Return to Glory (Hqn) (10 page)

“No one does. I don’t know where she learned to have that kind of belief, but the world hasn’t ripped it out of her yet. I know it has to happen, but I didn’t want it to be you that did it.”

“Do you think I want to be?”

“No, but you will be. I wanted to keep her safe just a little while longer.”

Jack thought about the things she’d said when they were in bed. When she’d tried to hide her beautiful body from him. “Someone else already broke her heart. I’m not—”

“Whatever Marcel did, he’s not you. She didn’t believe in him the way she believes in you. Even if she told herself she was in love with him, he was not the great and sainted Jack McConnell.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Honestly?” Caleb cocked his head to the side. “I want you to fix your shit. You don’t have to be the kid who left. None of us are. But be a man worthy of the faith and trust that we put in you.”

Caleb’s words, though quiet, burrowed deep like armor-piercing bullets. Jack wanted nothing more than to be that man. But he finally said, “I don’t think I know how.”

“That’s a step above not wanting to and not caring.”

“I’ve never not cared, Caleb. It would be easier if I didn’t.”

Jack’s gaze met Caleb’s, and the rage that was in his eyes was gone. It was just Caleb. His best friend.

He realized that maybe he was so caught up telling people he wasn’t the same person not because he thought they didn’t know, but because he wished he was the same guy who’d left.

If he had been, his life would be almost picture-perfect.

Maybe that was why he didn’t want to come home. This home belonged to that guy. If he’d still been him, it would’ve been a perfect fit. The sweet small town that thought he was the returning hero, a beautiful woman who loved him...

He didn’t need Betsy to tell him that she loved him. He knew that she did.

That she always had.

The old Jack would want to be worthy of that love.

The new Jack knew he never could be.

CHAPTER TEN

B
Y
F
RIDAY NIGHT,
Betsy had had enough of waiting.

Mother Nature seemed to be aware of her plan, if the sky was any indication. She was not pleased, to say the least. Dark clouds rolled in from the west. They were like an ocean of burned marshmallows, black and buoyant. She knew they were called mammatus clouds, and their formation meant that the storm was going to be a door-slammer.

Conditions could possibly be favorable for a tornado, which was unusual for October, but not completely unexpected. She’d grown up hearing all of her neighbors and friends say that if you don’t like the weather in Kansas, wait five minutes.

Betsy loved the volatility, the energy, of the storm. That was something she’d missed about home when she was in New York. There was nowhere else in the world that had storms like Kansas. Sure, other places could get violent or powerful storms, other places had tornados, monsoons, nor’easters—but there was nothing like watching a clear blue sky change into an electric green, the fine hairs on the back of her neck standing at attention and the clouds rolling in from across the plain like a stampeding army from hell in the span of minutes. She’d seen hail on the clear day, known what it was like to have it rain sideways and she even loved the winter wonderland landscape after an ice storm.

Thunder echoed like a clash of swords and she smiled happily.

Until she remembered Jack’s reaction to Johnny Hart’s classic T-Bird backfiring. The thunder must be torture for him.

Whether he wanted to see her or not, she wouldn’t leave him to face this alone.

Decision made, Betsy grabbed her tote and stuffed some supplies inside. She still hadn’t unpacked it from the weekend, but she added clean clothes and her ereader as well as the emergency power source—just in case the weather got really bad.

She didn’t know what he had at his house, so she packed a picnic. He probably hadn’t eaten. Betsy could always be counted on to feed a situation. She chose some pumpkin cookies, the ones with the anise seed eyes and Red Hots mouths, as well as some bottles of water and homemade white dill loaf for sandwiches. Various and sundry items for said sandwiches and fresh fruit.

Romantic images played out in her mind of spending the storm in front of the roaring fireplace in the front room, of making love on the red-and-white-checkered blanket while the thunder rattled the walls. Then they’d stream movies on her ereader, holding on to each other—all fanciful garbage, she knew.

That was okay, because this wasn’t about her. It was about him and being there for him because he needed her.

She kept repeating that mantra over and over in her head on the drive over. Betsy felt sick, thinking about facing him after he’d told her not to come back.

What she heard in his voice wasn’t
I don’t want your help;
it was
I don’t want you
.

When she arrived, the door was open and the window down on the screen. Betsy knocked, rattling the old metal. “Jack?”

“I thought I told you not to come back,” he drawled from the couch.

“Since when do I ever listen?”

“You should start.”

She couldn’t see him, but something about his tone told her she wouldn’t like what she saw when he came into view. He was too relaxed, too flip. She knew it was a facade.

“I brought you something to eat,” she offered.

