Every word I want to say is stolen by my climax. I splinter into tiny fragments, suspended in time as my vision darkens and blood thunders through my veins. He empties inside me on a roar, our bodies shuddering together as he holds onto me like I’m the only thing keeping him upright.
We stay like that for a while, just listening to the storm easing, too scared to move, because when we do, we have to decide what this all means. We have spent too many years not giving this, this thing between us, the acknowledgment it deserves, but before we can do that, there’s one more thing I need to do before I can truly give myself to Noah in all the ways he deserves.
Chapter Forty-Four
Tori
I pull up to the house I spent so many years visiting, but one I have avoided for more than I should have.
The old white farmhouse looks more worn and tattered than I remember. It is in need of a lick of paint, the dead flowers removed from their flower boxes, and the grass is no longer the bright shade of green I remember.
My heart almost stops completely when I see Trent’s old red pickup truck at the side of the house. From the rust around the doors and the dust and rain stains that cover the metal, I’m sure it’s been there since the day he left it. We had so many fun times in that truck over the years, and I wait for the pain to sear my heart and my body to crumble, but it doesn’t come. Sure, there is a pain, an ache for him that may never fully go, but now I can smile when thinking about him and the times we shared,instead of spiraling into a pit of darkness. Maybe this is what true healing feels like?
I exit the car and straighten my dress as I take slow steps up to the house. My boots crunch against the gravel path, and when I reach the stairs that lead to the porch, I take a centering breath and take them one at a time, preparing myself for a conversation I should have had a long time ago.
The squeak of chains has me turning my head to the left, and there, swinging in her old porch swing, knitting what looks like a blanket, is Trent’s mom.
“Cora?” I say on a shaky breath.
She stops swinging but doesn’t turn to face me.
“Hey, it’s me,” I say softly, taking steps toward her.
She turns and stills when our eyes meet.
Cora Scott has always been a naturally beautiful woman, with big green eyes and the same sandy colored hair as her son, but now she looks older than her sixty years, and her frail frame makes me want to scoop her up and take care of her. Guilt punches me in the gut. I should have checked in; I should have done more to help her.
“Tori, is that really you?”
I nod, unshed tears pooling in my eyes.
“Come over here, my girl,” she says as she stands on shaky legs.
I wrap my arms around her. She’s taller than my 5ft 6 frame and so slight I could wrap my arms around her twice. Her long, thick cardigan hides the bones I can feel protruding, and my heart hurts for this woman who has suffered more loss in her short life than anyone should have to.
I never told Cora about the baby. I didn’t feel the need to add more heartache to her plate. Family was everything to her, and to know she lost her son and her grandchild, I felt was a painthis woman didn’t need. She lost her husband when her children were small and remarried a drunk who has never helped her.
She pulls back and takes me in. “You look well. How are you doing?”
‘I’m good.” I sniff.
“Come sit,” she says, taking me by the hand. She gestures to the porch swing, and I take a seat beside her. She lifts a pitcher of iced tea. “Tea?”
“Please.” I look out at the rolling green hills, the sun beginning to set behind the mountains. “I forgot how beautiful it is here,” I say as I lean back.
“So, what brings you to town?” Cora questions, taking a sip of her tea.
“I erm, I’m visiting a friend,” I say nervously, lifting my own glass of tea to my lips.
Cora eyes me suspiciously with a slight grin.
I clear my throat. “How have you been?” I ask, needing to take the focus off me.
“I’m doing okay, sweetheart. Time is a healer, but I miss him, I miss them, every day.”
I chew the inside of my cheek and anxiously wring my fingers together.
“How’s Savannah doing? I bet she’s all grown up now?” I ask with a smile. Savannah, Trent’s little sister, was barely a pre-teen when he passed.
