The Secrets You Keep Page 11

  “And Brent?” he asks, breaking the silence between us.

  “He didn’t even have the balls to come to the hospital after he found out. He packed his clothes and his promises in his Eddie Bauer suitcase and walked right out the door.”

  He kisses the top of my head. I don’t know why, but sitting here with him, letting him hold me like this, feels more intimate than the night he touched me under the table at the restaurant.

  “We aren’t all like that.”

  “I know.”

  His body tenses beneath me, so I lift my head from his chest and scoot to the side. Just enough so that our thighs are still touching. I guess this is new for both of us.

  “I’m a father.”

  My heart stops at his confession. He hasn’t told me where he’s from. Or what he does. I don’t even know his last name. And here he is, sharing an intimate detail of his life with me. I picture him, stern but warm, a father very much like my own.

  He clenches his jaw and inhales a deep breath through his nose. “Well, there’s a fifty-fifty chance I’m a father.”

  Oh.

  His eyes, dark and complex, stay focused on me, not giving away a single hint at what he’s feeling. I don’t interrupt. I wouldn’t even know what to say if I did. We all have a story. And this is his to tell.

  “It’s every bit as complicated as it sounds. So, I won’t bore you with the details.”

  I’m standing at the bottom of a mountain with a huge boulder at the top. The only thing holding it all together is whatever he says next.

  “Somehow I doubt the details would be very boring.” I hope my voice is lighter than I feel.

  He laughs, quiet and short. “I fell in love with a woman who fell in love with another man.”

  Love. He loved her. Maybe he still does. They have a child. Something I’m not sure I’ll ever have, something I don’t know if I can give him.

  The mountain crumbles, and the boulder falls. Tumbling down with the fragments of broken rock and green earth. And I am paralyzed. Held prisoner by my roots. The same roots Callan finds so offensive. I’m about to be crushed, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

  “Grace?”

  I hear his voice, but it’s somewhere far away. Like my mind is running at full speed to escape my body.

  He touches my hand, and I flinch. “You have a child.”

  “Possibly,” he corrects me.

  “And you love her? This woman?”

  Why is my heart breaking?

  Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Tick. Tick. Tick. Time comes to a near halt. My heart pounds in my chest. I close my eyes. The diamond feels as though it weighs a ton on my chest. Please say no.

  “Loved. Past tense, Grace.” His thumb traces gentle circles on the back of my hand.

  I open my eyes and breathe again. “And the baby?” My voice cracks.

  “When the time is right, we’ll know the truth.”

  “Why would you wait? Don’t you want to know?”

  I can tell by his tone it’s not a topic he speaks about often.

  “Jenna made her choice, and I respect it. She didn’t even tell me she was pregnant. My lifestyle isn’t exactly ideal for planting roots and settling down.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with roots.”

  He huffs. “Yours are planted so deep that you can hardly move.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Isn’t that the point of roots?”

  Why do I feel like we’re arguing? Why am I worried about the decisions he makes with his life? His choices are his to make. If he doesn’t believe in settling down, that’s none of my business. If he doesn’t want to know the answers to the questions that haunt him, it’s his battle to fight. So why does it bother me so much?

  The corner of his mouth turns up in a half grin. “I guess you’re right.”

  “For what it’s worth, I think you’d make a wonderful father.”

  I see how protective he is. With me. With Johan. I’ve watched him stare at the sunrise and smile at the simple things. Sure, he’s cold. He’s sterile. He’s tough. He keeps his thoughts and feelings locked up tight. But there’s something else there. Something I catch glimpses of every once in a while. A warmth. I feel it in his touch. See it in his eyes. He guards it carefully, holds it dear. But for those bold enough to venture too close, it’s there.

  “My sister wouldn’t agree with you.”

  “Naomi?” Realization settles in. My lips part, and my eyes widen. “That’s why you got so cold at the restaurant. That’s why you don’t come home. You and Naomi, you don’t get along.”

