“Dance with me,” Ryder says, and desire spirals through me at his simple request.
I reach one arm up, wrapping it around his neck, my fingers gliding through the silky black-brown hair at his nape. His large hand gracefully glides around my hip to rest on my stomach, and arousal coils tightly. I can feel the vibrations in his chest as he begins to sing “Helium” to me. The ballad of our love story.
As he hums the final notes, I can feel him fading away. I turn sharply in his arms and reach for him, but my hands touch emptiness.
“I will always love you,” Ryder says, his voice growing more distant.
“No! Please! Don’t leave me!” I beg him and drop to my knees on the damp ground, my arms outstretched, desperate for him.
My dreams are the only time I see him now, and I’m not ready to let him go.
But it’s too late.
“Mom.”
My eyelids fly open, my breaths coming in sharp pants that burn my lungs. I rake shaky hands over my face wet with tears that I wept in my sleep. Every night is like this. Every night I dream of Ryder, just to have him torn from my arms when I wake. It’s cruel torment.
“I’m okay,” I choke out, wiping my face dry with the backs of my hands. “What time is it?”
“Four.”
Christopher’s worried face comes into view when I ease into a sitting position. Sleeping on the couch is a common occurrence. I just can’t bring myself to stay in the bed I shared with Ryder, so I usually come out here or go to the guest bedroom.
“You were crying in your sleep again.”
Moving the quilt off my legs, I pat the space beside me. When he sits down, I pull him into my arms. He may be seventeen, but he’s still my baby boy.
“I promise I’m all right. Just a bad dream.”
His arms band around me, and he snuggles against my side. “About Dad?”
Blood thrums through my veins, and it feels like it wants to bleed out of my chest. And damn these tears that start to fall. Will there ever be a day that I don’t cry and my heart breaks all over again whenever I think of Ryder?
I play with a curl of Christopher’s hair, avoiding his question. My children don’t need to hear that their mother has nightmares about their father.
“I’m sorry if I woke you.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Bad dreams, too?” I ask.
Settling back against the cushions, I drape the quilt over the both of us.
His face brushes the apple of my shoulder when he tips it back and gazes up at me. It’s usually the other way around. He’s so tall, I have to look up at him.
“I’m really sorry for being a jerk and upsetting you.”
Out of my three children, Christopher’s heart is the biggest. He cares deeply, which means his heart is also the easiest to bruise. He’s very much like Fallon in that way.
I kiss the crown of his head. “It’s not me who deserves that apology.”
“I know,” he mumbles.
I’ve said my peace. I know he’ll do the right thing.
We go quiet when we hear the distant hoot of the great horned owl. It often visits at some point in the middle of the night. Toward the end of January or early February, they duet during courtship. It wouldn’t matter the time of night, Ryder would join me on the back veranda, and we would cuddle together against the cold while we listened to their love song.
“You laughed tonight.”
