Meant to Be Mine (A Porter Family Novel Book #2) (34 page)

He concentrated, thinking backward through the calendar. He’d begun feeling like that after he’d found out about Addie. He’d had to say good-bye to her and Celia so that he could travel to his next event. Right afterward, his drive for bull riding had started to run out.

Could it be that
God
had been telling him to retire, and he’d been too much of a knucklehead to listen?

The idea was sort of Looney Tunes.

Yet Ty knew instantly that it was right.

God had been patient with him for a long time. A very long time, now that he thought about it. Longer than a human father
would have been patient. But after Ty had been reunited with his wife and then found out about his daughter, God’s patience with his traveling and his leaving had ended.

Ty hissed a breath between his teeth. After weeks of searching for an understanding of what had caused his injury, understanding was rolling over him fast.

God wanted husbands to commit and be husbands and fathers to commit and be fathers. So God had pulled him off of a twenty-one-point bull so there could be no blaming the bull. He’d ended Ty’s career.

Ty lifted his head and hit Play, watching the video one last time with new eyes. His neck pricked as the images scrolled in front of him. There was no earthly reason why he’d come off that bull.

Bull-riding fans could wonder, people could ask him about it, Jake could blame it on chance. But from now on, for the rest of his life, Ty and God would know exactly what had gone down.

Ty lowered onto his good knee, bowed his head, and prayed for all he was worth.

He’d been an idiot. Blind. Interested only in his own success. He’d gotten exactly what he deserved when God had taken his bull riding from him. A shattered knee, in all honesty, was less than he deserved.

Forgive me, God.
Please forgive me
.

When Ty had asked if he could join Celia, Addie, Meg, and Bo at church on Sunday, Celia had been delighted. She’d immediately told him that he could. Things had been hunky-dory, in fact, right up until the instant when Celia had comprehended the topic of Doogie’s sermon.

Forgiveness.

First the pastor spoke about the unconditional forgiveness they’d received from God. Then he implored them to receive that forgiveness, turn, and forgive others.

By degrees, Celia’s body grew more and more rigid. Why couldn’t
he have preached on
any
other subject today? On tithing, even. Or all the reasons why it was wrong to dance. She found it discomfiting in the extreme to sit next to Ty through a sermon on forgiveness. It felt as though Doogie’s words were directed specifically at the two of them.

Ty crossed an alligator boot over a knee. His hand rested on his thigh, right next to her skirt. She’d been very aware of him ever since the quiet part of the service had started. Especially that hand. But as the sermon progressed, she got to where she could practically count his breaths. She trained her gaze ahead with all the terror of a soldier on her first day of boot camp.

She and Ty had come to a good place in their relationship. But full and complete forgiveness? The hurt Ty had caused her in Las Vegas was like a knot in a rope. She’d been pulling the two sides of the rope farther and farther apart for years and the knot had grown tighter and smaller and more impossible to untie.

She loved the thought that God stood ready to forgive her. But forgive Ty? Ty forgive her? As if their wedding and the years of keeping Addie from him had never happened?

It didn’t seem realistic or fair or smart. Her resentment over the way Ty had treated her in Vegas protected her from making herself vulnerable to him again. Wasn’t it enough that they both knew they were sorry for the things that had happened in their past? It felt like enough.

In the foyer after the service, Ty, the man who shied from nothing, made small talk with Bo and Meg. As Celia watched him throw back his head to laugh at something Bo had said, she realized that the pastor’s words had troubled him, too.

During the car ride home, Ty invited them both to his place so Addie could ride Whitey. Celia told him that Addie could go, but that she needed to bake petit fours for a custom baby shower order before heading to his parents’ house to visit Danny.

Unlike usual, Ty didn’t try to sweet-talk her into changing her mind. Ty and Addie drove off together. Celia stood on the sidewalk outside her gingerbread house, watching his truck’s taillights.

“Neighbor!”

Celia turned to see Neill, with his glossy Clark Kent hair. “Hi, Neill.”

He finished moving his sprinkler to a new section of lawn, then made his way over to her. He wore the sort of thing she’d once fancied she liked on men: flat-front shorts, a rumpled polo, and horn-rimmed glasses. The glasses made her remember the times she’d caught Ty wearing his reading glasses.

“I haven’t seen you in a few days,” Neill said. “You faring okay?”

“I am.”

“Things going well at Sugar and Cream?”

