Take This Regret (31 page)

Burying my face in the pil ow, I rejoiced and thanked God she was giving me this moment, as innocent as it was intimate. I gathered myself enough to whisper, “I miss you, too, Elizabeth. More than you know.”

We lay together in silence listening to each other breathe. Stil wearing my pants and dress shirt, I tugged the sheet and blanket over my body, and hugged a pil ow to my chest. I refused myself the fantasies flickering on the outskirts of my consciousness and forced myself to rest satisfied in Elizabeth’s peace.

Final y, Elizabeth whispered, “I’m so sorry, Christian.”

“I’m sorry too.”

It was usual y only Lizzie who waited by the window for her father, but today I couldn’t help but join her. Every few minutes I went to stand beside my daughter who waited perched on her knees, peering out at the street. The blinds were drawn wide, opened in invitation. The glass was smudged and painted by Lizzie’s eager hands and dotted by her tiny nose.

Christian had sent a text about twenty minutes before to let us know he’d landed and was on his way.

My heart palpitated, raced in anticipation, sped in fear.

Christian told me he loved me.

My chest constricted as his words flowed through me again with their tenor, their depth.

His declaration had nearly undone me, had almost unraveled the knot I held so tightly twined around my broken heart. I’d wanted to say it so badly. I’d felt it dance on my tongue, longing to admit that I loved him too. Somehow, I’d reined it in, harnessed it, and left it to smolder, knowing it would only grow.

For one more day, I’d kept my heart hidden and protected.

Running my palms over my arms, I attempted to tame my nerves. I forced myself into believing that the moment we’d shared in place of those words hadn’t been so much more powerful than had I just said them aloud. I pretended that my heart wasn’t the farthest from secure and that I didn’t feel more vulnerable today than I had ever in my life.

Movement from the street brought Lizzie to her feet, the tail of Christian’s silver car visible as he pul ed into our driveway. “He’s here,” she al but whispered. Her face looked determined as she set out the front door and ran down the sidewalk to meet him.

She had not been herself al week but quiet and contemplative. Final y, last night as I’d tucked her into bed, she’d opened up, confessed her fears, and asked, “What if my Daddy dies too?” It had been one of the hardest things I’d ever discussed with my daughter, the balance of giving her both peace and honesty, the truth that life ultimately ends in death. She’d only been able to fal asleep once I’d lain down next to her and ran my fingers through her hair. I’d whispered for her not to worry and promised that she’d see her father again.

Pushing a hand through my bangs, I steeled myself for the emotion I knew would come. I hesitated at doorway and listened to their greetings.

Even though they were out of view, I could almost feel Christian’s relief when Lizzie was final y in his arms again.

When they rounded the corner, Lizzie was attached to her father’s hip, clinging to his neck as if she’d never let go.

Christian came to a standstil when he saw me, his breath rushing from his chest as his gaze washed over me.

His eyes swam their deepest blue—midnight—warm but so very tired; his body weary, leaden with obvious exhaustion.

Chaotic shocks of black hair stood up in disaccord, salient circles beneath his eyes, his white, printed T-shirt wrinkled, and his expression hopeful.

I couldn’t refrain from taking a step forward and whispering, “Welcome home.”

Slowly he approached, each footfal measured, calculated, and purposed. Every step that brought him closer escalated my already rapid breaths. The pieces of my broken heart were at war, tangled and twisted, the smoldering, conflicting emotions threatening to burst.

Inches from me, he stopped and kissed the side of Lizzie’s head before he set her down, never taking his penetrating gaze from me.

Frozen, I waited, unable to look away.

Somewhere inside me, I knew I shouldn’t reach out when he reached for me; knew I shouldn’t wrap my arms around his waist when he wrapped his arms around my shoulders; knew I shouldn’t bury my face in his chest at the moment he buried his in my hair.

I just couldn’t stop myself.

Christian tugged me closer, his body heavy and perfect against mine, fatigued and seeking support.

“I missed you so much,” he whispered against my ear as he pul ed me impossibly closer and breathed me in. The heat of his breath licked at my skin, his nearness setting it aflame.

He clouded every faculty, interrupted reason, tempted me to
forget
. I closed my eyes against the sensations and tried to block the resurgence of memories, to ignore the familiarity of his touch. I pushed it al aside and focused on what he needed— comfort.

He clung to me as if his life depended on it.

A warning signal flared somewhere deep within my soul.

Dangerous.

For once, I ignored it.

Instead, I crushed my chest to his, al owed the rush of relief to surge through my veins, and savored the heat of his skin and the warmth of his body.

Echoes of our past surfaced in my mind, our happiest moments, the way only he could make me smile, the way only he could make me feel, our most intimate times. I wanted to hold onto them, but they fluttered and flickered and gave way to vivid images so strong I could almost taste them—sick, cold, alone—and I remembered why I could never give into this.

Even then
, I didn’t want to let go and al owed myself a few moments more before I placed a hand against his few moments more before I placed a hand against his chest and gently pushed him away. He covered my hand with both of his, pressed it over his heart, and smiled at me in a way that chipped away another piece of my armor.

Averting my eyes, I made the mistake of looking down at Lizzie who gazed up at us with the same expression I’d seen Christian wearing the second before—like she’d just been al owed a smal piece of heaven.

What the hel was I doing?

Teasing my daughter?

