My last connection with her. She was talking to me, whispering to me that my father was home and angry. She was packing and I was getting ready to pick her up when she called. I can imagine the scene, he’d have been drunk, would’ve found her with her suitcase, and gone ballistic.
She’s rolled on her side and for a moment I think maybe…but then I see the blood. So much blood.
“Mom…”
I drop down on my knees beside her, sliding in the cooling puddle. If not for the earring my sister gave her last Christmas, shimmering in her earlobe, I might have been able to convince myself this is not her.
“Gray, honey…”
Looking away from what is left of her head, my eyes catch on the cast-iron pan Mom always has sitting on the stove. The one she uses to cook eggs in, except now it’s sticky with her blood.
Something snaps inside me at the sight of that pan and I scramble to my feet, only to find my father standing behind me, a dripping baseball bat in his hand and his own head misshapen and bloody.
“Please, honey, wake up.”
I shoot up, sucking in lungfuls of air as I blink the lingering visions from my eyes. It takes me a second to recognize my surroundings and glance at the woman beside me in bed. Her hand is stroking my back firmly, anchoring me in the moment, as I rub my face with my hands.
Jesus.
“Come here.” She softly echoes her words from last night and I lower myself in her arms.
We lie like that for a while, my heart slowly returning to its normal rate, and the last strands of the dream evaporating under her gentle touch.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“Don’t be. Want to talk about it?”
I don’t—not really—but somehow the words start flowing and I find myself telling her about my dream.
I can feel tension in her body as I describe the scene I walked in on so many years ago. Her body tenses up and I immediately feel guilty, but she encourages me to get it out, so I do. I tell her everything, about the earring, the cast-iron pan, my blind rage as I tracked down my father stumbling out of the Dirty Dog, and how I took it upon myself to mete out justice with the baseball bat I grabbed from the sports bag in the back of my truck.
As she lightly runs her fingers through my hair, I tell her how Frank pulled me away from my father and had to pin me against the wall until the cops came. How I waived my rights and told them everything.
“Is this a recurring dream?” she asks softly, her breath brushing against my forehead.
“No. I don’t dream, ever.”
“What do you think triggered it?”
I push up and brace myself on an elbow, looking down in her sleep-swollen eyes.
“Christmas, maybe. You,” I offer, registering shock on her face. “Learning to feel again can be painful. Like a muscle you haven’t used in forever suddenly called into action. The last time I let myself feel anything was on that kitchen floor.”
“I’m sorry.” Her eyes are shiny in the shadows of the room.
I pick up her hand and flatten it against my chest.
“I’m not. If it hurts, it’s healing.”
I roll on my back and take her with me, settling her head on my shoulder and pressing her body close. Her lips brush my chest and I sigh with contentment.
“You okay?”
I press a kiss to her forehead.
“Yeah. I really am.”
My head shoots up when I feel something climbing up my legs. The kitten walks casually up my body, his eyes bright.
“Hey, Zeus, can’t sleep either?” Robin gives the cat a scratch behind his ears, as he curls up in the middle of my chest.
“Zeus? For that little thing?”
She tilts her head back and I can see the white of her teeth when she smiles up at me.
“I’m sure he’ll grow into his oversized attitude.”
Seconds later, I hear her breath even out as the cat’s purring vibrates against my chest. Moments later I feel myself drift off into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter Twenty
Robin
It’s been mild these past few days. Whatever accumulation remained on the ground after the early snowfalls has since disappeared.
The diner has been busy, not uncommon for the week bridging Christmas and New Year’s, with people returning to the small town to spend time with family. Over Easy has always been a gathering place to catch up with friends and neighbors.
Our staffing issues have been resolved since Jess is back on the schedule, and I’ve happily slid back in my regular day shift. That means that out of the past five nights, I was able to spend four with Gray.
Last night he finally took me back to the Dirty Dog, where I had a single glass of wine before reverting to water, and watched the three musketeers—John, Eddie, and Enzo—play pool. I passed on the offer to try the game again, mostly instigated by Bunker, and instead chatted with him while Gray swept the floor with a very grumpy Enzo.
“No pie for you,” had been his comment after, sending both Bunker and me into fits of laughter.
It had been a fun night ending with a very brief tour of Gray’s apartment that never got farther than his bedroom. For two people who have hit their midlife, our sexual appetite only seems to grow. I always thought by this age I would be slowing down in that department, but the opposite is true. Maybe we’re catching up for years lost, or perhaps we’ve simply found the right partner, because I’ve never experienced this kind of insatiable hunger.
This morning I was touched to find, sometime in the past few days, he picked up a bottle of my favorite shampoo—which was sitting on the little shelf in his shower—a spare toothbrush, and a