  “She doesn’t agree with my life choices, and I don’t have the energy to defend them.”

  I can’t imagine Naomi not getting along with anyone. “She’s your sister. I’m sure if you just talked to her—”

  “She really hasn’t told you anything about me?” he asks as if it surprises him.

  I shake my head. “No. I didn’t even know she had a brother. When I said we were friends, I just meant that…” I shrug. “I know her. We’ve spoken a few times. That’s about it. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you think—”

  The alarm on my father’s monitor interrupts my explanation, reminding me exactly why I don’t invite people over for coffee, or open the vault and let them inside. Callan’s eyes follow me as I jump from the sofa and run to the hall.

  My dad’s forehead is covered in sweat, and he’s struggling to breathe. He keeps trying to roll to his left side to relieve the pain.

  “Daddy,” I call out as I take his hand in mine. It’s clammy. “Daddy, can you answer me?” No. This can’t be happening. Not now. Please, God. Not my dad. Callan stands in the doorway, watching in silence as I check his pulse. “Call 911. He’s having a heart attack.”

  ***

  The waiting room is cold. There’s a TV in the corner. I see the faces on the screen, hear their voices in the room, but none of it seems real. A man in a gray suit talks about how unusually chilly it is for September. A woman in a blue dress pops up after him, letting the world know there’s another fire somewhere to our north.

  A couple not much older than me sits in two recliners on the opposite side of the room. So many chairs. Rows of chairs. Two in the middle and one on each wall. Why are there so many chairs? Is this room ever full? Do this many people have to face heartache so often that they had to have over a dozen chairs?

  The woman goes into an open room by the double doors that lead to the hallway and comes back with a cup of coffee and a donut left there by a Good Samaritan. My stomach knots at the sight of food. I can’t eat. I don’t want coffee.

  I want my dad.

  One of the doors opens, and an older woman steps through. She approaches the man in the recliner, and he stands to hug her.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says. “She’s in our prayers.”

  Prayers. I’ve been relying on hopes and prayers my whole life. If ever there were a time for them to come through, now is it.

  I left my sister a message. She’s still not taking my calls. Annette said she’ll come by once Dad gets out of surgery. He’s been in the back for nearly four hours. I’m about to crawl out of my skin. I’ve worn a path in the cold, porcelain tile from this chair, through the double doors, and down the hall to the nurse’s station. It’s cold. So cold it hurts. I feel the chill all the way to my bones. I can’t stop trembling. I can’t sit still.

  “Can I get you anything?” Callan asks.

  The leather chair creaks under my weight. “No, thank you.”

  “You have to eat something.”

  “I will. Just not right now.”

  He’s been here the whole time. We haven’t talked about Jenna. Or about the fact that he may be a father. Or about whatever this is or isn’t between us. We haven’t talked about my father. We haven’t talked much at all. He just sits there. Watching me as I stare at the pale, yellow walls and think about all the things I haven’t said to my father. They say yellow is calmin
g, that it’s meant to remind you of the warm summer sun, of time spent smiling and being happy. I don’t see any of that in these walls.

  I’ve played this scenario over in my mind a hundred times from the moment he reached stage four. I remember my mom, and what her last days were like. And I tell myself I should have been prepared. That I should have seen this coming. But the truth is, you’re never really prepared. Death isn’t a test you study for. It’s a stray bullet, shot through the woods. You don’t see it coming. You just feel it. Piercing your heart, scattering the pieces across the floor until there’s nothing left. Leaving you helpless and empty.

  Five hours.

  Then six.

  A doctor comes to speak with the couple across the room, letting them know the woman they were waiting on is in recovery, and they can see her soon. They got here after us.

  My chest tightens. Something’s wrong. It’s been six hours. It shouldn’t take six hours. The doctor said four. At the most. They won’t answer my questions, even though I know I’m asking all the right ones.

  “Take me,” I bargain with God. “Make him healthy and take me.”

