Chapter 31
The next day after breakfast, Andrew and I spent the day with Declan, doing the most normal thing a family could.
It was perfect in every way, and everything I once feared would be forever out of reach for me became my new reality.
The park was filled with laughter and racing around.
The pizza was delicious, and the ice cream was a messy but sweet end to a wonderful day.
Chocolate cream still lingered on Declan’s face. He was dozing peacefully in Andrew’s arms, his fingers clutching his shirt. It was late when we stepped into the house.
“I can take him,” I whispered, my voice soft to avoid waking him.
“You could. But I’m enjoying this. Let me carry him to his room,” Andrew said, a small smile on his lips.
I nodded, feeling a rush of gratitude and affection.
Maybe we’d be okay in the end. I know that being a father wasn’t something he ever planned, but here he was, showing up and trying.
He’d been present all day, physically and mentally as he got to know his son better.
The three of us walked quietly through the hallway, and my heart ached with hope.
We reached Declan’s room, and I smiled at the effort the family had gone to in making the space his. Two new Manchester United posters were hung prominently on the wall, signed, of course.
A new duvet that matched his old one was stretched across the bed. Fuzzy was lying in the middle, waiting for him. Declan stirred slightly. His face relaxed in a way that made me want to freeze this moment forever. He opened his eyes and blinked. Then a smile lit up his face.
“We’re home already?” he said sleepily.
“Yes, son.”
My heart flooded with warmth at how natural Andrew sounded. I wanted to tell him all the things I was feeling, but words alone wouldn’t do it justice.
“I’ll get him bathed and settled. Meet you in your room?” I asked, hoping my voice didn’t sound as desperate as I felt.
Andrew smirked. “You mean our room.”
“Yes, Sir,” I answered, my voice catching at the sudden huskiness of his.
“That sounds perfect,” he said, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “I need to check in with the guys about a few things, so take your time. I might be awhile. Goodnight son, see you at breakfast.”
He kissed Declan on the head. I watched him leave, closing the door behind him. For a moment, I just stood there, letting the peace wash over me.
“Let’s get you bathed, shall we?”
It didn’t take us long to find a groove, and it wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.
Many things were instinctual. It wasn’t like I didn’t know how to be a mother.
I just never had the opportunity. Once I got him settled and tucked in, I turned off the main light and left a small nightlight on to keep the room from complete darkness.
With one last look at our son, I slipped out of the room. The house was quiet, the only sound was the soft hum of the night outside. Smiling, I practically skipped across the hall. He said he was meeting with the guys and would be awhile. This gave me time to shower and change before he got back.
The shower was a perfect reset for me. After I changed, I looked around the room. My eyes landed on the bedside table. I noticed the Autumn journal he purchased for me was there, along with a full set of pens. I smiled, realizing how different he was from Cameron.
Earlier, he’d shown me how to work the audio system in his room, so I put on some classical music. Mood music, if you will, and knew in my heart it was time. Grabbing the pens, I sat in the overstuffed chair in his room in front of the fireplace. I opened the journal and took a deep breath.
My brain froze. The words wouldn’t form. The pen hovered over the page, motionless. Writing had at one time been second nature, and the words used to spill from me like water from a turned-on faucet.
Every thought, dream, every scrap of hope used to find its way onto the paper. But now there was nothing. Just a tangle of knots. Every word I wanted to write sounded wrong. I sat like a bird with a broken wing, unable to soar.
Ten minutes later, I closed the journal and pulled it closer to my body, the pen in my hand momentarily forgotten. A single tear fell down my cheek as I thought about the last few days. Why was I struggling? I sighed and opened the journal once more.
“Dear Autumn,” I began. The orange pen glided over the pristine paper.
It’s been six years, nine months and four days since I last wrote to you. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to see you once more, to hear your voice. My life has been…
I paused, unsure of where to begin. My neat handwriting stared back at me.
So much time had passed. Maybe it was time to let them go.
Tears glistened in my eyes. The last time I’d written to her, I was probably complaining about a maths test I’d failed.
And now here I was, poised to tell her how awful my life had been up until a week ago.
Andrew came in as I was staring into the fireplace. He called my name, and I whipped my head around. He was carrying a box. Peaking over the top was…my heart beat wildly. It couldn’t be.
He said not to get my hopes up, that the detective more than likely wouldn’t let me have them until the house was completely processed and photographed. The grin on his face gave him away. I hopped up, excited to see them once more.
“You did it!” I exclaimed as he set the box on the table.
Inside the box were all of my journal books I’d ever written in. My hand touched the top one. It was one of mine. An idea hit. Earlier at the park, there was a moment when the sun shone off Andrew’s hair, causing my breath to catch in my throat.
The reddish shades glistened and reminded me of Winter’s beautiful hair. I’d been so fascinated with it that one time, when Autumn was drawing her, I stood over her shoulder and watched the entire process.
“Wait here for a minute,” he commanded.
With a huge grin on his face, he went into his closet and came out with another box. He set it down, and I only then realized it was a safe.
“For your journals. Isabella uses one for her artwork. She’s very private like that. I thought you might like something similar.”
I threw my arms around him and realized a huge part of me wanted to open up to him.
To share my past, my pain, my childhood.
