I fold her against my chest. Her heart pounds, but after a moment, she melts into me. I don’t let go as I take long breaths. We both need this.
I’m a large man and have taken down guys even bigger than me, but Everly’s steadiness is the ballast I need in this storm and I sense the feeling is mutual as she clutches me tightly.
After my man-trum in the salon, Wolf tracked me down. Then I took a long run, trying to outpace what exploded inside of me. I didn’t get far before my breath betrayed me. I leaned against a mighty oak tree, slid down to the ground, knees drawn to my chest, and like a handful of puzzle pieces, put together a picture of grief.
Bran had lost numerous brothers in battle, and when Dad died, he mentioned aspects of grief, including denial, bargaining, anger, and depression. He said acceptance was the last one.
I’m still a long way from there, but I recognize the various stages now, even if I’ve experienced them out of order. I already denied I lost Bran, then I bargained before sliding into depression. But the anger surprised me. And Everly too, I’m sure.
Her very presence threatened to jolt me out of the misery I’ve been in. The strange comfort of sadness. Like if I can’t have Bran, at least I can have the familiar emptiness.
I snort, because Bran would say that’s so like me, then order me to snap out of it.
The stirring within that started when Everly cut my hair had turned into a whirring. Like I left a fan on somewhere in the house and can’t find it to turn it off. It’s like an indistinct voice in the wind. I can’t quite make out what it’s trying to tell me.
But I do know that I was little more than an empty shell when I lost Bran. I knew the inherent risk of his role in the military, but he was my hero. Invincible.
While everything and everyone in the world is material and tangible, I’m a ghost, a shadow of my former self. Invisible.
I didn’t feel anything when I got married, except when Everly and I kissed. Winning the Super Bowl was just another day in the void. The cheering reached my ears, but the pride didn’t settle in my bones. The guys clapped me on the back and we celebrated, but I went through the motions, knowing when to nod, smile, and laugh.
When I learned about the situation with my son, I went straight into mission mode, focused on getting him safe, no matter what.
By any standards, I have a good life. A great one. I’m blessed beyond measure. I’m not ungrateful, I’m just empty.
Or I was.
These last days, as much as I resisted and attempted to remain fixed in my solitude, I can’t escape Everly’s sweet sunshine scent, her addictive smile and laughter, her cheery carefree attitude, or her spring green eyes that shine like peridot gemstones. I gaze into them now.
I hold back a grunt because I want to talk to her. To say more than make caveman sounds.
But that puts me in a vulnerable place, and although I can take a hit on the field, I know better than to put myself in a risky position. That’s the secret to my longevity in the roughest sport, on the toughest team in the league. I’ve put in so many hours playing football that I can anticipate where to be when. What to do when I need to do it. To break for a play or accelerate to block one. I don’t need to take risks because I anticipate and eliminate them before they happen.
I know what to do so I don’t get crushed and I know what to do to make sure we win.
But I can’t see a winning way out of this situation without getting crushed. Who’d have thought a woman who is the opposite of me in every way would have the power to destroy whatever’s left of me? Nothing about anuscould possibly make sense.
She blinks a few times, her soft lashes caressing her cheeks.
That’s just it. I can’t resist her softness. Not when she massaged my scalp and washed my hair, smoothing away the tension that has served as the glue to hold together what’s left of me.
I close my eyes, no longer trusting myself to remain in control.
“Everly, none of this makes sense. You, me, marriage,” I whisper, finally acknowledging the elephant in the room that’s been alternatingly drenching us both with water and waving its ears to dry us off.
“It doesn’t have to.”
“I’m probably not suited to a relationship,” I add, breaking the Marriage of Convenience Club rules.
“Two months ago, I wrote in the Cookie Dough Diary that I wouldn’t date for a year.”
“Because you were married?”
“Because relationships have never worked out for me. I make one bad decision after another until I’m rolling downhill like a snowball in an avalanche and cannot stop.”
“There are things about me that I’m not proud of. Things you don’t know.” The way I handled custody with my ex comes to mind, leaving me in a quagmire of uncertainty about my son’s future.
“You’ve never seen me with blue hair, a nose ring, and a mouth like a sailor.”
