Mended Affections (The Affections Series Book 2) (6 page)

"I really wasn't trying to be a dick that night. I just don't get why there are so many women out there that don't value themselves enough to hold men accountable for how they treat them. I'm no angel. I've been that guy many times in my life. To be completely honest, I could use being that kind of guy today," I say.

"Wanna talk about it?" she asks, stopping her cleaning to stand directly in front of me again.

Looking up into her beautiful eyes, I notice the smallest smile touch her lips. "Nah, I'm not here to talk about that shit. I'm here to forget about it, so how about you keep me company. Only one rule though."

Kelsie places her hands on the counter and leans in my direction. "Oh yeah, what's that?"

"You have to keep that smile on your face," I answer.

Her smile grows. "That can be arranged, as long as we don't get into all the shit that both of us want to escape."

"Deal. Grab me another, Kelsie," I say, lifting my beer and tipping it in her direction.

We spend the next few hours laughing, joking, and forgetting about my situation at home.

Reagan

Today has been a great day. We haven't laughed this much in a long time. It was healing to see Dylan's face light up, while talking about his hunting adventure this morning. His happiness brought me a sense of peace. This is a step in the right direction for them. Not only is there joy in this house today, but they talked about their father without freezing up or crying. We all made it through with smiles on our face.

My happiness lasted for a while throughout the day, but it's been hours since Striker left without saying a word. The one thing I'm trying to focus on is the fact that he seemed happy this morning, too. Maybe I'm over thinking things, but I have been keeping my distance lately. I just need to focus on fixing me, before I can fix any of my relationships with others. Maybe it's time I talk to him about it. I don't want him to think he's done anything wrong. I just fear that his behavior today is his way of working through the distance I created between us.

I stand from my seat on the couch, "Boys I'm headed up to take a bath and relax for a bit. If Striker comes home, can you let him know I need to talk to him?"

Dylan turns away from the movie to answer. "Sure, Ma. Everything okay?"

"Yeah, honey, I just wanted to relax for a bit, and I don't want to miss him coming home. It's nothing important." I walk out of the living room and head up the stairs.

I soak in the warm bath for a bit, trying to clear my mind of any thoughts. It only works for a short time, before my mind wanders. The grief support group that I have been frequenting is helping me cope with things, and I actually want to maybe move on with my life. At first, it was strange to share my own story, but after listening to others, I can't help but feel a sense of relief.

My life wasn't exactly how I saw it when Dalton was alive. I'm actually shocked to see things in a different light, one where I can see, for once, how unhealthy my marriage was. Not because of Dalton, he never demanded for me to be any certain way, but because I sat back on many occasions, never voicing my feelings about our life together. I focused solely on his happiness, going along with everything, so he would stay happy with me. Realizing this was sobering. I've missed out on being my own person, making my own decisions.

I am weak. I don't want to be that way anymore. I miss Dalton every day, but his death was a wakeup call. I need to fix what is broken inside of me. He helped to hold it together for a while, but this time I need to do it on my own. That's why I have to keep my distance from Striker. I can't fall back into my same old routine of leaning on a man. It's time I supported myself. My happiness will be my choice. I may take forever to figure it out, but that's okay.

The water begins to turn cold, and my skin is starting to wrinkle. Deciding that I've been sitting here long enough, I step out of the tub and begin to dry off. As I'm wrapping the towel around my body, I hear a knock at the door.

"Rea?" Striker says through the door.

"Just getting out of the bath, Strike. I'll be out in a minute." I turn toward the mirror and take in my reflection. My skin is still slightly damp, flushed from the warm water, and my hair a wet tangled mess. How I look, right now, is exactly how I feel on the inside, a complete mess, washed anew and ready to be made into something beautiful again. This time I feel it deep within me, and I don't want to do it just for my kids, but for me as well. Life is too short not to be whole.

I open the door and run smack dab into Striker's chest. "Damn, I didn't think you would wait right here."

"I didn't want to go too far, and then have you change your mind about talking to me, and run off and hide," he says, as I catch the smell of alcohol on his breath.

Stepping back from him, I walk over and take a seat on my bed, holding tightly onto my towel. "Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk about."

