Lily Love (21 page)

“I’m not now.” He gives me a sad smile, and it breaks my heart. “Why do you think I’m so grateful for our timing?” God, I hope he really means that.

He kisses my forehead and walks me around to my car door. I’m blown away by his willingness to just accept me during such a deeply personal time in his life. He and his sister are open, warm, and every single thing I wasn’t during my own hardships with Lily. Funny how I thought I was the one who’d be imparting the wisdom of experience to him. I have the distinct feeling that he’s going to be teaching me more than I anticipated.

“I had a wonderful time tonight, Caroline. I really needed it, too.” He leans his arms against the car on either side of me, shutting out the noise around us. “Once my mom gets transferred and settled in, I want to see you.”

He kisses the top of my head before he tucks me under his chin. I wonder if he expects me to say no. He probably does, considering how apt I’ve been to push him away.

“Day after tomorrow.” I tilt my head up and kiss the tip of his nose. “It’s Peter’s weekend with Lily, so he’ll pick her up Thursday afternoon and have her through Sunday afternoon.”

He lifts his head, bringing our lips just a breath apart. “Thursday it is.” He brushes his lips against mine in a gesture so sweet, it makes my knees weak. “In the meantime, is it okay if I call you?” he asks me bashfully.

“Anytime you want to talk, call me. Okay?” He nods his agreement.

Pushing off the car, he opens my door. The vacancy left between us is accentuated by the loss of his warmth. It makes me miss him immediately.

“Call me or shoot me a text when you get home, so I know you made it,” he shouts as I shut the door. I nod and wave awkwardly as I drive away. It was a beautiful evening, so why do I suddenly feel like I’m floundering? I check my rearview mirror and find Tate standing by the curb, watching me drive away.

i’m not who i was

D
riving back home from the hospital is simply an array of reflexive right and left turns. My brain no longer registers the landmarks between there and home; it’s the exact invariable route it was the first time I drove it with Lily. When I arrive at the house, my key fits in the dead bolt the same as it did before. The house appears as it has from the day we bought it seven years ago. Everything is exactly the same as it was before I left this evening, but everything
feels
different.

When Peter moved out, a void opened up inside this space. A hole where I believed his presence had made up part of the ambience of our home. After he left, the empty space became a living entity lurking in the hallways. It felt like a menacing presence, a cold spot in the corner of the room that made the hair on your arms stand at attention. I knew it was there; I just tried to pretend it wasn’t and hoped to God it wouldn’t suck me into my television set in the middle of the night.

Now here I am standing in my foyer, and I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything at all, actually. No phantom shadows, flickering lights, or moving furniture. The ghost is gone. This doesn’t exactly serve up much of an epiphany, when you consider the events of the last few months. The true marvel is realizing the haunting wasn’t Peter’s ghost,
nor mine. It was the misery the two of us grew so accustomed to setting our standard of living to.

At first I excused it as proof of my survival. If I felt miserable, then surely it was evidence that I was still alive and breathing. A dead soul can feel nothing, wholly numb. Then the misery spread like a pervasive virus throughout every aspect of my life until nothing was left but the bar to which I measured how
alive
I was by how desolate I’d become. I told myself that trying to absorb our collective pain over Lily’s disability was a tribute to how much I loved Peter, that learning to endure the burden would make me a better wife, somehow.

I can count on one hand the number of times in my life where a series of events triumphantly clicked into place. This is definitely one of those moments, when clarity you didn’t know you were seeking kicks you right in the ass. The despondency I allowed myself to wallow in was
not
a testament to living. Feeling that kind of anguish on a daily basis was proof of nothing more than how skilled I was at punishing myself for Lily’s condition. Tragic as it sounds, I’m grateful that Peter walked away when he did. If he hadn’t, I’d still be gauging how much life I had left in me by how much despair I felt. I’d still be clueless to my own demoralization if I hadn’t met Tate.

He is unapologetically grateful I stumbled into his life. He doesn’t worry about the fact that it’s the same week he’s putting his mother into hospice. Albeit subconsciously, I expected him to walk away, because it just seemed like too much. How could he possibly reconcile starting a relationship when his mother is dying? How could he want to start a relationship with a single mother of a special-needs child? This has “disaster” written all over it. So why can’t I stay away?

It’s not like we were looking for each other. In fact, it was quite the opposite. For whatever reason—serendipity, kismet, whatever you want to call it—we just kind of happened. Naturally, I panicked and made every effort to discount what was happening. Who wouldn’t? The last thing either one of us needs is a relationship steeped in codependency. My greatest fear is that this connection is born from the
desperation we feel about our lives. That once he finally meets Lily, our relationship will fall apart. I’m terrified to go through something like that again. Still, my heart has eclipsed the valiant efforts of my logic, and I’m okay with that now.

