Survivor (First to Fight #2)(34)
Present
THE BOYS KNOW I’ve been crying, but they don’t say anything. For the first time since I moved back in with them, they’re silent, almost concerned. They wake up before me and have a pot of coffee ready by the time I come downstairs the morning after Jack left—this time for good, it seems.
I should feel relieved, knowing that he’s safe from whatever sinister fantasies Damian has planned, but all that’s left inside me is hollow. My chest cavity is scraped raw. It hurts to do simple tasks like breathing. Even sipping the cup of oversweet coffee is almost too much for my system. I have to clamp down on the rise of bile in my throat and paste on a wobbly smile for the boys expectant faces.
“Thanks, guys,” I manage, despite my raw throat. “Why don’t we do something today? There’s a new skating ramp at the park?”
“You gonna skate?” Rafe asks, his face hopeful.
It manages to pull a weak laugh from the cavern of my chest. “Sure, you would love that, wouldn’t you?”
“I’ll teach you,” Donnie says, already jamming his feet into his sneakers.
“I think I’ll need more than one cup of coffee,” I reply wryly.
Even though it’s a cool seventy degrees outside—which is mild weather for a sunny Florida morning, I wrap myself in a thin cardigan. Try as I might, I can’t seem to stop shivering, even with the sun as bright as it is. The boys erupt from the car the second we get to the park, their cheerful shouts buoying my rapidly sinking mood.
Jack’s gym is only a couple blocks away and I sense its presence like a malignant tumor and a beacon. Both a reminder of the darkness there and a siren call to the man I’ve finally successfully kicked and shoved away.
Blowing out a heavy, steady breath I remind myself it’s for the best. Then and now, to protect him. This aching, empty chasm is worth it.
Or so I hope.
I find a perch on the bleachers to watch over Rafe and Donnie as they scale the newly built skate park. Wincing, I try not to come to their aid as they crash into the unforgiving concrete repeatedly. Then I catch myself and I have to laugh, because I’m starting to sound like my mother, even if it’s just in my head.
Wrapping the cardigan more securely around my middle, I turn into the sun, hoping it will warm me from the outside in. I knew coming back to Nassau would stir everything up and I was right. All the feelings, all the memories, all the regrets I’d smothered deep inside of me were coming back, determined to bubble up to the surface like a geyser.
Maybe it’s fate.
Maybe that’s the purpose of secrets. To be discovered.
Like a bomb’s only end is to detonate, leaving everything in its wake torn to pieces, just like secrets. Or lies.
I wonder as I watch the boys navigate the maze of ramps and rails, if the bigger the secret, the bigger the resulting fallout.
I’m almost to the point where I want to pull the pin and see what happens when I do. The pressure building up inside of me is almost too much for even my walls to bear.
“Hey, Sofie, a couple of our friends want to hang out today, if that’s okay.” Rafe jogs up and hops onto the bleacher seat by my side.
“Sure, that’ll be fine. Do you need me to drop you off?”
He swipes a hand over his forehead, his hair resettling around his eyes. “Nah, that’s okay. They’ve got a car. You can just pick us up at their house later.” He pauses, weighing his words. “I figured you could use some time alone, anyway.”
My hand lifts and lands on his shoulder of its own accord, surprising us both. Warm affection flares in my chest at his compassion. The first tender growth of connection we should have cultivated years ago—I should have cultivated—takes root. Emotion clogs my throat. “Sure, yeah, okay.”
“We can stay if you want to, I dunno, hang out or something.” He makes a face, ever the teenager, and I find myself laughing.
“No that’s okay. I don’t need a babysitter. You guys go have fun. Just not too much.”
He grins, throwing an arm around my waist and squeezing tight for a few packed seconds, bridging the gap between my years of absence, then he releases and jogs off to join a group of boys in the parking lot. I wave them off and head back to my car.
Maybe I’ll do some freelance work when I get home to take my mind off of everything else. I’ve got a couple security clients on the side, some design work. I’ve lived frugally over the years, save for my penchant for good wine and expensive shoes, so I don’t really need the money. The simple, mind numbing tasks would keep my thoughts and hands busy—something I desperately need.
I’m pulling up the plans for the website I plan to work on as I cross the parking lot to the shaded area where I parked my car, so it takes me a moment to recognize the piece of flapping paper on my windshield. My knees lock and my heart makes the tremulous leap into my throat, lodging there and stealing my breath. I have to force myself to take the remaining steps to my car.
I’m being stupid. On edge. It’s just another one of those advertisements. But no matter how much I repeat those sentiments, the weighted feeling in my stomach grows heavier with each step.
The paper is face down, pinned by the wiper blade. My fingers don’t tremble when I reach to free it, but they do fumble with releasing the blade, having grown thick and clumsy. The first thing I notice is the paper is thick, definitely not the flimsy sort they use for ad circulars, but it’s also not the printer type from a home computer. Damian’s preference. The paper is more substantial and glossy.