Not worth correcting. “Yes, they are. Thanks.”

They stood with their arms crossed, watching his sprinkler shoot its spray of arcing water. Pleasantly cool breeze sifted through Celia’s curls. After weeks of unrelenting heat, the late September weather had begun to turn. The air now held the promise of fall, of clear, crisp days. “It’s nice out.”

“It’s better.” Neill conceded. “But still too hot.”

Neill had been raised in Washington State. They were Pacific Northwest soul mates. And so it made no sense, none at all, that his comment irked her. She curled her toes inside her cowgirl boots and bit back the urge to defend Holley, which was, by all accounts, unbearably hot in the summertime.

“Would you like to come inside?” he asked. “There’s air conditioning.”

“Actually, I have an order to fill for a client, so I better get busy baking.” Once she’d begun offering her own baked goods in the shop, customers had begun asking if they could place special orders with her. Donetta had given Celia her approval so long as Celia filled her special orders on her own time. Word had quickly spread.

“Let’s get the kids together soon.”

“Let’s.”

He tossed back the front of his inky hair. “Whenever you have
a spare moment or need anything, don’t hesitate to knock on my door.”

The thing was—she didn’t want to knock on his door. He was a smart, nice, good-looking divorced father of two. But he did not have wicked blue eyes. He did not make her laugh. He did not have the ability to melt her into a puddle with a single look.

A
ll the next week, Celia and Ty continued with their established routine. When he arrived at Cream or Sugar, she went to the kitchen and baked. Every chance they got (plus several chances they outright stole), they kissed each other in secret. This, despite the fact that an unspoken tension lived between them now. The sermon they’d sat through together had stirred up all their issues, issues they couldn’t discuss. They could not mention the M word—marriage. Or the F word—forgiveness. Or, heaven forbid, the L word—love. If they did, they’d risk breaking the fragile bond they had.

Their romantic relationship was superficial. However, its superficiality was what guaranteed its existence. As long as it remained superficial, Celia deemed it harmless. The moment their romance became dangerous was the moment she’d have to walk away. Knowing this, Celia had decided not to rock the boat.

In the end, it didn’t matter what Celia had decided.

Because Ty rocked the boat.

“Hey,” he said to her on Sunday, as they were letting themselves into the gingerbread house. “Want to sit for a minute?” He gestured toward the matched set of rocking chairs on her porch.

Nancy had brought the rockers over earlier in the week. She’d
been purging furniture from her garage and had insisted that Celia would be doing her a favor by accepting the chairs.

“Sure.” Celia lowered into a rocker as Ty took the other. Neither of them rocked.

Ty had just driven them home from church—where, for the second week in a row, they’d endured sitting side-by-side for a sermon on forgiveness.
Really, God? Really, Pastor Doogie? Two weeks in
a row?

Addie had already voyaged deep into the house, which left Celia and Ty alone together facing a neighborhood of Victorians and a romance that could easily be shattered by a define-the-relationship talk. Celia began to push at her cuticles.

“Are we going to talk about this forgiveness thing or ignore it for another week?” Ty asked.

“Oh, I can probably ignore it for a lot longer than a week. I think I could go months.”

“Huh.” He considered her, sympathy and chiding in his face.

Blast him for bringing this up! The day’s gentle sunshine and the autumn-tipped leaves on the trees painted a backdrop too serene for this conversation.

And still, he waited.

“I’m not even sure what forgiveness is,” Celia confessed. “Is it a decision? A feeling? An act?”

“I think it’s a decision. It could involve an act. I guess we can hope the feeling follows.”

“I don’t know. It gives me a headache when I think about it, it’s so abstract.”

“Here. I’ll look up the definition.” He pulled out his smartphone, typed, waited, typed. “‘Forgiveness,’” he read. “‘To give up resentment or a claim to a justly deserved penalty.’”

Celia winced.

“That’s hard for you to accept?”

“My resentments are . . . safe and familiar. I’m okay with them. Maybe it’s warped, but I even sort of
like
them.”

“They’re not good for you.”

“I wouldn’t know how to let them go.”

His expression hardened.

“What was the second part again?”

He checked. “Giving up a claim to a justly deserved penalty.”

“I have trouble with that, too. If the penalty was deserved, then why shouldn’t the person who’s in the wrong pay it? That’s justice. Right?”

