Just Breathe Trilogy Box Set (122 page)

Unable to clearly focus on anything else but the flood of memories, I almost miss the stop to switch trains. Sadie follows, staying with me for every step without hesitation. I’m not even sure where I’m going, but I know that I need to go.

After taking a cab from the train station, I find myself frozen in front of my parents’ house, staring blankly at the front door for several minutes until my feet follow their next round of instructions. Without remorse, without timidness, without sadness, my hand reaches forward and unlocks the door. Dropping my purse and Sadie’s leash onto the floor just after the door closes behind me, I scour the house for every known photo album in it. It takes me twenty minutes to find all eighteen of them — sixteen of them are of me; one for every year of my life — my mom loved to take pictures. I don’t bother looking in the two of my parents’ memories of before I was born —
it
won’t be in there. The one that my mom gave to me on my sixteenth birthday gets tossed aside since I know there aren’t any pictures in it. I grab the first book in sight, and one by one, my fingers and eyes scan the pages, searching for something — what? I’m still not sure. Nothing else matters until my quest is complete. I only wish I new what the goal was; it would make this so much easier.

Nothing is discovered in the first album, so I toss it with the ones I know not to waste my time focusing on. The next book has photos of when I was thirteen. Two pages in, I shut it and move on to the next, certain that what I’m looking for is not in that book. The next one I grab is when I was five and without hesitation, my eyes scan each photo. Just past the halfway mark, my hands stop moving and my gaze fixates on a particular photo. I’m not sure what to make of it until two pages later there’s another photo of me at a beach, playing in the sand with a little boy. Needing more proof, I turn to the next page and then the next. The only pictures remaining are ones of me with mom on our school trips, Halloween and then my birthday where it stops and the next book starts.

I scour for the photo album of when I was six, needing to see if there’s a pattern. Sure enough, when the photos reveal summer time shots, I’m at a beach, a different one, just like the previous album with mom and dad — and suddenly, there he is again. The same boy from the previous year’s photos, but a year older.

My heart jumps out of my chest when I see the picture —
that
picture. The exact same one that Mrs. Covelli has in her photo album. The one of the little boy and little girl wearing the same exact clothes, in the same exact pose, with the same exact smiles, holding the same exact ice cream cones. How is this possible? How the hell can Mrs. Covelli have a photo of — me?

My body trembles as my emotions tornado through it, bouncing from shock, to sadness, to happiness and then confusion. How? How can this be?

My eyes dart up to the front door when the sound of it being shoved open echoes in my ears. “Joe?” I eek out, rising to my feet, letting the photo albums around me fall to the floor.

Joe rushes to me, yanking me into his warm, shaking body.

“What . . . what are you doing here?” I ask.

“I came to find you,” he says, fighting tears.

“Why? What happened?”

“What happened?! What happened?!” Joe says, sounding agitated and upset, but desperately trying to control himself. “What happened is that I get a call from my mother telling me you suddenly disappeared. What happened is that you left without telling anyone . . . not even your bodyguards. Thankfully, Ace was able to track you down, tapping into all the street cameras and found you heading into the subway. What happened is that we’ve been searching for you for several hours all while you haven’t picked up your phone once.”

“What are you talking about?” I say, confused. “I haven’t been gone . . . .” My gaze shifts to the clock on the mantel above the chimney and it says that it’s just after two-thirty. “I . . . I don’t understand.”

“What do you
not
understand, Emma?!” Joe says, mad for the first time since I’ve known him. “Do you really think that people wouldn’t notice you were gone? Do you think we wouldn’t care? Do you think I would just let you leave, walk out on me after what we’ve been through?”

“I didn’t walk out on you,” I snap, confused by everything that’s going on.

“I don’t care if you’re scared, Emma,” Joe continues. “I love you. I love our child and there’s nothing I won’t do for either of you.”

“I’m not scared, Joe,” I say, trying to get a word in, but he rambles over me.

“Do you think I wouldn’t be hurt? Wouldn’t be upset at you just leaving?” he says, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Do you even know how much it hurt me to let you go back in December over a set of fucking keys. I loved you then and it darn near broke my fucking heart to let you go. I won’t do it, Emma. I won’t do it again. I won’t let you go. Fuck my feelings, I won’t let you go because of our unborn child. He . . . she, deserves better than you running away each time something happens.”