“Then by all means, intrude. What is it with small towns and the people who live there who think that bringing over a casserole entitles you to entry to someone’s home? Like it’s buying a ticket for a peek at a freak show.”

“I didn’t stop to think about that.” She rather imagined that was what he felt like. It didn’t occur to her that the neighborhood would have stocked his freezer for the next year with green bean casserole, broccoli cheese rice casserole, homemade mac ’n’ cheese, potato salad, all the things you took to a pig roast or a funeral.

“No, you didn’t.”

“Jack, I’m not here for a ticket.”

“Aren’t you?” He sat up and turned to look at her.

“What happened to your face?” she gasped. He looked as if he’d been in a prizefight and lost. His nose was swollen and crooked; one whole side of his face was purple and looked like a split grape.

“The wrath of Caleb.”

“I’m going to kill him.”

“India Tased me and I’m not feeling any pain.” He brought a bottle of that rotgut swill to his lips.

“Are you drunk?”

“Most definitely.”

She sighed, at a loss for what to do. She didn’t know what had happened, but she couldn’t judge him.

Her nose tingled as if she were the one who’d been punched in the face. Tears welled behind her eyes, but if he wasn’t crying, she wouldn’t do so, either.

Resolve hardened, she sat down next to him and took the bottle out of his hand. Their fingers brushed, electric current shooting straight to her core at the contact. Her first instinct was to put the bottle aside and lace her fingers through his, but she knew he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to feel a connection. He didn’t want to hurt.

So instead she brought the bottle to her lips and swallowed. It burned all the way down and it was a struggle not to splutter and cough at the caustic sensation.

“Feeling strong tonight, Betsy? I know you don’t drink this stuff.”

“I’m here as your friend, Jack.”

“Yeah, so was Caleb.” He took the bottle back from her and took another long swallow.

She absolutely would
not
think about his mouth on the bottle. What it was like to kiss it, taste it, to have him move his lips over her flesh and how much she wanted that again.

“So, if you’re not here to condemn me or blow sunshine up my ass, what do you want?” He eyed her. “If you’re looking to get railed, I can’t help you,” he said conversationally. “Been drinking all day.”

He’d effectively distanced himself from her and everything that had happened between them with that one sentence. He was so casual, so dismissive.

Another bout of thunder rattled the house and she watched his knuckles blanch as they tightened around the bottle.

“You can say whatever nasty thing you want to me, Jack. That doesn’t change why I’m here. If you want me to go, I will, but I’ll come back.”

“Then I suppose you should stay.” He guzzled the last of the bottle. “Make yourself useful, then. There’s another of these under the sink.”

Betsy had a choice to make. She could get up and get him the one thing he needed to get him through the night, or she could refuse because it didn’t match up with her beliefs.

Because it killed her hope.

She supposed it wasn’t her hope that she had to worry about, but his. “Okay.” Betsy rose carefully and put one foot in front of the other until she was in the kitchen. With wooden motions and regret, she brought him the bottle.

“I didn’t think you’d do it.”

“We all have our coping mechanisms. This happens to be yours. I told you, I’m here as your friend, not as your lover.”

“That’s an interesting development.”

“Are you hungry?”

“No.”

“I am. So I’m going to have a cookie. Pumpkin.” She rummaged through her bag and pulled out the package of cookies.

Betsy bit into one carefully, as if she was afraid it was going to bite her back. Jack’s eyes focused on her mouth and when he bent in to kiss her, she didn’t turn away, but instead of the pumpkin, cinnamon and anise on her tongue from the sweet, all he could taste was ash.

He pulled back, an unfamiliar look on his face. “Can’t taste it. I tasted things with you. Sweetness.” Jack shook his head. “Now, nothing.”

“I know. I can’t taste it, either. Like damp paper.”

“Good to know.” He thrust the bottle against his mouth again and guzzled. The loud report of thunder and a blinding flash of lighting lit up the sky like a strobe light.

She tried to sit by and stoically watch him drown his pain and himself in the whiskey, but she couldn’t. No matter what she told herself, she just wasn’t wired that way. So she took the bottle again and snagged another drink for fortification before setting it on the far table.

“Thought you weren’t going to judge.”

He knew her too well. Betsy didn’t speak. Instead she pulled on his shoulders and he followed her lead. He reclined down into her lap, the rest of him draped over the couch. She smoothed her fingers through his hair, across his forehead, down his cheek—was careful not to touch him anywhere that hurt.

“You’re killing me, Bets.” He sighed and even though he tried to put on a good show, this was what he needed. Touch. Comfort. Something more than what could be found in a bottle.

