Chapter Thirty-Seven
brEANNA
THE EMERGENCY took longer than I expected, and the cab of my truck smells like poop and fermented grass.
I ended up having to do a rectal exam to check her gut, but then there was the smell of the gas that came from the tube I inserted.
I changed into a clean shirt before I got in the truck, but my mistake was absentmindedly setting my dirty shirt on the back floorboard.
Normally, I would have tossed it into the bed of the truck to wash later, but my mind was on the kids and wanting to be there before they went to bed.
My two-hour emergency stretched into four.
Now I’m driving with my window down in below-freezing weather.
Stopping to toss the shirt in the back would take time I don’t want to waste.
Is this what it feels like to be a mother? Desperately trying to make it home before bedtime just to say goodnight? Am I overthinking it? Does a true mother feel even more? Does a true mother make sure she’s home before bedtime?
It’s been less than a week and I’m already so attached to those two babies that they fill all the open spaces of my thoughts. They’ve got me checking and then double-checking my abilities because I don’t want to let them down. I want to do what I can to give them a good home.
Do I have what it takes to do that? Or am I just kidding myself?
Then there’s Mato. I know he’s not going to leave Koda; he’s made that clear. They’re kind of a package deal.
As I twist and turn on the back-country road that leads to the ranch, my thoughts are just spinning in my head, kicking up all kinds of questions and doubts like a twister. Should I take comfort in the fact that Mato won’t leave Koda?
Does that mean he wouldn’t leave again? Would he not leave Koda, but leave me? He said he wouldn’t leave me again, and I want to believe him. For the most part, I do believe him. There are just those insecurities and doubts that keep creeping up like slugs that only come out at night.
My thoughts go back to the kiss the other night. The warmth of him, the careful way he held my face, the way he pulled away before I could, before either of us could get swept somewhere neither of us is ready to go. He was protecting me from myself, the same way he always did.
I want you to be sure.
I don't know how to be sure of anything when it comes to him. I know he's here. I know what my body does when he walks into a room. I know that when he says he's not going anywhere, I believe him for whole minutes at a time before the fear slides back in and tells me not to.
What I don't know is how to stop measuring the man in front of me against the ghost of the boy who left.
The house is quiet when I walk in. I toe my boots off at the front door and try to quietly push it shut and slip the bolt in place. The nightlights plugged into every room are almost like track lights, and I tiptoe across the creaky wooden floor.
As I pass the den, I hear a whispered, “Hey.”
Stopping mid-creep, I turn to see Mato in the soft, dim light, sitting on the couch with Nova sprawled across his chest, a soft snore rattling with each breath.
The sight almost brings tears to my eyes.
He looks like a father holding his daughter and my mind immediately wonders if that is what he would have looked like holding our child.
Without thinking, I press my palm over my sternum. She looks so tiny against him, her thick black braid lying next to her arm on his chest.
My eyes meet his, and I’m not sure if the love and affection looking back at me are for Nova or for me. “She wouldn’t go to bed without you.”
The hand on my chest moves to my lips, and now tears do come to my eyes. He stays put as I move toward him, his eyes locked on me. I sit on the edge next to him and lean my arm on the back of the couch so I can see her face as I wipe the tears from my cheeks.
She looks so peaceful, and I slide the tip of my finger down her temple and push some stray hair behind her ear. She doesn’t move, so I whisper, “Hey.” And slide my palm down her arm that is hanging limp off Mato’s arm.
Her eyes flutter, and the snoring stops as she slowly looks at me, recognition taking her a few seconds. When her eyes are all the way open, she stares at me. “Hey, baby, I’m sorry it took me so long.”
I wrap my hand around her small one and I breathe a sigh of relief when she tightens her fingers around mine. She lifts her head and blinks. “Did you fix the horse?”
I nod and squeeze her hand. “I did, and I got back as soon as I could. Are you ready to go to bed now?”
She nods and pushes herself up on Mato’s chest as she moves toward me. I grab her under the arms, and she wraps them around my neck as I stand up, her cheek on my shoulder. I don’t get three steps before her beautiful, soft, angelic voice says, “You stink.”
I chuckle as I stroke her back with my hand. “That’s what colicky horses smell like.”
When I get to the doorway, I turn to look at Mato, and he’s standing in front of the couch, stretching.
The bottom of his shirt untucks from his pants as he lifts his arms over his head, a sliver of his toned stomach visible makes my insides heat.
When he puts his arms down and looks at me, he stretches his neck from side to side and winks at me before I step around the door.
It doesn’t take long to get Nova in bed. As soon as I kissed her forehead and put her unicorn next to her, she rolled onto her side and went to sleep. Now to take a shower and wash the ‘stink’ off me.
My stomach growls as I put on my lounge pants and one of my old sleep shirts, and then twist my still-damp hair up on my head.
Sloane usually puts a plate in the oven when someone misses dinner, and my mouth waters as I think of whatever might be waiting for me.
I had a small lunch today, and now I’m starving.
As I get to the bottom of the stairs, I can see dim light from the track lights under the cabinets shining into the hallway to the kitchen, and there is quiet movement. I glance at the grandfather clock outside the dining room. It’s almost midnight, who’s up this late?
I stop in the doorway, and Mato is pulling a plate of food out of the warming oven with an oven mitt on his hand. When he turns to set it on the island, our eyes meet. The plate makes a soft tink sound on the granite, but his eyes are locked on mine.