My voice cracks as my mouth opens, unable to utter a sound, surprised by his words on so many levels.

“I understand if you’re scared, Emma,” Joe says, finally lowering his voice like he’s been defeated. “I’m scared too . . . but, I won’t give up on you. I won’t give up on us. Don’t you see that?”

“I’m sorry,” I say, finally completely crystalizing Joe’s words and my emotions for the first time. “God, I’m so sorry, Joe. I didn’t run. I swear. I didn’t get scared. I’m so sorry that I hurt you. I didn’t mean to hurt you then and I didn’t mean to hurt you now . . . honestly. The last thing I ever want to do is cause you any kind of pain. I love you. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I just . . . .”

Joe’s hands snatch my face and pull my lips to his, forcefully breeching the gap between us. His lips taste salty from his tears and they become tender and softer when they release mine for a split second before taking them again. “Say it again,” he says, rocking his forehead against mine.

“What?” I question, not sure of what specifically from my statement that I said that he needs to hear. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” he corrects. “Before that.”

“The last thing I ever want to do is . . . .”

“Damn it, Emma,” Joe says through gritted teeth.

My lips curl into a smile, not to laugh at him or the situation, but to laugh at myself. I’ve known how I’ve felt about him for a long time now — I’ve just been lying to myself, too afraid to admit it. Hell, I’ve been lying to everyone, especially him.

“I love you,” I repeat happily. “I love you. I love you. I lo. . . .”

Joe’s mouth takes mine with just as much intensity as before. His tongue pushes inward, pressing past the edges of my mouth and my tongue is happy to greet him as my fingers knot in his hair. He scoops me up and awkwardly carries me to the couch as he tries to avoid the the photo albums spread out on the floor and furniture.

Our bodies collide onto the couch when he almost trips. Frantically, our hands rush to remove any and all articles of clothing that are in our way. With desperation, our lips stay linked, breaking momentarily to remove a shirt or two, only to reconnect like magnets that have been pulled apart.

“Say it again,” Joe requests sweetly this time.

With a grin, I repeat, “I love you.”

“I love you, Emma,” Joe states just before sliding his cock inside me.

My lungs suck in air and my head tilts back as he slips in further.

“Say it again,” Joe repeats, tasting my neck.

“I love you,” I confess, happy to let those words flow freely as I reach to take hold of the couch’s arm.

“God, Emma,” Joe grunts, continuing to thrust into me. “You feel so good, baby. I’m yours. I’m only yours.”

“Mmmmm,” I moan as my orgasm surfaces. “I’m yours.”

Joe and I don’t say anything else as our bodies dance in a way they never have before. He’s made love to me and I’ve always done my best to give as much as I could with my body to express myself to him, but this time — this time it’s different. The walls that I’ve been hiding behind come crashing down, shattering completely at this very moment, leaving me exposed, but I don’t care. I need this. He needs this. We need this.

Each kiss feels like the patter of raindrops of a storm while our moans are the rumbles of the wind. Our bodies merging are the echoes of thunder as our orgasms are the cracks of lightening. Our souls entwine like the clouds as the water from our intimate storm washes away the final scars and pain from the past, making way for the warmth of our love to shine bright like the sun.

Some time passes in silence after we’ve finished. There’s no need for words. Joe and I just smile and gaze at each other while we lay naked on the couch. When we hear knocking on the door, Joe and I quickly get up and get dressed.

Once we’re decent, Joe opens the door to find Hunter.

“Just making sure everything is okay, boss,” Hunter says, looking past Joe as if to confirm for himself that I’ve been found.

“We’re good, Hunter,” Joe replies. “Thank you.”

“What should we tell your family, sir?” Hunter inquires. “They’ve been concerned and . . . .”

“Tell them that we’re on our way back,” Joe instructs.

“Yes, sir,” Hunter confirms. He offers me a half smile and then nods before returning to the car.

“Emma?” Joe calls.

“Yeah?” I reply, gathering two of the photo albums to take with me.

“Why
did
you leave?” he asks.

With a smile, I open one of the books. “This,” I say pointing to
the
picture.