“You’re killing
yourself,
” she countered softly. “But we’re not going to think about that right now. You’re going to lie here quiet and still and know that you’re safe. You’re home. I’m not going to let anyone or anything touch you.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He exhaled a heavy shuddering breath.

“You won’t. I’ve had worse than a couple little bruises on my wrists. You probably haven’t looked very closely at my hands, but they’re so scarred from the ovens and slips of the knife, it’s ridiculous. They’re not very pretty.”

“They’re beautiful hands.” He grabbed her hand and pulled it down for inspection, as if he hadn’t seen the mess of scars and flaws that came with her chosen profession.

At least he was letting her do this. Even though this was supposed to be about
his
hope, hers blossomed. He’d shed the bitter facade as soon as she made it clear she wasn’t demanding anything from him, didn’t expect anything from him other than what he’d given her.

She tried not to shiver as the pads of his fingers explored her palms, her knuckles and even her wrists. “I burn myself there all the time,” Betsy managed in a voice that was too high-pitched, too tinny.

“I never noticed. Your hands are always so soft. Scars are supposed to be hard. Rough.”

“It must be from how many times I wash my hands. I use a lot of shea butter lotion.” He didn’t care what kind of lotion she used. It was the most inane thing she could say. The man was in her lap because he’d drunk himself nearly into a stupor to deal with something she couldn’t begin to understand and she was talking about lotion. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He inhaled deeply. “Can’t smell the sugar. The vanilla. Where did it go?”

His question was almost childlike. A stark contrast to the way he’d spoken earlier. The barely leashed anger and disgust.

“The whiskey took it,” she answered. Betsy didn’t want to needle him, but she wasn’t going to lie to him.

“I should stop, then,” he murmured, and turned his face against her stomach, his arm curled around her waist.

Another clap of thunder and strike of lightning rattled the space around them, and he stiffened, but relaxed into her again. She continued stroking the short buzz of his hair tenderly.

The storm seemed to fade in the background compared to the white noise of helplessness that slammed in her ears. She didn’t know what else to do for him. Why had she thought she could do this? That she could save him? Her heart ached so much she felt it all the way in her bones.

“I know you love me, Betsy. I wish I was worthy of it.” His breathing evened and he passed into sleep with that revelation on his lips.

Alcohol was the universal truth serum.

She’d been struggling for a way to let him know how much she cared about him, and that yes, she did love him. Not with some little girl declaration of happily ever after and bubbles and fairy tales. She wouldn’t deny that part of her still hoped for that, but it was more. He had to know he wasn’t alone and that she wouldn’t turn her back on him no matter which parts had broken.

But that wasn’t the problem at all. He
did
know. Now she was at a loss. Betsy continued to watch over him, stroking his hair, his neck, his shoulders with a soothing motion that seemed to calm him. Or maybe he was just too drunk to keep his eyes open. She didn’t know. The storm abated until all she could hear was the slight patter of rain on the windows. The soft, repetitive sound lulled her to a state that wasn’t quite sleep, but her brain was mercifully silent.

The storm hadn’t quite exhausted itself, and when it began to pound and howl, its fury renewed, Jack jerked awake. His eyes were wide, but they weren’t haunted. He scrambled away from her—awkward and desperate for something.

He ran to the bathroom, and it seemed that his stomach was rebelling at the inhuman amount of alcohol he’d been swilling.

Betsy sat on the couch for a few minutes, giving him time to comport himself. She smoothed her hands down her skirt, staring absently at the happy cupcake print until she heard the water for the shower running.

She went to the door. “Are you okay?”

“No, Bets. I’m really not.”

“I’m coming in.” She waited for him to tell her not to, but he didn’t, so she cracked the door and slipped inside. “What’s wrong?” Betsy laughed nervously. “I guess that’s a stupid question.”

“You were right. I don’t want to spend my time like this. I don’t want to be my dad.”

“You’re not,” she said through the shower curtain that hung between them almost like a confessional.

“It’s either pain or numbness. Why can’t anything feel good?”

“You said
I
felt good,” she blurted.

“We’ve been over that.”

“And neither of us likes the answers we found. So we change them.”

“How?”

His question caused that little candle flicker of hope to explode, but she didn’t have an answer for him. “I don’t know yet, but we can figure it out.”

It seemed he thought the same thing about the curtain, that it could be used to hide his sins, because he said softly, “I’m afraid.”

“Of what?”

“That I can’t figure it out. That there aren’t any other answers.”

“Maybe we should just change the question.”

“What would you change it to? Right now if you could change it to anything you want, what would it be?”

There were a hundred things on the tip of her tongue, but only one that was going to get her what she wanted. “Why I’m not in there with you.”