11. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Ava
Landon is delighted that Stephen is the guard spending the night with us. Rather than eating one of the frozen meals, Landon asks Stephen if he knows how to cook. When Stephen gives me a wry look and admits he does know how to cook, Landon asks whether they can cook together.
To my surprise, Stephen doesn’t even hesitate.
He hauls over a kitchen chair for Landon to stand on, and the two of them make a stir fry while I read one of my newest romance novels on the couch.
Every once in a while, Stephen consults the device he has propped in front of them that has all the house cameras streaming to it.
The book is upright in my hands, and it probably looks like I’m deeply absorbed, and I should be.
I rarely get uninterrupted reading time when Landon is awake.
But every fiber of my being is tuned to the movements and conversations happening in the kitchen.
It’s like observing a version of my life that I didn’t know to want, couldn’t clearly see or understand, when I was younger. Heartache expands through my center.
I turn the book over on my lap, open, and I take in the mansion. Did I really need my company that badly? Has that success been worth what my life has turned into? Would I have been that unhappy without it?
“Is it a boring one?” Stephen calls over. “I don’t know if you heard, but DNFing is cool now.”
“DNFing has never been cool.” I pick my book up and try to figure out which passage I’ve been skim reading over and over for the last twenty minutes.
“I still say that life’s too short to spend time on things you don’t love,” he says.
“Mom loves her books,” Landon says. “And then she gives them to Auntie Ember in a big bag.” He makes a gesture like I’m carrying something heavy.
“I hear e-readers hold a lot more books than a plastic bag,” he says, the comment clearly intended for me.
“Books are like trophies. Ember gives them back to me when she’s done. They go on my shelves for me to admire. An accomplishment.”
“When we go to Aunt Ember’s, I have to play with Nova and Charlotte. Ivy’s just a baby, so she can’t do anything. It’s so boring playing with girls.”
“You know,” Stephen says, passing Landon a measuring spoon, “understanding how to play nicely with girls is an important skill. You learn cooperation and respect. The world isn’t always kind to women, and we don’t want to be the type of men who aren’t kind to women, do we?”
“No,” Landon agrees and then goes quiet for a beat. “What kind of men should we be?”
Landon pours soya sauce into the measuring spoon over the mixing bowl. He overfills the spoon, and some extra goes in, but Stephen doesn’t even flinch, just passes him the next ingredient and a new spoon.
“Good men listen, and they help if they can.”
“I like being good,” Landon says.
“Your Uncle Nate and your Uncle Gage are good men. I don’t know your Uncle Logan or Uncle Brice that well, but I’ve heard good things. If you’re ever not sure, ask them.”
I bring the book up higher to hide my face when tears well up, and my throat grows tight. So telling that he didn’t include Raul. Not that it’s a surprise. My husband isn’t a good man, even if he’s not a classically bad one.
At the time, marrying Raul was the sensible choice, and I’d made so many rash, irresponsible choices in my life that when my mother said I should marry him, I did.
She said I could have everything I ever wanted with Raul, and I believed her.
Honestly, I was at such a low point, I needed that push to make a sensible choice, the right choice.
Objectively, I did get everything I thought I wanted. Sometimes you don’t know what you’re missing, what you’re sacrificing, until you’re staring at another timeline, another life, superimposed over the one you picked.
Marrying Raul was a mistake, but I can’t even say it’s the biggest mistake I’ve made. That honor, I fear, goes to the man at the island with my son. To what I said to him the night he left.
I never should have let Stephen go.
After Stephen and Landon make dinner together, Stephen begs off any further interactions, telling Landon he has to do his security rounds and checks.
Landon and I stretch out on the couch, reading together until his bedtime. It’s been the most relaxing evening I can remember having in a long time.
When I come down the stairs from putting Landon to bed, Stephen is in the front foyer, scanning the cameras.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“All clear so far,” he says.
While I waited for Landon to go to sleep, I made a plan, but I’m not sure how hard Stephen will try to thwart it. In the living room, I dig around in the games cupboard until I find the checkers and chess. Taking a chance, I bring the checkers board to the front foyer.