Joe looks at it, looks back to me and smiles. Two seconds later, his expression changes to that of a level of comprehension. “Why do you have a photo of me from when I was little?”

“Why does your mom have a photo of me?” I return, pointing to the little girl.

“What?” Joe says, studying the picture more closely.

“That’s me,” I point out.

“That’s not possible because that’s me,” Joe replies pointing to the image of the boy.

“Emma?” Joe calls when the car makes its way onto the bridge into New York.

We haven’t spoken since we got into the vehicle. It’s been a relaxed, comfortable silence with only a touch or glance required.

“Yeah?”

“Are you sure that’s the same picture?” he searches.

“Yes.” I look at him, waiting to see if he’ll say more.

Joe looks out the window as his hand squeezes mine more firmly.

“Joe?”

“Yes, beautiful?”

“You didn’t know?”

“Didn’t know what?” he checks.

“About this?” I say, glancing down at the album.

“How could I have?” he replies.

I shrug my shoulders.

“Do you really think I’d be able to hide this from you if I knew?”

“No,” I say softly without hesitation, knowing that he’s telling me the truth.

“Regardless of what my parents say,” Joe starts. “Will that change anything between us?”

With a soothing smile, my head shakes.

“Good,” Joe sighs with a hint of relief.

“Joe,” I call.

“Yes, beautiful?” he says, turning to look at me.

“I . . . I love you,” I remind, wanting to ease his troubled heart.

Joe pulls my face closer to his and smiles. “I love you,” he replies and then kisses me.

We stay immersed in each other, needing the comfort and safety it provides.

“Thank you,” Joe says.

“For what?”

“For everything,” he answers. “For not really leaving . . . for explaining . . . for telling me . . . .” Joe stops, becoming a little emotional.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner,” I apologize.

“Don’t, beautiful. You don’t need to say that,” he comments. “It was perfect the way it came out.”

“Really?” I check, not believing him completely.

“Yes,” he confirms, kissing me. “It wasn’t forced and you didn’t feel obligated to say it. I know you meant it and that’s all that matters.”

“I do,” I assure.

Joe chuckles.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says, trying to hide his amusement.

“What?” I press.

“You just said
I do
,” he reveals.

My lips purse and I huff at the thought of what he’s implying. If he asked me right now, I would repeat those two little words without hesitation. I watch him, waiting to see if he will — hoping that he will.

“What?” Joe asks timidly.

“Nothing,” I say, brushing it off and curl into his arms.

Forty minutes later, we’re pulling into Joe’s home. We requested for Jimmy and Allen to give us some privacy and invited Joe's parents to join us for dinner, wanting it to only be the four of us while Joe and I do our best to explain what happened as well as try to understand and uncover the truth behind the pictures.

As Anna finishes preparing dinner, Joe, Sadie and I are curled up on the couch and we’re looking at the two photo albums I brought back. Neither of us are able to wrap our heads around the few photos of Joe and me — we both confirm that our memories are fuzzy since we were young.

Dinner goes smoothly because neither Joe nor I know how to bring up our questions to his parents and Mr. and Mrs. Covelli don’t press for an explanation. When Anna serves us dessert and we’re settled on the couch she makes mention of the photo albums, as if she’s reminding us that we’ve forgotten to share them.

“Oh, I’d love to see some photos of you,” Mrs. Covelli announces beaming with anticipation.

I purposefully hand her the book that has
the
photo but don’t say anything. She asks a few questions, hoping that I’ll share a few stories that I can remember as she looks at the pictures. Since they’re from when I was six, I only have fragments of that year.

As she rounds the middle of album, I notice when her expression changes ever so slightly. “You and your parents look so happy in these pictures,” Mrs. Covelli states.

“Thank you,” I reply.

“Oddly, they almost look familiar, but I can’t make it out,” she continues. “And . . . this little boy . . .” her voice halts when she turns the page. Her gaze lifts to me and Joe and then back to the photo several times.

“What’s the matter, my love?” Mr. Covelli inquires, looking more closely at the photos. He takes the book from her hands and just a few seconds later, his face has the exact same expression as his wife’s — bewilderment, shock and surprise.

“Emma knows you have the same photo, mother,” Joe shares. “That’s why she disappeared suddenly. We were hoping you could shed some light as to how that can be.”