  My eyes are heavy, but I’m wide awake. Callan brings me a cup of coffee from the cafeteria, not giving me a choice to decline.

  “You know you don’t have to stay here,” I tell him as he pulls back the peel of a banana and sits back down.

  “I know.”

  I look at him, in his white button up dress shirt and navy-blue pants. His hair falls perfectly to the side, and the shadow of a three-day stubble covers his jaw. He hasn’t as much as groaned or let out an uncomfortable sigh since we’ve been here. He hasn’t slept in who knows how long. He spent the night in his car, and so far, most of the day in a hospital waiting room. And I wonder why. Why did he stay?

  He traveled across the world to see you, Grace. Of course, he’s going to stay.

  Seven hours.

  His body can’t stay under for this long. Something isn’t right. His organs will start to shut down soon.

  The doctor walks in, and the walls close in around me. Callan stands at the same moment I do.

  He knows.

  I know.

  It’s right there, all over the doctor’s face. Callan takes my hand and brings it to his chest. The tears start to fall before the doctor ever speaks a word. I close my eyes, not even trying to stop them. Callan squeezes my hand. The ground gives out beneath my feet, and I feel as though I’m falling into a deep, black hole. I can’t find my breath, so I squeeze his hand back.

  “I’m sorry,” the doctor says, and the hole closes up around me. Suffocating me, leaving me trapped inside.

  I open my eyes to find a pair of sad, blue ones looking back at me.

  And I shatter. Into a million broken pieces. Time. Hope. Love. My world. It all disappears. The one thing I had left to hold onto is gone.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Callan

  I never meant to talk about Jenna. I never meant to use the word love. Or say things that might hurt Grace. I’m not even sure why I even brought any of it up. Maybe it was lack of sleep. Maybe I felt I owed it to her after she opened herself up to me. Or maybe it’s something else entirely. Everything with her is new to me, and I’m not sure how to respond to any of it.

  She stands here, in the waiting room, so lost, so defeated. Her pain brings back memories I’d kept hidden for nearly twenty years. Memories of my father’s eyes, the weight of his limp body as I carried him from the living room.

  “Let me take you home,” I offer once the doctor has gone and the paperwork has been signed.

  She nods. Her eyes are glassy and swollen from crying. And empty. The hope I’ve gotten so used to seeing there washed away with her tears. We’d gotten so far. She’d shared things with me. She’d let me in. And now I can’t help but feel like there’s a brick wall between us.

  I never asked why her mother never showed up. Or where the rest of her family might have been. I know she made a couple of phone calls. But no one ever came. Not a single person in the seven hours we waited. I didn’t ask because none of it mattered. I just knew I wasn’t leaving her alone.

  I place my hand on the small of her back and lead her to my SUV. She doesn’t fight my touch. Not then. And not when I hold her knee on the ride to her house. Not even when I stroke the curve of her jaw after I pull into the driveway. I’m about to do something I never do. But I’m grasping for lifelines here. I have to tear down the wall. I lean forward, letting my hand on her jaw cup her cheek. She leans into my touch. Right now, she’s just acting on instinct, on feeling. Her mind is a hundred miles away.

  “Callan,” she says, her protest breathy and meek.

  “I’m going to make you forget every set of lips that ever touched yours.”

  My tongue parts the seam of her lips, and the world falls away. I pull her closer. Her lips are like silk against mine. The kiss is soft and slow, comforting her in ways words never could. Her fingers gather the hair at the nape of my neck as she offers me more of her mouth. Everything neither one of us could say is right here.

  I.

  Am.

  Addicted.

  I know the moment I move my mouth from hers, I’ll count the seconds until I can taste her again.

  She pulls away, resting her forehead against mine. Her breath is shaky as it whispers across my face. “I need to go.”

  My fingertips dig deeper into her hair, my grip on her cheek growing tighter, holding her in place without hurting her. “Then I’ll come with you.”

  She closes her eyes and shakes her head, and my heart drops. Don’t do this. Don’t shut me out.

