I get up from my seat and walk up behind him, putting a hand on his back, but he shrugs it off and starts pacing the room.
“I tried to get us tickets—Mom and me—but air traffic was shut down, so I told her to pack some things, that I was gonna pick her up and we’d drive to New York. Even then she was worried about leaving my father. Bastard was drunk already. All those years and I never could get her to leave his ass. She loved the farm but Reagan was her baby.”
I’m already crying, watching him pace; four steps one way, then four the other. Never an extra step, as if there was an invisible barrier stopping him. I sit back down on the couch, something he doesn’t even notice he’s so far inside his memories.
“I was just about to walk out the door with my stuff when she called. Dad yelling and hollering in the background. Told her to take her bags and lock herself in the bathroom until I got there, but then that line went dead as well.”
I wrap my arms around my midsection in an attempt to hold myself together. The raw agony in his voice is unlike anything I’ve ever heard. Every next word a painful step to what I already know in my bones will be a horrific conclusion.
“His truck was already gone when I got to the farm,” he resumes, his eyes on something invisible in front of him as he continues to put one foot in front of the other. One, two, three, four steps, then turns a hundred and eighty degrees and does the same in the other direction. I just sit here and watch helplessly. “She was on the bedroom floor, her open suitcase upside down beside the bed, its contents spilled everywhere. I knew she was gone. Found my baseball bat in the closet of my old bedroom and drove straight to where I knew I’d find him.”
“Gray…” I whisper, and he stops in his tracks, his eyes shooting to me, looking almost confused.
“I killed him.”
Gray
I wait for judgment to cloud her face, but it doesn’t come.
Tear tracks run down her cheeks but there is no disgust, or fear, or accusation in those warm, gray eyes turned on me.
“I know,” she whispers, before getting to her feet and walking toward me.
I take in her appearance, the long light brown hair peppered with unapologetic gray framing her beautiful face, the ratty blue robe tied loosely around her waist, and the swell of generous hips I wish I’d spent more time appreciating.
“I killed him,” I repeat, wanting to make sure she understands.
I feel the heat of her body as she rises up on tiptoes and takes my face in her hands, brushing her lips over mine.
“Yes,” she confirms, her eyes open and seeing. “And I understand.”
I find myself at a loss for words. I’ve spoken more to this woman than I have to anyone in a very long time. I feel empty and spent. So when her hand grabs mine and she leads me silently to her bedroom, I follow.
“Sit,” she orders, indicating the bed.
When I comply, she kneels in front of me and starts pulling off my boots. Then she removes my socks and pushes my knees open, using them to push herself to her feet. Grabbing the hem of my shirt, she starts lifting it over my head, my arms rising willingly.
However, when she leans forward and presses a kiss to my chest, I have to close my eyes, overwhelmed by her gesture. I feel her move away and hear the rustling of clothes, then a drawer opening and closing, before I can sense her proximity again. When I look, she’s wearing a pair of panties and my shirt.
I let go of the breath I’ve been holding. As willing as my dick seems to be, I’m not sure I would’ve been able to take her up on the invitation I thought she was extending.
“Come lie down with me,” she asks, climbing into bed and opening her arms to me.
Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t have been able to get a word through the huge lump in my throat as I lower myself into her embrace. It’s not even dinnertime and I’m suddenly bone weary.
Her body, her comfort, and her acceptance are like a balm to my soul, and in her arms I allow myself the first real tears of grief.
When I wake up the room is dark and I’m alone.
I hear a muted voice through the door and swing my legs over the side of the bed as I run a hand through my hair. I get up, aim for the open door to the en suite bathroom, and I relieve myself before washing my hands and splashing some water on my face.
I can’t find my shirt—I assume Robin’s still wearing it—and forfeit socks and boots when I go in search of her.
“Yes, sweetie; pumpkin cheesecake sounds amazing. Can’t wait to try it.”
She’s sitting at the kitchen table but turns her head when I walk in, a soft smile on her lips. I find myself smiling back, the pull of underused muscles strange. I point at the fridge and raise my eyebrows in question. She nods and waves a hand.
“I thought the rice and mushroom stuffing?” I hear her say, as I pull a pitcher of what I hope is orange juice from the fridge.
My guess it’s her mom or her daughter and they’re discussing Thanksgiving dinner based on what I can hear.
“Oh, that sounds good too.”
I sit down across from her and notice her eyes are almost sparkling.
“Okay, let’s do that then. Yes, I’m still picking you up.”
She grins at me as I sip my juice and listen in boldly. She