Giving her false hope, stoking her imagination, painting a picture of things that could never be?

I forced myself to take a step back from Christian, gathered up the emotions that were slowly slipping away, and drew another line.

For Lizzie
, I told myself. This was for Lizzie.

I glanced back up at Christian, reminding myself we could only ever be friends—
partners
. Purging the remnants of my desire from my face, I straightened myself and put back on my mask. I smiled and stood aside. “Go on in.

Dinner’s almost ready.”

Christian inhaled and threw a grin in my direction, lopsided and achingly cute. “You made spaghetti and meatbal s?” His voice teemed with appreciation, swam in awareness.

My mask fel , so easily penetrable, evidence of my weakness. I felt my face flush, and I ducked my head. I knew how obvious I was in preparing his favorite dinner just as I had prepared his favorite breakfast the morning after

Lizzie’s fal .

“Yeah, I figured you’d be starved after the long flight,” I mumbled toward my bare feet, shrugging to make less of it than we both knew it was.

I looked up in time to see his lopsided smile spread.

“You have no idea how good that sounds. I haven’t eaten al day.” Turning his attention to Lizzie, he wrapped one of her tiny hands in his and asked, “What about you, princess, are you hungry?”

Overwhelmed, I hung back and tried to convince myself that nothing had changed as he led her inside.

Christian glanced back at me with a lazy grin. “You coming?”

Sighing, I told myself another thousand lies and fol owed him inside.

“Do you want to talk?”

Pointing the remote at the television, I lowered the volume and let the cartoon Lizzie had wanted to watch play out. She’d fal en asleep about fifteen minutes before, curled up in Christian’s lap. Her sweet breaths came in soft pants against his chest, rhythmic and soothing in the dimness of the room. He played with the strands of her hair, appearing lost in thought and most likely minutes from sleep.

Glancing at me, he grimaced through a heavy sigh, ran his palm over his weary face, and blinked. “I . . . don’t . . .

know.” It didn’t seem an answer to my question but was more a statement of how he was feeling.

If I were in his place, I wouldn’t know what to feel either.

Those unanswered questions formed as lines across his forehead. “I’ve spent so much of my life resenting my father . . . blaming him for al of my problems . . . for every mistake I’ve made.” His brow furrowed as he left those mistakes unspoken, though many of them were glaringly obvious. He snorted through his nose and shook his head.

“Do you know he left me a quarter of his inheritance?” He focused on his fingers weaving through Lizzie’s hair while stil shaking his head. His words dropped in slow disbelief, maybe even hinting at a newfound respect.

“And the rest of it to my mom.”

“What?” I couldn’t keep my shocked reaction contained.

Christian cut his eyes to mine. In the muted light of the family room, they were dark and mournful.

His mouth twisted and twitched, and he seemed to be struggling to keep his emotions in check. Supporting Lizzie, he leaned forward, wrenched his wal et from his back pocket, and produced a folded up piece of paper from it.

With his head bowed, he passed it over to me.

“He’d kept this in his desk.”

Wary of what I’d find inside, I stared at the piece of worn and tattered paper in my palm. I was sure whatever it held had broken a part of Christian’s heart.

Gingerly, I unfolded it, smoothed it out on my lap, and gasped at the simple picture.

Christian must have understood my surprise, must have read in the message the same thing I saw now.

“I can’t remember drawing it . . . or feeling it. I just wish I could.” The words shook as they fel as grief from his trembling mouth. “Damn it,” he suddenly spat, raking his hand through his hair. “He wasted his whole life.” Again, his expression shifted and the fire behind his words dul ed and eased into pain as if he didn’t know whether to revile his father’s memory or mourn him. “He knew he was dying, Elizabeth. I know it, and he wanted me to know he cared about me.” The sadness poured through him, a mixture of anger and pity and so much regret. “I just wish he would have had the courage to say it to my face.” Tracing the lettering, I imagined a little black-haired boy drawing it, the concentration he would have had on his face as he worked on the choppy, misspel ed letters, the pride he’d have had as he’d given it to his father.

I didn’t flinch when Christian reached out to do the same.

I closed my eyes as he pried my fingers from the page and wrapped them in his hand. “I don’t want to become like him, Elizabeth.” His throat bobbed in unspent emotion. “I don’t want to waste my life. I don’t want to waste
this
,” he stressed as he squeezed my hand.

I laced my fingers through his and blinked back tears.

He fol owed my gaze to Lizzie, and I brought our joined hands to touch the porcelain rosiness of our daughter’s cheek before I turned back to face the intent in his eyes.

“You’re not.”

A sad smile whispered at the corner of his mouth, and he laid his cheek against her head as a heavy breath fel from his tired lips.

In the stil ness, I held his hand, brushed my thumb over his soft skin. I watched as his eyes gradual y faded and closed in exhaustion, listened to his deep breaths even out, felt his muscles twitch as he drifted to sleep.

As quietly as I could, I uncurled myself from the couch, lifted Lizzie into my arms, and carried her upstairs to her bed. I tucked her under her covers and spent a moment adoring the amazing child Christian and I had created before I kissed her on the forehead.

Then I went into my room and dragged a blanket and pil ow from my bed.

I tiptoed back downstairs to find Christian had slouched and sank deeper into the crevices of the couch.

His arms were sprawled out, his body relaxed.