closed around me.
Like I’m a better solution to the problem.
The possibility that I could be something, someone, that makes it better for him, it’s my life’s greatest accomplishment.
There’s a loud smack on the island, followed by a gasp. “You made frijoles?” Sammy asks as he takes the lid off the pressure cooker sitting among the ridiculous amount of food.
I’m assuming his question is aimed at me because I’m the only other Latina in the room, but he would be incorrect in that assumption. Nana used to make them all the time. They were one of my favorite meals.
When he finally looks away from the dish, his eyebrow hikes. “I made cornbread, Sammy. I can’t cook to save my life,” I toss at him.
His head tilts to the side, “Hmm, never tried cornbread. Where is it?”
I gasp, my hand flying to my chest. Never tried cornbread? Is this guy for real?
“I made it.” Lucas’s fingers lace through mine as they sit on my hip. “I found a book with all Ms. Anna’s recipes in it when I was redoing the house.”
I spin in his hold, our joined hands falling to the side as my mouth hangs open. “You redid the house?”
He nods, “Found your dream board. Figured I’d make good use of my big boy money.”
He made one of my favorite meals from my childhood, and he redid my house. And I’m just now finding this out. “You did it yourself?”
“Hey, I helped!” Sammy whines as he walks over to where we are, tucked into the corner of the kitchen.
“I…” There are so many things I want to say, ask, and thank him for. But at the moment, I’m so overwhelmed that I revert back to what I do best, deflect and run. “You did what?” I whisper, willing my body to move, but it stays unnaturally still.
His eyes hold mine, time seems to stand still, an eternity stretching between us in a single second.
My breath shakes on my exhale. “I need a minute.” I run upstairs to where I know there’s a balcony.
There’s a sun lounger up here, well, multiple actually.
I sit in the one furthest from the door, pulling my knees into my chest as my head rests on top of them.
Everything clicks into place as I stare off into the night. He found a dreamboard I made at thirteen. He remembered the comments I made about the way the light filtered into the kitchen in the morning, how I thought it’d look infinitely better with white cabinets.
He remembered how I used to complain about the stairs groaning, and he replaced them with solid stone. He remembered me, even when I stopped letting myself remember us. Knowing this, does it change anything? Everything?
Will I walk into my house and see everything he’s done, and start tallying up all the things I owe him? Because there’s no way he did this out of the kindness of his heart, right?