“Up for a game?” I ask.
Stephen eyes the box, and then he gives me a look that’s a mix of curiosity and suspicion. “Checkers? You play checkers?”
“I have a five-year-old,” I say, as though I obviously play. Truthfully, I saw the checkers and chess boards set up on a side table at Stephen’s parents’ place. Someone’s playing in that apartment, and I’m betting Stephen takes part.
He actually seems to consider it for a beat. “I should stay alert.”
“That security terminal transports. You did it for dinner.” He wants to say yes, and a thrill runs down my spine.
“You know how to play?” he asks again.
“Stephen,” I say as though he’s being silly. I did watch a few videos of people playing with no sound upstairs to make sure I understood the basics. Landon got this game from someone at one of his birthdays. I’m surprised the cellophane is off it.
“One game,” Stephen says, taking the security unit off the wall and leading us back to the small table the three of us ate dinner at.
While he gets the device in a position that makes him happy, I open the game. Immediately, the jig is up. The board and games pieces are still wrapped in plastic.
“You and Landon play this a lot, huh?” he says, but this expression has an old hint of teasing that I recognize.
“So much,” I say as I rip off the thin coating. “Can’t get enough. You?”
Stephen takes the pieces from me and sets them on the board, which is a good thing because I didn’t pay close enough attention to the videos.
“I play with my parents sometimes,” Stephen says. “Or Vanessa.”
“How embarrassed are you going to be when I beat you?” I ask, sliding into the seat across from him.
“You’re going to beat me?” he scoffs. “You probably don’t even know how to play, and I’m not helping.”
“But your favorite thing is helping,” I say, calling back to his conversation with Landon.
He purses his lips and shakes his head a little. “I probably overstepped there.”
“I was glad you said something to him,” I say. “He thinks you’re a superhero.” I push the board a little in his direction. “You go first.”
He slides one of the round pieces forward, and when I mirror his move, a hint of a smile tips his lips.
It takes a few moves for me to settle into what I can and can’t do. Despite Stephen’s claim, he does help me, and I win the first game.
“On a scale of one to ten,” I say, hardly able to keep the laughter out of my voice, “how embarrassed?”
“I practically beat myself,” he says.
“So a ten. I’m hearing ten.”
“I’m not helping you this time.”
“I don’t need your help,” I say, straightening.
He doesn’t help me, no guidance at all, and I beat him again.
“Fuck,” he mutters when I get him cornered.
“I would say best two out of three, but that still makes me the winner,” I gloat.
“No, no,” he says, scrolling through the cameras on the unit in front of him. “We’ll have to play again. Beginner’s luck. It’s just that your play is so erratic.”
“It’s a strategy,” I say.
“Chaos is a strategy?”
“Like guerilla warfare.”
“You know what guerilla warfare is?”
“I’m not stupid, Stephen. I know lots of things.”
He meets my gaze across the table, and his has softened. “I have never, not once in my life, thought you were stupid. You’ve always been brilliant. You just don’t let a lot of people see that.”
Warmth spreads through my body at the tenderness in his gaze and how earnest he is when he says I’m brilliant. He’s right that I can put up a facade that’s not exactly accurate, and it’s comforting that someone cares to see through it.
We set up the next game, and I take longer over my moves so I can pepper him with questions. His walls seem to be lower tonight, which is what I was hoping for, and I’m the sort to take advantage of the barrier going down, even a little.
“When did your mom get diagnosed with MS?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer at first, peering intently at the board before making a move. I’m worried his defenses will go back up, but he says, “About six years ago.”
I can’t imagine him leaving the island if the news came before he went wherever he went. “And your dad’s accident?”
He rubs his face and then settles his forearms on the table again. “Almost two years ago.”
“And your accident?” I barely whisper the words.
“Mrs. Santos,” he says, his tone chiding.
“Can you please stop calling me that? If you can’t stand to say my name, then at least call me Ms. Tucker. That’s who I am.”