Striker walks about my room, not looking in my direction, and waves his hands as he speaks. "Now, of all days, you want to speak to me. I find that interesting actually, because it's been bothering me for a while. Then today, I have an amazing time with my son, one of the best we've had together, and you want to ruin it by talking."

This is not him. Striker does not act like this, "Are you drunk?"

"I'm far from drunk." He turns to look at me, and I can see it in his eyes.

"Oh please, you're wasted. Look at you." I jump up from the bed and walk toward him. "Did you drive home?"

"Yeah, I did, ‘cause I'm not fucking drunk." He stares down at me now, trying to prove me wrong, but he's only making it more apparent.

How dare he put his life in danger? We've had enough loss in this house. My kids wouldn't be able to take something bad happening to him. Who am I fooling? I wouldn't be able to either. He is the man of our house now. The person the boys look up to. He's my best friend. Even if I haven't shown him lately how much he means to me, it doesn't change that fact. Just the thought of him putting himself in harm’s way, causes tears to flood my eyes.

"Please go sleep it off. We can talk another time," I say.

His hand slowly rises until his palm rests against my cheek. "Why the tears, Rea? Talk to me now."

I can't help but melt into his touch, closing my eyes. "No, Striker, I was ready, but not now. I need your head clear. This is important, and I don't want any misunderstandings between us."

His hand drops. "Okay, tomorrow then?"

I nod in response. Striker stands there, staring at me with frustration for a few moments, before retreating from my room.

It's late in the day, and I have so much to prepare for Thanksgiving tomorrow. There will not be a large group of us, but I do like to have a variety of dishes on the table. My goal is to keep things as normal as possible, since this is our first big holiday without Dalton. I was supposed to head to a group meeting tonight, but I just want to curl up in bed and get some sleep.

I missed him today. I could just see him standing there along with Dylan, with the biggest smile on his face, joining in on the excitement, since it was Dylan's first big buck. They would have talked about where to hang the mount in the office, and Dalton would have picked a spot straight in front of his desk, so he could always be reminded of this special time. I would have seen picture, after picture, of them in the woods, holding up its large rack, to capture just how big this deer was.

God, I hope Striker took pictures. He's not Dalton when it comes to the boys. Not that it's in a bad way, but I don't know if I'll ever know what to expect with him. He is more random, and can take you by surprise, while Dalton was structured and predictable. Maybe that's why I always felt safe with him. I always knew what to expect.

I pull back the covers and stare down at the bed. Looking over at the clock, it's only seven thirty. My boys are still awake and playing in the living room. I promised I wouldn't do this anymore. I don't want to cower and hide when I have bad days. I want to be strong and move forward, learn how to deal with the pain I feel inside.

Most days though, I find myself with nothing to occupy my mind once the boys are in school. I can't help but reflect on how things were and the loneliness of life with Dalton gone.

Striker's been staying busy with work outside of the house, and there is only so much I can do in the office. Free time is my enemy. I often wonder if I should get a job outside of the house, but then worry that it will affect my children. I haven't worked in years, and the idea is a little terrifying, but it's been on my mind a lot lately. There are several older women I've met in grief counseling, who didn't work for over thirty years. They said finding something else in life that required their attention was helpful in the healing process. They made new friends and felt accomplished.

Feeling like it doesn't need to be decided today, I drop the blankets and leave my wandering thoughts behind in my room. I need to surround myself with my kids.

Walking down the steps, I notice Striker on the couch, with Colt's head in his lap, as he strokes a hand over his hair. He doesn't notice me enter the room and take a seat in the chair. He's staring down at Colt, lost in thought. Pain is evident on his face. Immediately I feel guilty. When was the last time I asked him how he was holding up? I've barely talked to him at all.

"Striker," I say in a low voice, trying not to startle him.

His eyes meet mine, and they are brimmed with tears. My heart breaks as I watch a single tear trickle down his cheek. I silently nod my head toward the kitchen. Pushing up from my seat, I walk to the empty room and take a seat at the island. It takes him a few minutes, but he finally joins me.