  “I need to be alone.” Her hand moves to the side of my face. She cradles my chin in her hand and looks into my eyes. “Thank you, Callan. For everything.” She clutches the necklace I gave her.

  “This sounds a lot like goodbye.” Don’t you fucking do this, Grace. Her eyes water as she smiles a weak smile.

  “Good night, Callan.”

  She pulls the handle and opens the door. I should grab her. I should follow her. I should tell her why she should let me stay. But I’m not programmed that way. I can’t force her to do things she isn’t ready to do. Or feel things she isn’t ready to feel. All I can do is wait. Wait for her to change her mind.

  “Good night, Grace.”

  ***

  It’s been five days since I watched her walk away from me. All I’ve done is think about her taste against my lips and the face she made when I made her fall apart in my hands that night in South Africa.

  I followed the obituaries and attended her father’s funeral. Hundreds of faces I’ve never seen flooded through the doors. All of them offering their condolences, hugging her, holding her, comforting her. Her strength was remarkable as she smiled and thanks them all.

  I never approached her, but I know she knew I was there. For a split second, across the crowded room, her eyes caught mine. But she never spoke. Even in her grief, she was breathtaking.

  I left my number with a note in her mailbox. She never called.

  She invited me into her world. She let me touch her. And she kissed me back. Those aren’t things you turn off with a switch. So, before I walk into my office and accept another assignment, before I go back to life before Grace, I decide to give it one more try.

  The thick wooden door seems like a fortress, keeping her safe, warning me away. I press the button, and the doorbell chimes. Grace opens the door. Her baggy sweatpants hang loosely on her hips while the black tank top hugs her body tight. Her nipples tease me through the fabric, but I focus on her face, on the way her bright brown eyes light up when she sees me. On her plump red lips and dark brown hair.

  “Hi,” she says, her tone an even mixture of surprise and relief.

  “Hello.”

  “Come in. Have a seat.” She pulls the door open then leads me to the living room. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “No. Thank you.” She waits for me to sit, but I don’t
. We’ve wasted enough time tip-toeing around whatever this is. “I’m leaving. I have a meeting in a few days. I’ll be going back to work after that.”

  “Back to South Africa?”

  She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know that I can’t tell her when. I can’t tell her where. She doesn’t know that every time I leave is one more time that I may not come back. She has no idea about David’s kidnapping or what was happening in my world while I was busy falling for her smile.

  “Maybe. I’m never really sure.”

  She seems taken aback. “You’re not sure where you work?”

  I get it. It probably sounds ridiculous to someone on the outside. “No.”

  “Okay then.” She arches a brow and bites her bottom lip.

  I can tell she’s curious, but she doesn’t give me the third degree. It’s sexy as fuck. The soft amber glow of a single corner lamp illuminates her beautiful features. I take a step forward. She takes a step back. Don’t run from me. Please.

  “Thank you for the plant. It’s beautiful.” She’s changing the subject.

  My lifestyle isn’t something I like to talk about either, so I don’t argue. “You’re welcome.”

  I take another step forward. She takes another step back. Please, stop running.

  “I have something for you,” she says, moving toward a room down the hall.

  I follow her as she goes inside and reaches for a box on the dresser. She turns around, and I’m standing right in front of her. Our bodies are separated by mere inches. She gasps as she hands me the gift. I never move my eyes from hers.

  “This is your room?” I question.

  “Yes. Why?”

  I try to piece the clues together, but something is missing.

  “It’s different. From the rest of the house.”

  “Oh.” Her voice cracks as she clears her throat then toys with a lock of hair that hangs over her shoulder. “When my mom died, my dad wouldn’t change a single thing. Not even the way her pajama bottoms were folded on the chair at her bathroom vanity.” She smiles at the memory. “Then, when he got sick, and I had to move in… I just made this space my own. It helps me remember who I am. Sometimes I think it’s the only piece of me I have left.”