“Maybe. But at what price?” He leaned forward, setting his elbows on his knees. “I ruined things between us all those years ago, Celia.”

She swallowed hard.

“Are you going to be able to forgive me?”

No
, came the answer. Celia heard it deep within herself, quiet but adamant.

“I’ve paid for my stupid mistake. Haven’t I?”

She couldn’t speak. The turmoil in his blue eyes was snarling her thoughts.

Unbearable silence. For years after their breakup, she’d vengefully imagined this exact scenario. Ty, telling her he’d been wrong and asking for her forgiveness. In a surreal twist, she found herself living the reality. It wasn’t satisfying. Maybe because Ty wasn’t just the man who’d wounded her any more. He was also the man who worked the counter at a donut shop so she could bake. He was the one who gave Addie riding lessons and picked her up from school every day. He was the one who’d helped her paint Cream or Sugar, who’d carried Uncle Danny to her car. He was the one who didn’t seem to hold a grudge for the wrong she’d done him. “Have you forgiven me for not telling you about Addie?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have. What I did was unforgivable.”

“It wasn’t.”

“You’re better at forgiveness than I am, then. I wish I could be like you.” Her exhale ached. “I admit that the difficulty I’m having with forgiving you is my fault. My problem.”

“You’ve made it my problem, too.”

He gave her a long time to say something else, to apologize,
or otherwise soften her stance. Her mind raced, trying to decide what to say that would a) put their relationship back on its former footing and b) not be a lie. It took her too long.

He stood, walked to his truck, and drove away.

Pain turned within Celia, dull and smug.

That night, Celia hosted Meg and Bo for dinner. They’d been kind enough to invite her and Addie to their lovely home at Whispering Creek Ranch a few times, and Celia had wanted to return the favor. She’d been looking forward to cooking for them for more than a week . . . right up until her dead-end conversation with Ty about forgiveness. All day since, her mood had been mired in a wretched shade of gray.

During their meal, Celia pretended to be chatty and happy for Addie, Meg, and Bo’s sake. Her false front made her feel all the more joyless on the inside.

She’d put Addie to bed and was spooning homemade chocolate chip bread pudding into bowls for the adults when Meg joined her in the kitchen.

“What can I do to help?” Meg asked.

Celia knew, suddenly, exactly what Meg could do. She turned to face her friend. “I need to go visit Ty.”

Meg hesitated. “Ty?”

“I acted like a jerk to him earlier today. I don’t think I’ll feel right about it until I talk to him.”

Meg recovered from her surprise quickly. “Go ahead and go.” She waved a hand. “Bo and I will stay here with Addie.”

“Are you sure? I’ll just run over to Ty’s house and bring him some bread pudding as an apology, then run right back.”

“Take your time. Bo and I have each other and this dessert to keep us company. We’ll be more than fine.”

Angel Meg. Celia hugged her and then drove through a darkened Holley to Ty’s house. A plastic container of bread pudding rode shotgun. Her dashboard clock read 8:41.

She used her own key on Ty’s front door, just as she had on her previous unannounced evening visit. Unlike the last time, she didn’t find him sitting in his living room watching TV. Only a few lights had been left on in the front areas of the house.

“Ty?”

Rustling sounds came from the vicinity of his bedroom. “Hello?” He sounded half asleep.

Surely not. Before nine? “I brought you baked goods.” She waited in the foyer.

More rustling. Then he pushed open his bedroom door and limped toward her down the hallway. His hair looked a thousand ways toward rumpled. He wore a pair of cargo shorts, which revealed the brace on his left leg. Bare feet. He’d most likely shrugged into his long-sleeved denim shirt seconds ago, because it hung unbuttoned.

Her grip on the bread pudding tightened at the sight of that long slice of bare chest and abs. His upper body was even more defined than her memory had recalled. And her memory had recalled much. “Were you asleep?”

“Sort of.” He stopped a few feet from her. After weaving a little, he planted a shoulder against the wall. He smiled. A heartbreaking smile, full of affection for her and self-condemnation for himself.

“What have you been doing all day?”

“Nothing. I’ve just been here.” He said
here
like a bad kind of four-letter word. “What did you bring me?” His words slurred ever so slightly.

“Bread pudding. Um. . . . Have you been drinking?”

“No. I would have, except I didn’t have any alcohol in the house.”

And then it hit her. “Vicodin.” Anger and worry sent her stomach plunging. “Did you take Vicodin again?”