He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms.
“Your dad was in a car accident? He must have gotten some insurance money.”
“You’re really asking about their finances right now?” He slides one of his pieces closer to my side with his index finger.
“I like knowing things,” I say with a shrug and slide one of my pieces forward, not really caring whether I win a third time. This conversation is more important. “Always have.”
“Knowledge is power,” he says, his tone wry.
“I am not my mother.” I bristle.
He meets my gaze. “I know who you are.”
The comment isn’t an accusation but a balm, a comfort. In truth, there was a time when Stephen knew me better than anyone else in the world. He got the best and worst of me, unfiltered.
“The person who hit my dad died in the accident, and she didn’t have any assets or insurance. Illegal, but that was the way that cookie crumbled. Can’t get blood from a stone.”
I consider my next question. At any moment, he could close up again, and I’d be the one trying to get blood from a stone. “That’s why Vanessa works at The Nile?”
“Nursing care isn’t cheap. As you know, I bought into the Bellerive division of Owen’s security firm. Eventually, that’ll bring more financial security, but we’re not there yet.”
“Your sister was going to school for drama or something, wasn’t she?”
“She was.” His voice is tight. “Dropped out.”
“To look after all of you?” I deliberately include him, and he gives me a sharp look.
“To help,” he says. “When my finances are solid again and I can look after Mom and Dad on my own, she’ll go back.”
“Reckless is doing well. I could—”
“Absolutely not.” He rises from his seat, and he gathers up the game pieces, not even bothering to finish this round, even though he’s winning.
“I can help.” I cover his hand with mine, trying to stay his cleanup efforts, but he shakes me off. I sit back, giving him the space he wants. “With the company, I’m not stuck with the rules of the trust. I can help. Let me help.”
He goes very still, and he stares at the board. His long fingers pick up one of the game pieces, and he plays with it. Tension hangs in the air while I wait for him to say something, anything.
“You can’t help. Your husband is employing me to keep you safe. That’s the only connection we have.”
“Okay.” I put up my hands, surrendering. “I won’t suggest it again. Can we just—can we keep playing?”
He lets out a deep sigh and drops the piece back on the board with a dull thud. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll be a good girl and not bring up any topics that are off limits.”
“A good girl, huh?” he eyes me, and there’s the faintest hint of teasing. “That’d be a first.”
“Don’t make me beg,” I say.
His nostrils flare, and there’s a hint of recognition at my word choice when his eyes darken.
It wasn’t deliberate, but he has a point about me being unable to be good in any capacity.
The devil didn’t used to just sit on my shoulder—she lay all over me, coated me so completely I didn’t even realize the things I was saying and doing were wrong.
I fear that version of me might be in the middle of a resurrection.
He releases a deep breath and slides back into his seat, setting the board up again. “One game so I can redeem myself.”
“Deal,” I say.
Game after game, he wins. But I’m winning too. The hard shell he’s tended so carefully is starting to crack, and although it’s wrong, I can’t help seeking more, wanting more.
When I’m finally too exhausted to function, he walks me to the foot of the stairs.
“You’re not getting your ten hours tonight,” he says.
“Not sure how I’ll survive tomorrow,” I say, but even as I make the claim, I know I’ll be pushing my limits all week, trying to cajole him into more time, more stories, all his secrets.
“You might have to take a nap on that couch in your office,” he says.
“I’ll order an IV therapy to my office instead,” I say, “or mainline a bunch of heavily caffeinated drinks.”
He searches my expression. “A few games of checkers aren’t worth making yourself ill.”
“I didn’t stay up this long for checkers.
” I stand on the bottom stair to give the illusion of distance, to stop myself from doing something stupid.
We stare at each other, but I’m rusty at reading him, unsure whether my comment landed like the truth or a taunt.
“Sleep well.” It takes all my resolve to turn and head up the stairs alone.
The heat of his gaze sears me, branding me, until the stairs curve, and then even if I look back, he’ll be gone from my view, but the ache of remembrance remains.