Collateral Damage (41 page)

She kept them.

She put them in a vase and left them on her dresser.

She kept the postcard, too—the foggy Hamilton street. It's stuck between the frame and the mirror.

Everything inside lifts at this. That she kept these things—these things that were ours—that they were important enough to save. It gives me a renewed sense of hope. Maybe she
can
forgive me.

I flip on the bathroom light, and there it is.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Weddings take time. Receptions take time. But I don't know for sure how long I have, and I've never replaced a faucet before. I open my backpack and remove the box containing the brand new brushed satin fixture. I pull out wrenches, towels, plumber's putty and Teflon tape, lining them up across the floor.

I open the cabinet door beneath her sink and shut off the water supply. I check the faucet to make sure the water's off, then use the wrench to unscrew the valves and supply lines.

I check the time on my cell phone.

So far, so good.

I tear open the box, remove the instructions studied religiously the night before, and get to work: caulking where the faucet will go, installing the drain rod, and connecting new valves and lines to the fixture. The dripping faucet wasn't the only problem—Jaden wasn't getting cold water to her sink. Daniel said the old lines were probably crossing. New ones should fix this.

Once everything is assembled and tightened, I turn the water valve back on. I swipe my dirty hands across my jeans, wipe my forehead against my sleeve, say a quick prayer, and twist the knobs.

Water gushes from the faucet.

It works.

I turn on the hot water and wait for it to warm. It warms.

I turn on the cold water. It goes cold.

And it stays cold.

I exhale relief, swallow back a laugh.

It works.

I check the time, gather my tools, and shove them in my backpack. I wipe the sink and the floor with the towel. At the last minute, I grab Jaden's wrench, too—the one she used to tighten the old faucet.

A souvenir.

I survey the bathroom.

Perfect.

Outside the sun is setting, casting orange and red reflections throughout Jaden's bedroom, setting the walls on fire. The bed is made. The rug vacuumed. I could run a finger across the dresser and not find a speck of dust.

I laugh. "Neat freak," I mutter. "There's no way in hell you don't make lists."

I shut her bedroom door, lock up the house, return the key to its planter.

It's nearly dark by the time I reach my apartment. I drop my bag to the floor, toss my helmet on the couch, and head to the freezer to find something to eat.

Hot Pockets.

That's it.

Grocery shopping hasn't been a priority lately. My lease runs out at the end of the month, anyway, and then I'll be back in Hamilton full time.

I stick both packages in the microwave and head to the bathroom to take a quick shower.

Dinner is ready by the time I emerge. I slip on a new pair of boxers and my jeans, grab my plate and a drink. I'm just getting settled on the couch when my phone rings. I reach for my coat and fish through pockets.

Daniel McEntyre.

My stomach flips, turning over. "Daniel?"

"Parker?"

"Yeah," I reply. "What's up?"

"Jaden's up."

"Did she like the faucet?"

"She loved it. But that's not why I'm calling. I'm calling to tell you that she just jumped in her car and left. We have a pretty good hunch she went looking for you."

"For me? Did she tell you where she was going? Wait. Shouldn't you be out of town already?"

"We're leaving in a few minutes. And no, she didn't say. I assumed she knew where to go."

"Shit," I mutter.

"Does that 'shit' mean I have to cancel my honeymoon?" he asks.

"No. It's okay. I'll find her," I promise.

He heaves a sigh. "Text me when you do. I don't care how late it is."

*
    
*
    
*

The street in front of Jaden's house is still empty when I arrive. She wasn't at the school. She wasn't at Guido's or downtown. She wasn't at the park. I don't know where else she would be. It's impossible for her to track me down. Legally, I'm Chris Whalen of Hamilton, but, as a cop, every last piece of personal information is unlisted. She'll never find me.

As I stare at that second floor window, with its blue curtains and painted shutters, an idea strikes.

She has to come home eventually.

If she's looking for me because she thinks we stand a chance—and I hope to God she thinks we still stand a chance.... This is it. I can't screw up.

I head back to Guido's—the pharmacy across the street. I scour aisles, searching for office supplies, and grab a pack of Sharpies and thin notebook off the rack. Outside, leaning against my bike, I write. I write by the light of the fluorescent sign hanging above—everything I should've said and more.

She's still not home by the time I return.

I cross the street, notebook in hand. I creep along that fence lining the property, moving through shadows. I shove that marker into my back pocket, bite into the edge of that notebook, and climb. I climb that oak tree rising above her house, branch after branch, scraping fingers until I reach the second floor.