He must have taken a moment to compose himself before coming to talk. His eyes are clear and his face dry. I can't help but reach up and feel his soft skin to see if the dampness is still there.

"I'm sorry, Rea. I was being selfish. After sitting with the boys, I realized what was at stake and how irresponsible I was today," Striker says, his voice raspy and full of emotion.

I stand from my stool and wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him in. He tucks his head down and buries his face in my neck. His thick, strong arms slide around my waist, squeezing me tight. "I'm sorry, Strike. I've cut you out with no explanation. That wasn't my intention. I was just trying to focus on fixing me."

"We promised to be there for one another. I don't have anyone else, other than you, Rea. Please don't force me out of your life." His breath tickles across my neck, causing my skin prickle, and his statement breaks me a little more. How could I not check up on him?

Pulling away, I look into his sad hazed eyes. "Striker, we really need to talk. I have so much to say about how I'm feeling lately. Nothing is your fault. Please understand that. I just can't have this conversation when you've been drinking."

Striker closes his eyes and leans forward until his forehead presses to mine. We stay like this for a few minutes, standing in silence, wrapped up in the peace we are able to bring one another. It's always been this way. No matter how I was feeling when I was younger, Striker could wash it all away. I've never been able to explain it. I never really needed to. I learned to accept this connection, once Dalton shared his diagnosis with me. I needed it. The peace. The silence. The calm.

Once he leans back, I step out of his grasp and head to the cabinet to grab popcorn for the boys.

"I think I'll head to bed. See you in the morning, Rea." Striker stands from his stool and disappears down the hall.

"Goodnight," I whisper, once he's out of view.

Placing the popcorn into the microwave, I take a few deep breathes as I wait. How do you help someone else, when you can barely help yourself? I need to find a way to cope, without relying on someone else to help me through. I just never realized that I was hurting Striker by doing so.  Isn't that me though? I’m self-centered and unable to recognize when others have feelings, too.

I thought for a while that my willingness to go along with whatever Dalton wanted was to make him happy, but I'm slowly learning how wrong I was. I went along with everything for purely selfish reasons. I never wanted to upset him because of my fear that he would leave me. I lived my entire marriage to him, worried that if I didn't comply with his needs and desires, he would just up and walk away.

It's a terrible feeling, to think that I didn't trust his love for me. In my head I know his love for me was genuine and boundless, but in my heart, I was afraid.

The sound of the microwave beeping pulls me from my thoughts. The temperature of the bag is hot to the touch, so I juggle it along the way, as I walk to the living room. Sitting next to Dylan, I pry the top to the popcorn bag apart.

"How's Dad?" Dylan asks, with worry.

"I'm not sure. We're all trying to figure this new life out." Reaching over, I grab his hand in mine, giving it a light squeeze.

"He was just happy this morning, and then when we got back home, he wasn’t anymore." His forehead wrinkles as he speaks. "I just don't get what changed."

"You can talk to him, honey. I'm sure he would be more than happy to know you worry over him. This is a tough situation, not only did we all lose someone we all loved very much, but our family dynamic has changed too. I'm sure it's difficult for Striker to find his place and not feel like he's trying to fill Daddy's shoes," I respond.

Dylan pulls his hand from mine and grabs a big handful of popcorn. While popping one piece at a time in his mouth, he says, "I hope he doesn't feel weird like that. He's never made me feel like he was trying to replace Dad."

I grab a handful of popcorn myself. "Well, I'm hoping to talk more with him tomorrow. Anything you want me to say?"

"Nah, I'm sure we'll have plenty of time to talk while he teaches me how to butcher my own deer," Dylan says, with a cheesy grin.

My hand freezes halfway to my mouth. "Wait, what? Where are you doing this?"

"I guess outback and in the kitchen. Not really sure, but I can't wait." Dylan hops up from the couch and kisses my cheek as he walks by. "Night, Ma."

I guess he knew I would not like that last bit of information, and decided it was time to make his exit, before I started voicing my concerns with their macho plan to cut up large amounts of meat in my kitchen. I should probably make some plans for myself during their little lesson. Looking over, I notice Colt is beginning to doze off on the couch opposite of me.