Page 10 of Tough Love
Funny guy, huh?Briar hops up the path to the door and waits as we lag behind. Evan hands me my newly charged phone, and then inspects the ring of keys in his hand, frowning down at our dozen choices.
“It’s this one.” Briar’s finger creeps over the side of Evan’s large palm and he points out a key with an orange rubber holder.
“Thanks, buddy.”
The thud, thud, thud of the kids’ ball behind us punctuates the silence as I wait on the door to be opened, a thousand questions running through my mind. Never in a million years did I think I’d be here now, standing on my estranged sister’s doorstep, with the nephew I never knew I had, doing my utmost to ignore Evan’s enticing scent as he stands beside me.
I held out hope for the first few months after he left that perhaps he had trouble getting in touch. Maybe he’d forgotten my parents’ number and had to hunt it down? But as the months passed, and the one -year mark loomed, I knew.
He’d cut me off on purpose. This boy who promised to love me forever found it in himself to sever ties and never look back.
Nine years—how many of those back in the same town—and not once did he think to look me up.
Yeah, it burns.
Evan pushes the black-painted door wide and enters first, his head swivelling as he checks in each doorway. Habit, I’m guessing. I usher Briar in before me, sucking in a deep breath to centre myself, and close the door behind us.
“Mac ’n’ cheese, coming right up,” I say a little too brightly as I shrug off my coat.
As much as I try not to be inconspicuous, I can’t fight the urge to check everything out as well, do what I can to read into the woman my sister is now. The duplex is sparsely yet tastefully furnished at first glance. White walls give focus to stunning black-and-white framed prints. A black lacquered table sits centrepiece in the dining room, two plush grey upholstered chairs tucked close to one another on the far side. A basic low cabinet, finished in a rustic white farmhouse style, fills the wall that divides the dining room/entrance from the kitchen behind.
Which is where I find Evan after Briar races up the stairs, presumably to his room.So much for the help.
My mysterious cop is perusing the fridge, while I’m perusing his muscular inked arms.Definitely didn’t have those tattoos before.What else has changed? What other things that I can’t see?
“Don’t you have someone to go home to?” I wince the minute the words leave my mouth, realising just how harsh they sound spoken aloud. “That came out sounding wrong. I’m sorry.”
He regards me over his shoulder, a block of cheese in his hand. “No offence taken.”
“I can handle it from here. Really.”
“Do you want to, though?” His eyes hold no ounce of venom, just the pure, honest truth of it all.
He knows me better than I give him credit for. He always could read through my bullshit, and he sees it: I’m not ready for this. I’m not one ounce the mothering type. I can’t even stomach the idea of a pet relying on me, let alone a small human being.
I was built to wander through life alone, and in solitude is where I thrive.
“Anyway,” he continues, clearly sensing the tension in the air, “I thought I could help out by getting dinner started while you sorted talking to your parents.” He checks his robust watch. “It’s after six already, and that little guy up there probably needs to be in bed before eight at the latest if you want to avoid having a fight on your hands.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Of course he knows how this all works; he has a son.Hell.He has a son. “Will your family be wondering where you are, though?”
He shakes his head, retrieving milk and butter to go with the cheese. “It’s not my weekend to have Deacon.”
Shared custody, as in separated.Interesting.That shouldn’t make me happy, but it does. Not that it should matter—no second chances, right?
Evan continues gathering ingredients from the pantry, and then starts opening cupboard after cupboard until he finds a pot and a pan to use on the gas cooker. I lay my coat on the island bench and retrieve my phone from the pocket.
“You’re probably wondering what sort of cold-hearted monster I am now, right?” I thumb through the contacts list, purposefully avoiding his gaze. “You know, since I haven’t cried over Kath or anything.”
His legs turn in my periphery, his stance indicating he’s standing with his hip against the counter.
“I might have left you behind, Amelia,” he says, “but you were never far from my mind. I heard through the grapevine what happened.”
I look up to find him with his arms folded, sincerity etched in his features. Yet all I want to do is run at him, fists pounding his ridiculously deep chest.He knew?Andstillhe kept radio silence? If he truly cared about me, if the things he would have been told stirred anything in him, I wasn’t that hard to find. I stayed. Even after the shit hit the fan, I stayed.
“I’m not judging you, Amelia,” he says softly. “Everyone deals with trauma differently.”
I blink in surprise at his blind ignorance to how much those words just hurt me. Did he ever love me like he said? Or was it all a ruse? Am I reallythatbad at judging a person’s character? History would suggest yes, yes I am.