The Light of Day (24 page)

Chapter Thirty-Five

Jake

Cora excuses herself to go change when we step inside and, because I need the time to pull my shit together and keep from making this about me and her, I nod and turn toward the couch.  The minute her bedroom door closes, I close my eyes and scrub my hands over my face.  In theory, this was a great plan, romantic even.  In reality, it’s fucking brutal.

              Christ, is it possible to hurt this bad and still be alive?

              Must be, since I’m here, in the place that felt more like home than any other I’ve ever lived, waiting for the girl I’m pretty sure owns me.  Jesus, if this is how Romeo felt when he fell in love, I’m not surprised the poor bastard made so many bad decisions when he was trying to keep Juliet.  Love really fucks with you.

              When Yogi sidles up beside me, I smile down at him and lean down to scratch his ears, slightly mollified when he closes his eyes and arches his back, a deep purr resonating throughout.  At least someone missed me.

I hear the door open and then Blue’s footsteps as she pads quietly down the hall, so I stand and turn around to watch her walk into the living room, even though my brain is telling me it’s a dumbass thing to do.  It is, as my abused and aching heart takes another hit when I watch her walk in wearing those yoga pants that stop just below her knee with an oversized tank top the color of summer skies.  Her hair is smoothed back from her face and left to spill in a tail past her bare shoulders, and her face clean and free of any makeup and still I can’t look away from her, as mesmerized by her beauty now as I was the first day I saw her.  The only thing that keeps me from reaching for her are her eyes, haunted, dark, and so unlike the Cora I left sleeping months ago.

              Whatever’s happening to Blue right now is beyond her and me, bigger than any dream I’ve ever had or lost.  It’s her life, what she knows and doesn’t, her demons and her fears all rearing up to hit her while she’s down.  Reminding myself why I came, I take a non-threatening step toward the chair and away from her to sit, hoping she’ll take it as the invitation it was meant to be.

              She waits for me to sit and then walks around to sit on the couch, curling her legs under her.  Yogi looks between us as if to choose, and then jumps onto the couch next to Cora, settling into her side and purring for her fingers like he did for mine not thirty seconds ago, opening his eyes only enough to stare at me as if he knows I’m jealous of him.  And I am, the smug bastard.

“I’m sorry they called you,” she says without preamble, and I can’t help the small smile that curves at my lips.  My siren might feel like she’s broken, but there’s strength left in her yet, and she just showed me the first little bit of it.

              “I’m not.”

              She raises her eyebrows.  “You’re not what?”

              “Sorry they called.  But I am sorry that you didn’t think you could, or should, that the way we left things made you feel like I didn’t want to be here for you anymore.”

              Something like fear flickers in her eyes before she looks away.  I notice that the calm that surrounded her before I left, the ability to be still and process things has somehow been replaced with nervous movements and fidgeting, as if she’s lost her center and is searching for it.

“I need some coffee,” she says and gives Yogi one last scratch before she stands and heads into the kitchen.  I give her eight seconds — the exact amount of time I need to calm the fuck down — before I stand to follow, flipping Yogi the bird as his eyes follow me.  I swear if he could laugh at me, he would be.  Leaning back against the counter, I watch her walk to the machine in the corner and take a pod out of a jar.

              She opens a latch and sets the pod in, pressing it down before hitting some button.  Soon, the scent of coffee fills the room and she turns to look at me. 

“Jake, it’s not that I’m not glad you’re here, I am, I just… I don’t know, I just can’t think right now and it’s been a hard few days.”

I step forward and stop her before she says anything else, all too aware of why she thinks I’m here and the weight that assumption has put on her already overburdened shoulders.

              “Blue, we need to talk because everything I thought I knew about why I walked away isn’t so clear anymore.  But,” I say when that fear settles over her face again, “right now, I’m here for you for a few hours because I wanted to let you know you could lean on me, nothing more, okay? We can talk if you want, or we can sit.  We can go for a run, or you can go take a nap while I sit here with you, or we can just sit and not talk.  Whatever you need, I just want to be here for you.”

              She stares at me, studying my face as if to see that I’m being honest.  I stay still, my eyes never leaving hers as I let her see that I mean what I say, that I just want to be here for her until I can’t any longer.  Finally, she breathes out a sigh and nods her acknowledgment and I relax.

              “Coffee?” she asks.

              “Jesus, yes,” I say and she smiles.

              When she hands me my cup, doctored with the heap of sugar I usually use, I’m careful to keep my fingers from brushing against hers as I take it.  Without a word, we walk to the table and sit, drinking from our mugs in silence for a while.  It’s not a heavy silence, but there’s an energy to it, one that we both recognize, but don’t know how to deal with.  Because I’m not sure what she wants to share, or if she wants to share anything at all, I’m taking my cue from her and letting the silence hang.

              “What if you ask me questions, like we used to?” she says after nearly ten minutes, and I look over from my view of the window to stare at her.  She clears her throat.  “What if you ask me questions, and I answer them? Whatever questions you want, anything… just ask, and I’ll talk, I’ll tell you.  I want to tell you,” she says and I understand what she’s doing.  She doesn’t know how to begin, how to start off what is sure to be a gruesome tale — but she also doesn’t want to lock me out, or herself in.  Trying again to remember that this is about her and not us, I clear my throat and lean forward, resting my forearms on either side of my cup on the table.

              “Are you all right?”

              Her eyes flick away from mine and find a spot on the table.  “I don’t know.  I didn’t take a drink, didn’t go home with anyone, but…”

              Her eyes twitch from the spot on the table to me.  Devastation coats her face and I squeeze my hands into fists.

              “What happened, Blue?”