Stepping up to the other side of the island, I set my hands on the granite. “What are you doing down here?”
He scoots the plate across the island toward me and takes the mitt off his hand. “Did you have dinner?”
My smile is automatic as my heart somersaults in my chest, and I shake my head. “Uh-uh. I was coming down to see if Sloane left me a plate in the oven.”
He turns and gets a napkin and fork from the counter behind him. “She did.” He slides them across the island.
Using the napkin to pull the plate closer, I tear my eyes away from his to see what they had. Spaghetti, Lainey Rai’s favorite. The smell of the red sauce fills my nose, and my stomach growls again.
“Sit down. Eat.” It’s a soft order, and my eyes lift back to him.
“Did you come down here to warm my food up for me?” I push myself up on my tiptoes to sit on the barstool under the lip of the counter.
He nods, one side of his mouth tips up, and there is humor in his eyes. “I did.”
I twirl my fork in the pasta and lift an eyebrow. “What if I was too tired to eat and went right to bed?”
His smile grows. “There was the possibility; I was hoping you wouldn’t.”
The sweetness of his gesture sends a rush of warmth through me that swirls in my lower belly.
I take a bite and my eyes practically roll back in my head. So good. I hum as I chew, and he smiles bigger. Holding my hand over my mouth, I say, “I hate going to bed hungry.”
“I remember.”
The mention of memories, things he remembers from before I felt abandoned, reminds me of all the questions and doubts swirling through my head earlier, and I look down at my plate, my smile gone.
“I’m sorry.” His voice lowers as he says it.
I shake my head and twirl my fork in my pasta again. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay, and I’ll keep saying it until I don’t have to see that look in your eyes again.”
I take another bite of my pasta, but some of the flavor is gone and I don’t feel as hungry as I did. Setting my fork down, I wipe my mouth with my napkin. “I’m trying. I know there's a difference between what you did and who you are, and I’m trying to separate the two in my mind.
“Where I keep getting stuck is the silence.
I could have been angry at you for leaving and still survived it.
I've been angry at a lot of things and survived.
" The ache I've been pressing down moves up my throat.
"But I waited for you. I waited every single day for the phone to ring, or a letter, something, and the silence just kept getting louder.
It got so loud I couldn't hear anything else. "
I have to stop and look away as I fight the tears back. “You just disappeared and there was… nothing.”
He looks at me for a long moment, his jaw set, something working behind his eyes. "Wait here.”
He leaves the kitchen, and I hear the front door softly squeak on its hinges, and he’s outside for two minutes before I hear his truck door close and then the front door squeaks again. He comes into the kitchen with something in his hands.
It's a small wooden box, a simple latch on the front holding it closed. The wood is dark, almost black in the low light, worn smooth at the edges from being handled.
He sets it on the island between us without a word and takes a step back.
I look at him.
"Open it," he says.
I reach for the latch and open it slowly. There are so many folded pieces of paper that they nearly reach the top. They’re letters. My fingers tremble as I reach for them, but stop. He wrote me letters. “How many?”
“One a month. For ten years.”
My shaky breath is the loudest thing in the room as I push my plate away from me and pull the box closer.
He shifts his weight and sets his hands on the counter.
"I know I said I would write. I wrote. I just couldn't make myself send them.
Every time I picked up the phone or sat down to address an envelope, I told myself, one more week, give her one more week to settle, don't distract her from what she's building.
And then one week became a month, and a month became a year, and by then I'd convinced myself so thoroughly that you were better off that I couldn't get out of my own way.
" He pauses. "It's not an excuse. It's just what happened. "
I pick up the top letter and unfold it; they are all folded into thirds, and there is a date in the top right corner.
This one was written two years ago. The small block handwriting so familiar.
I read the first line: I’ll be getting my bachelor’s next week; I won’t have a big graduation like yours, but I wish I could share it with you.
A tear falls and splashes on the paper, and I stop reading to look up at him. “Why did you keep them?”
"Because they were the closest thing I had to you.
" His voice is low, sadness in his tone.
"I know how that sounds. I know I'm the one who put the distance there, and then I was writing letters to close it.
I know that doesn't make any sense." He shakes his head.
"No matter where I was — North Carolina, Hawaii, Virginia — when I sat down to write one, it was like you were in the room.
Like I could talk to you the way I always did, without the distance I'd put between us. "
“Mato.” My voice cracks and I suck in a breath.
"I know it doesn't fix it. I'm not giving you this to fix it.
" He takes a step toward me so that there’s only a foot of space between us and sets his hand over mine on the counter.
"I'm giving it to you because you said the silence got so loud you couldn't hear anything else, and I need you to know that I was always talking to you. I was telling you things I didn’t want to say to anyone else. I missed you every day."
Turning my hand over under his, I curl my fingers around his palm.
We stay like that for several long moments before he leans toward me and presses his lips to my forehead.
He pulls away and looks me in the eyes. "Read them or don't. Burn them if you want.
They're yours; they always were. But I need you to know that I never forgot you.
Not for a single day. Not for a single hour. "
If I talk, I’ll sob, so I just nod.
He slides his hand to the nape of my neck and presses a soft kiss to my lips before he nods in response and leaves the kitchen.