His eyes were vaguely unfocused. “I didn’t know you were planning to stop by.”

“Ty!”

“My leg hurts. I can’t sleep.”

“No,” she accused, “you took Vicodin because our conversation
earlier today upset you. I know exactly why you took it.” She set aside the bread pudding and charged into his bedroom. Depressing shadows filled the luxurious space. She flicked on his bathroom light. Sure enough, an open pill bottle sat on the counter.

Tears stung her eyes.
Ty!
What had he done? How many had he taken? She’d demanded he stop taking Vicodin. But she’d failed to secure his promise, and he’d gotten his prescription refilled.

Ty waited for her in his bedroom, standing near the bed, reminding her of the way he’d stood near their hotel room bed in Vegas that devastating morning.

“I’m glad you’re here.” His dimple tucked into his cheek. “I miss you when you’re not here.”

“How many of these did you take?” Celia brandished the bottle.

He did not look sorry. Just bemused by her anger. And very sleepy. “Three, I think.”

“Are you sure?”

“It might have been four. I’m fine. I’ve taken more than that before.”

“Is this a brand-new bottle? Or have you continued taking Vicodin since I asked you not to?”

“New bottle.” He climbed onto his bed, turning when he reached his stack of pillows. He reclined against them. The shirt slid off one side of his chest. “If you don’t mind, I think . . . I’ll just rest here while you throw a fit or whatever it is you’re going to do.” He bent his arm over his eyes. His lips hitched upward.

Heartbeat knocking, Celia pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her shorts. Like every zealous mother, she had the number for the national poison hotline embedded in her list of contacts. She hit Call. When a calm-voiced woman answered, Celia detailed the situation, the information listed on the medicine bottle, Ty’s approximate weight. Even though she worked to sound competent, her voice trembled.

In order to pinpoint how many pills he’d taken, the woman suggested Celia count the number of pills remaining in the bottle and compare that to the quantity noted on the outside. Celia counted.
Ty had taken three, one more than the prescribed dose. The woman told Celia that he should be fine. Hospital intervention wasn’t necessary.

Celia thanked the woman, buried the bottle of Vicodin in her pocket, and pulled a chair over to Ty’s bedside. She wanted to pummel him with her fists for scaring her so badly. And she’d definitely be placing yet another call to Ty’s doctor in the morning to reiterate her warnings about this particular man and this particular prescription.

Ty slid his arm downward, letting it rest on his stomach. Slowly, he turned his head to look at her. “Did you put my bread pudding in the refrigerator?”

“No.”

“Will you?”

She glared at him. “The bread pudding is the least of my worries right now.”

“Did you come tonight to say you were sorry?”

“Yes.”

He regarded her with heavy-lidded turquoise eyes. “You’re sorry?”

“I was. But now I’m mad. Really mad. You scared me to death.”

“Even though you’re mad, can you put my bread pudding in the refrigerator?”

“Fine. I’ll do it in a minute.”

His eyes sank closed. “You’re making me lose my mind. You know that, right?”

“You’re making me lose mine, too.”

“Will you just shoot me, sweet one? It’d be easier than caring about you as much as I do.”

“You’re absolutely positive that you didn’t take pills from any other bottle today?”

“Positive.”

Time ticked. She ran her gaze over his face and form to reassure herself that he was well. Every inch of him looked like it had been created by a master Renaissance sculptor. He was beautiful.
He always had been. And to her, he always would be. Until the end of time.

Her call to the hotline hadn’t comforted her completely. She couldn’t know with a hundred percent certainty that he hadn’t polished off an old bottle first before starting in on the new.

She looked up Vicodin on her phone and scrolled through information. Even a prescribed dose could come with scary side effects. What was she going to do? She didn’t feel right about leaving him alone all night.

“Celia?”

“I’m still here.”

“Will you stay longer?”

“I’ll stay a little bit longer.”

“Thank you. With you here, I can sleep.”

For fifteen straight minutes, she sat at his bedside and berated herself for getting involved with a man so stubbornly unpredictable, bullheaded, and reckless. How was she supposed to learn to trust him when he did things like this? He knew how she felt about Vicodin, and he’d gone and taken it anyway.

He wasn’t the only one at fault, though, was he? She’d all but told him earlier today that she’d never forgive him. Her words had sent him on a Vicodin bender.