              “My mom had a stroke.  I was with her, doing her hair, trying and failing not to be pissed at her for saying she wished my father would just put her in a home and forget about her.”  Her lips press together and I squeeze my hands tighter to keep from reaching from her.  “I finally snapped and told her to stop being selfish, to think of him and me and how much we loved her.  And then she had a stroke — brought on by an elevated heart rate and stress, the doctor said.”

              Bingo.  I don’t have to ask her the question to know that Cora thinks this is her fault, that she went out looking for a drink and a willing man because she was already so sick of herself she didn’t want to think anymore.  And yet, she still called her friend, the one that would face down fire with a right hook if she thought she needed to, which is another sign of the sheer strength my siren possesses and forgets about.  Hoping to remind her, I ask another question.

              “Why’d you call A.J.?”

              “Because I knew she would come see me,” she answers honestly.  With a sigh, she adds, “Because I’m weak enough to want someone else to save me when I’m not capable of saving myself.”

              “Wrong,” I say and turn her face toward mine with a fingertip under her chin.  “If you were weak, you wouldn’t be here, Cora; you never would have moved home to face every demon that’s ever haunted you, you would have just kept running.  You’re so fucking strong, Blue, you don’t even know it.  You want to know why you called A.J.? Because you knew she would come and get you, that she
could
; you knew she wouldn’t let you down and you trusted her to help you.”  If it feels like a knife is slicing into my chest at those words and the fact that she didn’t call me, that she had no reason to call me because I’m the one that walked away, I do my best to ignore them.

              “It’s not weak to admit you need someone, Cora,” I tell her and it hits me here and now how true it is.  I walked away because I was afraid I would hurt her, or she would hurt me, that neither of us would survive whatever we had because it was so strong, so real, and so fucking scary.  Now, shit, now isn’t the time to admit that I need her more than I need anything or anyone, because with her I can survive anything.

Swallowing that back, I hold out my hand and wait for her to take it.  “You’re stronger than you know, Blue, and asking for help only proves that.”

She stares at me, her hand in mine, and I wish to Christ I could lean forward and put my lips on hers, pull her into my lap and just hold her, let her know that I’ll always be here if only she’ll forgive me and let me, that I’ll protect her so she never feels the need to give away any part of herself again just to ease the pain.  But I don’t, because even that offer would have expectations on it, expectations and considerations she isn’t ready to deal with, so instead, I hold her hand and wait for her to tell me what she needs.

“I’m sorry they called you,” she says again, only this time she continues before I can interrupt.  “But I’m not sorry you came, either.  Thank you,” she says and I understand that she’s talking about more than the long drive.  Not pressuring her, not asking for more than she has to give, more than she can process right now.

Hoping she understands, too, I scrape my thumb over her knuckles.  “Always, Blue.  I mean it.  I’m not going to disappear again,” I say because I can’t help it.  “So don’t be afraid to send a text or leave a message — I’ll always call back, and I’ll always listen.  Okay?”

She nods and I know that it has to be enough for now.  Sitting back, I pick up my cold coffee and drain it, swallowing back all of the words I want to say to her.  Not the time, I remind myself.

              “Any other questions?” she asks and I see how tired she is.

              I work to shift gears and ease the tension, to give her a break so she can relax.  My grin is almost real when I flash it.  “Yeah, did you wear those pants to torture me?”

              She responds like I hope, and her smile is light and teasing.  “Of course.”

~

We keep the rest of the day casual.  We do end up going for a run along the water, and even though the sun is blaring and the mid-July weather is near sweltering in the afternoon, I feel more content than I have since I left almost three months ago.  Neither of us acknowledges the routine we slip seamlessly back into when we walk home from the water and make small talk.  When we walk into the apartment, she heads to the shower and I start dinner, trading off with her when she comes into the kitchen clean and smelling like almonds and flowers and everything else that makes my head swim and my blood hum.

She’s wearing a pair of faded jean shorts that are probably new, though they’re ripped and short enough that the pockets hang longer than the frayed hem to grace her thighs. Her black and white striped tank top is loose and shapeless, just meeting the waist band of her shorts with wide arm holes, hanging on her in just a way that I glimpse the flesh beneath every now and then, and her skin looks golden and smooth, enticing me to touch, just a brush of my fingertips.  I don’t, because I’m sure that one touch won’t be enough, so instead, I hand her a bottle of water and grab my small bag of clothes.

“Okay if I shower?” I ask and she nods.

Twenty minutes later, I’m wearing a new T-shirt and some gray Volcom shorts that I brought with me, my feet bare like hers while we share a dinner of grilled chicken and pineapple at the table.

We’ve talked about nothing important since we sat here this morning, and I wonder if we’ll keep up the same sort of small talk.  She surprises me when she asks a question first.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at your game against Boise?”

I pause mid bite and raise my brow at her.  “Do you know my schedule, Blue?”

She nods without hesitating, her smile small but honest.  “I’ve been thinking about you, Handsome Jake, and seeing you, even if it’s just your name and some statistics I have to have Mia decipher for me, makes me feel closer to you.”

Her words wash over me, filling all of those places that have been so empty these past few months.  I can’t help it; I reach across the table and link out fingers, watching as her narrow, red tipped fingers link through my much larger ones.  “I pitched last night, so today wasn’t my game.  I’m meeting up with the team as they head north to Vancouver tonight.”

She nods as if she knew that was our time frame.  “Won’t your coach be mad that you weren’t there today?”

I shake my head.  “He understood when I told him I had a family emergency.”

I look at her while the words hang between us, and I wait for her to understand and accept them.  I can’t push, but I have to let her know, to tell her somehow that everything that felt necessary all those months ago doesn’t really feel like anything now that I’m without her.