I circle the house slowly, sit down outside her window, and wait.

I half-expect Daniel to call, checking in on her, but my phone stays silent.

Seconds tick by. Seconds turn to minutes and those minutes turn to more minutes. I rest against the house, ankles crossed, watch the street. It's quiet—still—and soon I'm stifling yawns.

She pulls her car along the curb just before midnight. My whole world lifts at the sight of her, when she steps onto the grass in a two-sizes-too-large sweatshirt and shimmering skirt. I'm fully awake now, heart pounding in rhythm with her stride—flip flops thwacking against the sidewalk as she heads toward the front door. And it's all I can do not to jump off this roof, to meet her in the yard, to pull her in my arms. It's the closest I've been to her in weeks and it's still not enough.

I text Daniel.

She's home.

By the time it's sent, a light shines between the cracks in the blinds of her room.

I suck in a breath, gathering strength—
please let this work—
then
tap on the window.

The light extinguishes.

I tap again. Gently. And, in a moment, the blinds rise. And there she is. Her eyes narrow ever so slightly, as if unable to process what she's seeing—me, crouched low on her roof, waiting for her. She touches the glass separating us. My heart constricts.

"Hi," I whisper.

She mouths the word: "Hi."

I hold up my index finger, signaling for her to hold on. I pick up my notebook and open it to the first page.

I know this is unexpected
...
and strange
...
but please
hear
read me out
.

I turn the next page. And the next.

I know I told you I never lied
...
but that was (obviously) the biggest lie of all
.
The truth is: I'm a liar
.
I lied.
I lied to myself...and to you.
But only because I had to.
I wasn't supposed to fall in love with you, Jaden...but it happened anyway.

And it gets worse.
Not only am I a liar...I'm selfish. Selfish enough to want it all.
And I know if I don't have you...I don't have anything.
I'm not Ethan...and I'm not going to give up...until I can prove to you...that you are the only thing that matters.
So keep sending me away...but I'll just keep coming back to you.
Again
...
and again
...
and again
.

And if you can ever find it in your heart to forgive me
...

I will do everything it takes to make it up to you.

I watch her carefully as she reads this confession. This apology for every lie I've ever told. The promise that I will do everything in my power to make it right. And, with this promise, I toss the notebook aside and draw an X on my chest, crossing my heart.

Forever. And ever. And ever.

The hint of a smile plays at her lips.

She reaches for the metal latch, unlocking the window, then raises the sash. She stares at me—nothing between us—gathers the lavender satin of her dress and steps through the empty frame, her bare feet searching for roof.

She is breathtaking.

More than I remember, even. The color of her dress. The thin straps, the silky material hugging her every curve. Her hair, falling in curls past her shoulders. Her eyes, like stars, glistening against moonlight.

We stand tall, facing each other, and my gaze drifts to her forehead, to the scar—still healing. I trace it with my finger, feeling a thousand memories—tables in the library, bags of Sun Chips, darkened attics; feeling a thousand sensations—her arms wrapped around me, her body beneath mine, the world falling apart around us; feeling a world where she is mine and I am hers and I have everything I could ever need.

I tuck her hair behind her ear, brush fingers along her cheek. Her eyes squeeze shut, and a tear slips between us.

I take her face in my hands, force back the lump jamming my throat, and wipe those tears away with my thumbs. "You know you're beautiful? Even when you cry?"

She takes a hollow breath, and her lungs shudder.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"I know why you had to."

"Doesn't make it right."

"Doesn't matter anymore," she assures me, shaking her head.

And I know, with these words, I'm forgiven—that she's handed me the greatest gift I could ever hope for. Another chance to show the world how much she means to me.

A chance to start over.

To get it right.

I bend my head toward hers and kiss her softly as a summer moon hangs suspended in the sky above, as stars twinkle overhead, as a cold, endless winter fades to nothing. My fingers slip into her hair, releasing flowers. I rest my cheek against her forehead, breathing her in.

My lungs squeeze out another breath as a pang of want rips through my body. "I'm going to call you tomorrow."

"Okay," she replies.

"And take you to dinner."

She laughs softly. "Like a date?"

"Yeah. And I know it sounds
cliché
, but I'll probably call the next day, just to hear your voice." She laughs, brushes her nose across my jaw line. "But that won't be enough, so I'll want to see you again."