All of it. So much of who I was stemmed from those two years.
We talked extensively today about healing and finding a counselor who could help me.
I had an appointment set up for next week already.
Something in the moment felt right, crucial almost. I pulled away and strode over to the box he’d set down.
Digging to the bottom, I picked up the very first journal I’d ever written in.
Dusting it off, tears came to my eyes. I brought it to my chest. Callahan would be so proud if he could see me now.
“Andrew, would you do me a favor and sit in that chair?”
He raised his eyebrows seductively, and I laughed. After he was seated, I brought it over.
“There is so much I’ve yet to share with you about who I am. The real me. My words often are muddled when I try to speak. Maybe it’s the years I’ve been kept silent. I don’t know. When I write, it flows so much easier. Or well it used to.”
I paused, taking deep breaths as I stood on the precipice. I never willingly shared my journals with Cameron, but Andrew and Cameron were two wildly different men.
“What is it, Tori? Do you want to share your writings with me?”
I nodded, and a sob tore from my throat.
He rose, took the book from my hands and placed it back in the box before engulfing me in his arms. He rocked me and rubbed circles on my back, calming me.
His voice was soothing and low as he spoke in my ear.
He sat down and pulled me onto his lap as he consoled me.
Several minutes later, I could speak again.
“Remember the friends I once told you about? I’d like you to meet them. We made a promise to find one another one day. I was talking with Nikolai earlier, and he mentioned he’s a private investigator.”
His demeanor shifted. Leaning back in the chair, his eyes, which were so expressive, now held a deep focus. He was fully present in the moment, absorbing every word I said.
“You want to find them? Angel, I’d be happy to help in any way. Do you have names?” He titled my chin up.
“No, Sir, well except for one and no last name. But you have to start at the beginning. I’m warning you, it won’t be easy to read. It will sicken you, tear your heart out, rip it to shreds.” I paused and ran my fingers through his hair to ground myself. He placed a soft kiss on my wrist.
“Okay, thank you for the warning.”
His brow furrowed, mirroring the weight of my emotions. There was a permanent blaze of empathy in his eyes, a silent acknowledgement of everything I was sharing.
“I swear to you, everything in them is true. My fears, their fears, are all detailed out. I have a photographic memory, can memorize a song and play it perfectly after only hearing it once.”
“I believe you, angel.”
“Thank you. It will explain, on a deeper level some of my hesitancy to play piano. I was once a prodigy. And I transferred my ability to recall things into writing the day I decided to no longer play the piano.”
His lips drew my attention. The ones that always kissed me breathlessly and offered me words of comfort. He waited for me to continue. I leaned in and kissed him softly.
“If I show you this part of me, I need you to promise you won’t pull away. You have a quiet stillness about you, and I need that in my life. You make me feel heard and valued. I don’t want it to change. Can you promise me?”
“I promise nothing will change how I feel about you. The very fact you want to trust me with something as sacred as your inner thoughts floors me. You’re fucking brave and I’d be honored to meet you and your friends on page, but only if you’re sure.”
“I am. You remarked on the style of journals at Piccadilly’s. If you comb through the box, you’ll notice a pattern. Winter, Spring, Summer and Autumn. I was Summer. The first day I met them, I was introduced to them as their season names. Do you have tissues? You’ll need them at some point.”
“Will a handkerchief do?” he teased, pulling one from his pocket.
“Stay here,” I said, laughing. I made my way over to retrieve the box of journals. Each step both ways felt lighter and lighter. This was the right thing to do.
“I’m going to sit over there on the bed and write to Autumn in my new journal. We have a lot of catching up to do. Again, you’ll start here.”
I handed him Mischa’s journal. His large hands were wrapped around it protectively.
“When you read them, understand they are written chronologically. They follow me through the seasons, but each one will have highlights and memories specific to all of us. I hope you love them as much as I do.”
“I’m sure I will. If they are important and impacted you, then it matters. I’m honored you are letting me in.”
I shifted, a hint of nervousness overwhelming me.
I put my hand on his. “You’re bound to have questions after you start.
I will happily answer them to the best of my ability.
If you can get through this first journal, some of those questions will be answered.
But if at any point you want to stop and talk, I won’t run from it. ”
He nodded solemnly, sensing the seriousness of the situation. So with those words, I left him in the chair by the fire. My hand shook as I settled onto the bed. I glanced over. He hadn’t opened the pretty pink journal with cherry blossoms on it yet and was just watching me.
My face flamed, and I wondered at what he did to me with merely a single glance. I turned over onto my stomach and picked up the pen once more.
With one more soft sigh, I finished the sentence I had started.
…complicated. I’m twenty-four now, which makes you twenty-two or twenty-three. Do you still draw and paint? I sure hope so. I promise I didn’t stop writing to you on purpose. There is so much I want to tell you.
Emotions soared inside my chest, but with each stroke of the pen on the page, the lost girl I’d become slowly found her way back. The weight of years and years of silence lifted from my heart. I poured out any and every emotion as it swept over me.
I wrote about the hell I’d endured living with Cameron, the obstacles, and everything in between. A newfound sense of determination settled deep in my soul. I reminded myself that I’d overcome so much. I was a survivor and would find my way.