“What is that for? Is that the money I gave Jake?” I can’t stop myself from looking at her now. It happens without any thought, any control.
With her back to me, Chloe pauses. “It is.”
“Take it back. It’s his for?—”
“He doesn’t want it, Miles. Money isn’t what he was looking for.”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. “He can buy whatever he wants.” I pick up the cash and hold it out. When she doesn’t take it, barely even glances back at it, I toss it to the other end of the table, bills fanning out. “Just take it.”
Chloe turns to face me, moving so fast that it almost makes me seasick—and I don’t fucking get seasick. Her face is angry, all kinds of red. “Don’t you get it? He doesn’t want your fucking money. He can’t buy what he wants.”
The fact that she dropped the fuck-word surprises me, but I snag my wallet off the coffee table and rifle through. There’s no cash. I gave it all to Jake earlier, and it’s sitting right there. I pull out a credit card. “Here. Take this. I don’t care how much he spends, max it out. Get him whatever he wants.” I stand and take a step toward her, my arm extended.
“I can’t. That’s not how it works.”
“Then, what does he want?”
“A family. And foolish or naive or whatever, over the past couple of months, it wasn’t just me who fell in love with you, but my kid did, too. He thought you genuinely cared about him.”She bats at the tears that have spilled over, trailing down her cheeks. “I’m hurt, devastated, but I’ve gotten over heartbreak once before, and I can do it again. My kid though? He lost the man who taught him how tobea man. And he’s pretty sure it’s all his fault.”
Chloe opens the door and walks through it, letting it slam behind her, the sound punctuating exactly how alone I am.
Jesus Christ, what have I done?
TWENTY-SEVEN
Chloe
I stumble down the stairs, tears burning my eyes. I know Jack said to fight for Miles, to make him talk to me and tell me what he’s battling against, but I won’t force him to let me in. He has to want it. Want us.
It takes all of two minutes to drive the four blocks home, and when I get there, I almost wish that Jake were here instead of with my parents. With the house empty, my heart bruised and battered, I feel more exposed inside than I do blanketed by the warm night air.
I pad through the kitchen and push out the back door, Bronson trailing after me. The soft glow of little landscape lights acts as a beacon, drawing me to the garden. I settle on the bench that a husband made by hand for his wife. The one that Miles took my child to get for me for Mother’s Day.
Bronson checks the yard and then comes back and curls up at my feet, and my toes automatically rub against his belly. As soothing as it is for him, it’s just as much of a balm to me.
We’ll be okay.
As the wind picks up, promising a coming storm, I allow myself to cry, cycling through the stages of grief. I don’t really even know if those apply to this mess. I’m sure, if I felt like digging in and doing the work that my therapist encouraged years ago as I processed the loss of Dallas, I’d find that they do, that I can make my feelings fit into a box and file them away. But I don’t want to.
Instead, I let the tears flow, unchecked, down my face.
And tomorrow, I’ll figure out if I want to wallow in this messy place or pick myself up and get shit done.
Bronson lifts his head, staring into the silence. He doesn’t growl, just focuses squarely on the side of the house, where the gate is.
Miles emerges from the darkness and soundlessly makes his way across the yard. Hands shoved deep in the pockets of his shorts, his head hanging, chin practically resting on his chest.
He clears his throat and blows out a deep breath. I can almost hear him counting the hold before he inhales slowly.
“My daughter was barely a month old when my wife killed her.”
Air rushes from my lungs in a searing whoosh.
“I found them. Walked in the door and found Aly clutching a knife by the blade, blood running down her hand and dripping from the bottom of the bassinet. She’d be two now. Walking, talking, all of that, but she’s gone, never got the chance.”
He shifts his weight and continues, “Aly didn’t do well with the pregnancy. She, uh… she suffered with depression. A lot. But the doctors were there. They were on top of things, checking in, monitoring her. No one saw her break coming. They had no idea that she was hiding not just postpartum depression, but also a full PPD psychosis.”
My hands fly to my cheeks, finally pushing away the tears I shed for my broken heart, only to make room for fresh ones for Miles’s loss.