“Oh, my,” Mrs. Covelli breathes out. “Oh, my . . . I . . . John.”

Mr. Covelli is speechless.

Joe and I wait patiently for his parents to explain.

“I . . . we . . . we didn’t know,” Mrs. Covelli states as her voice cracks. “I swear.”

“How did you know my parents?” I search.

Mr. Covelli stares at me with remorse as tears well in his eyes. “I’m so sorry we didn’t see it sooner, Emma.”

Mrs. Covelli nods in agreement.

“Your father, Jeffrey,” Mr. Covelli states calmly and confidently before pausing. “Was a good man.” He stops as if searching for what to say next. “It all makes sense. You recognizing something about Emma when we first met her and now this . . . .”

“How did you know my parents?” I repeat, interrupting their thoughts.

“Your father worked for us,” Mrs. Covelli shares.

“What?” Joe asks, clearly not remembering.

“You wouldn’t really remember him, Joseph,” Mr. Covelli attests. “You were only five or six for those two summers when you did meet Emma.”

“We only met and saw you and your mother during those two summers as well,” Mrs. Covelli mentions. “You look a lot like her . . . but, then again, you look like your father too.”

I smile at her words with pride in my heart.

“Your father started off as one of my technicians,” Mr. Covelli resumes his explanation. “If I’m not mistaken, it was either a few years before you were born or right around that time. I hired him for his knowledge and ability with a vehicle of any size. When you were older, his job shifted from just a mechanic to being my personal driver for the first summer you and Joseph first met. It was last minute . . . only a week’s notice . . . George, my regular driver had a family emergency.”

“He was such a sweet man, your father,” Mrs. Covelli adds. “Always smiling. Always helping and going above and beyond what was expected of him.”

“He had phenomenal work ethic aside from being smart and good with his hands,” Mr. Covelli continues.

“John has always been able to read people. Know their strengths and put them in key positions where they will excel,” Mrs. Covelli praises.

“I had told your father that whatever he needed to make it possible to have him around when I needed, to only ask. He had mentioned you and your mother and that he didn’t want to leave the two of you alone for three months,” Mr. Covelli expounds. “So, we got a little apartment that was about a quarter of a mile away from where we were staying in town that first summer . . . to give you and your parents enough privacy for when he wouldn’t be needed, but still close enough if he was needed for something last second.”

“That’s when your father started purchasing the hotels in Italy, Joseph,” Mrs. Covelli mentions.

Joe nods his understanding.

“There were a few times when your mother and you were at the beach and you and Joseph started playing together in the water. At first, I didn’t think about who you were until your father came to get your mother and you after dropping John off with me and the boys,” Mrs. Covelli explains. “You two were so adorable . . . in your own little world. You never paid any attention to your brothers when Emma was around.”

“You two played together almost every day the following summer when we were in Hawaii,” Mr. Covelli adds.

“It was so cute,” Mrs. Covelli continues. “Every morning . . . right after breakfast, you would rush out the door to the sand . . . our place was right on the beach . . . and you would wait for Emma in the same spot. The year after that, your father took the summer off . . . I think there was something with a family member or close neighbor whom your father wanted to stay to assist if needed.”

“Mr. Nelson,” I say under my breath.

“What’s wrong, Emma?” Joe inquires.

“Huh? Oh, nothing,” I reply. “I vaguely remember Mr. Nelson being in the hospital. I think he had a heart attack.”

“He and his wife are such wonderful people,” Mrs. Covelli comments.

“Do they know?” I ask.

“Know what?” Mr. Covelli checks.

“That Joe and I knew each other . . . or knew you?” I say.

“We never met them prior to last Christmas and neither of them said anything to me during the holidays . . . nor did they appear to know and not say anything,” Mrs. Covelli suggests.

My head bobs as I try to process everything.

“I can’t believe that Mr. Steinberger didn’t pick up on it, with Emma’s name and all when we did the paperwork for Raven Media,” Mr. Covelli mentions.

“We didn’t so I can hardly imagine that he would have?” Mrs. Covelli speculates.

“It has been . . . what . . . nine, ten years since the accident?” Mr. Covelli inquires.

“Ten. Yes,” I confirm.

“He looked for you for three years,” Mrs. Covelli shares. “I know he has everything . . . the will . . . all the paperwork with regards to your parent’s estate.”

“We can speak with him tomorrow,” Joe suggests. “I’ll call him first thing.

I nod as I let everything from today sink in.

“How are you feeling, Emma?” Mrs. Covelli seeks.

“Good, thanks,” I confirm.

“Why?” Joe searches.

“If she’s stressed about this, it could be challenging for her and the baby,” Mrs. Covelli informs.

Joe studies me carefully even after I assure him that I’m fine, reminding him that I did some tapping on the way back from New Jersey and I’ll do more once our guests leave.

Our conversation continues for a little while longer as the night goes on, talking mostly about Joe, my parents and me. By the time Joe’s parents leave, Mr. Steinberger has confirmed to meet us in the morning since Joe couldn’t wait and texted. Even though I thought it was a little unnecessary for Joe to reach out to Mr. Steinberger tonight, I’m actually happy that he did. There’s no way I’m going back to California without having more answers — as much that can be done needs to be taken care of before I become too pregnant to travel back and there’s no way I’m willing to be stuck on the East Coast to have my baby.

As we get ready for bed, Joe calls to me from the walk-in closet, “Emma.”

“Yes?” I return, coming from the bathroom.

“We’re moving in together,” Joe states rather than asks in his calm, assertive tone.

“What?” I ask, surprised by his words.

“We’re moving in together,” he repeats in the same calm manner.

“What? Where? Here?” I say stumbling to make sense of what’s happening.

“I don’t care where. You are my home. Our child is my home,” he expounds.

“Wh . . .?” I breathe out the start of another question, trying to understand.

Joe looks at me with a steady expression. “You can move into my place . . . I can move into yours . . . or we can find a new place. I don’t care where. But, it will happen.”

“Wh . . . .”

“We’re having a child, Emma,” Joe states, cutting me off again. “This is one thing that is not up for debate . . . not with everything we’ve been through,” Joe shares.

I sit on the edge of a chair, speechless.

“I love you. You love me. We’re having a child together . . . and it’s the next logical step,” he states.

My mouth stays closed as my body is oddly turned on. I’m speechless thanks to the heightened arousal I feel that easily overpowers my brains objections to Joe’s demands.

“We don’t have to name him Joe Jr. if he’s a boy,” Joe mentions. “But, there is no debate about us moving in together.”

“Why am I not allowed to . . . .”

“Emma,” Joe says, cutting in.

I study him — seeing the need for control, the need for certainty, the need for security in his eyes. “Okay,” I agree.

Joe doesn’t say anything for a second, like he’s not sure he heard me correctly. “Okay?”

“Okay,” I repeat.

“You’re not going to argue with me about this?” he investigates, not convinced by my answer.

“Nope,” I confirm, standing and moving toward him.

“Really?”

“Really.” My arms wrap around his waist.

“The name thing?” he checks with worry in his voice as he brushes strands of hair out of my face.

“We can still name him Joe Jr. like I agreed before,” I confirm.

Joe eyes me. “You sure?”

“Yes,” I giggle and then kiss him.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Okay . . . where is my Emma and what have you done with her?” Joe asks.

“I’m right here,” I tease.

Joe stands silently, just watching me.

“I love you,” I say.

Joe smiles. “I love you.” He leans in, pressing his lips to my head as he holds me closer.

Once in bed, Joe holds me tight for a long while and neither of us seem to be able to sleep. His fingers slip under the edge of my panties, tracing the scar from the accident — he’s done this a few times, especially when it’s been a topic of conversation.

“Emma?” Joe calls sweetly, shifting down my body to where he rests his head on my thigh.

“Yeah?” I reply, dancing my fingers in his hair.

His thumb trails back and forth over the bump several times. “Nothing.”

“What?” I ask, pressing softly.

“I swear . . . I didn’t know,” he says, then kisses my scar.

“I know,” I soothe. “I believe you.”

“Emma?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think . . . do you think we would have ever met . . . you know, later in life, if your parents were still alive?” he asks gently.

“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully.

“I’d like to hope so,” he comments.

“With a smile, I reply, “Me too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I agree.

“I know you miss them,” Joe says. “But, in a way, they’ve come back to you . . . you know, with us finding out that we knew each other before?”