Tate’s different; what’s acceptable to him is to hang on to whatever joy he can, despite his mother’s illness. He comes at it from the idea that life is chaotic enough; our feelings don’t need to be. He likes me, and praise cheeses, I like him. That could be enough for right now, if I let it be.

So let it be. Let. It. Be.

I pull my phone from my purse and stare at the screen, wishing for something witty and charming to say. Tate has me seeing a whole myriad of things in a different light, but the one thing that stands out the most: me. He makes me see myself in a way I haven’t been able to before, and I like the woman I’m becoming. I want to throttle her a lot of the time, but I see her value in a way that has been completely lost on me until now. I’m not entirely sure how I got to this point in my life without having a clue who I am, but I’m really glad that Tate has been able to give me a glimpse of myself from his perspective. I would love to tell him that, but trying to fit that into a text message would be difficult. Still, I’d like to convey how much I enjoyed spending time with him.

Me: Made it home . . . Thank you for a lovely evening.

Tate replies immediately.

Tate: Glad you’re home safe. It was rather lovely, wasn’t it?

Me: Spectacular :) Looking forward to another one soon.

Tate: Me, too . . . good dream material for tonight ;)

Me: *swoon* Sweet dreams, then. I’ll talk to you soon.

Tate: Sounds perfect. Sweet dreams to you, too #dreamgirl

Dream girl? My cheeks flood with the heat of my pleasure. I’ve never been anyone’s “dream girl” before. If I have, then I’ve been too daft to know it. The possibility of being Tate’s is almost too good to be true. I really want to be. The desire of wanting to be his dream girl
strikes me with such force, it takes my breath away. It scares the living daylights out of me, because I know I don’t have the willpower to walk away if he rejects Lily.

Paige is going to kill me.

secret garden

A
ir bursts from my lungs in shallow puffs, leaving me dizzy. Tate’s arms secure me against the length of his body; his lips fervently move against mine. A moan escapes from my lips as his knee nudges its way between my legs. His tongue strokes mine, igniting a passion that threatens to burn me alive.

“Caroline,” he groans into my mouth. “I want you so much.” His hands are everywhere, making me ache with heady awareness. I want so badly to feel him move inside me, I swear I’ll die with wanting. His fingertips skim my rib cage as I undulate against his thigh. I can feel myself climbing to the peak of our combined desire.

“Tate, please,” I beg, pulling his shirt above his head. “I need you.”

“Dance, little sister,” he whispers in my ear. Confused, I pull back and look at him. He levels his melted caramel eyes on me and repeats, “Dance, little sister, dance.”

I come awake with a violent start, nearly pitching myself off the couch. My cell phone is glowing on the coffee table, the Stones singing persistently, waiting for me to answer Paige’s call. Frantically, I grab for the phone and cringe when I see the time: 12:05 a.m.

“Hello?” I croak into the phone. Maybe if she realizes she woke me up, she’ll take mercy on me. Yeah, right. She’ll be even more
irritated that I was able to fall asleep before calling in the highlights of the evening.

“Don’t you ‘hello’ me,” she shouts. “Do you know what time it is?” I was right; her voice is laced with annoyance.

“Paige, I’m so sorry. I must’ve conked out on the couch.”
And was having a rather delicious sex dream that you woke me up from before the big finish. Thanks a lot.

“Save it, sister,” she grouses. “I’ve been sitting here all night waiting for you to call. How did it go?”

That’s a loaded question. If I tell her how well things went, she’s going to think I’m insane.

“Um, well . . . uh . . .” I stammer. “Oh, hell, Paige. I don’t know what to say,” I whine. It’s the truth; I don’t know what to say that won’t green-light an effort to have me committed.

“Did he kiss you?” she asks tentatively.

“Yes.”

“Did you like it?”

“Yes, Paige.” I roll my eyes at her line of questioning. Did I like it? Does a bear shit in the woods? “I liked it a lot.”

“Hmm,” is the only response. What the heck is that supposed to mean?

“That’s it?” I complain. “You ring me up to read me the riot act, guilting me about forgetting to call, and all I get is ‘hmm’?”

“I’m thinking, you cow,” she sasses. “Did you at least talk before making out with him? How come he’s single? Is he divorced? What does he do for a living?”

“Whoa, whoa,” I interrupt. “He’s never been married, but was in a relationship for eight years. He’s a photographer—” I start to explain, but it’s Paige’s turn to interrupt.

“A photographer?” she asks. “He didn’t ask you to pose nude, did he?”

“Paige Christine Hunter,” I threaten, “if you make fun, I won’t think twice about hanging up on you.”

“Sorry, no more interrupting, I promise. I will just listen from here on out,” she says.

With a deep breath, I begin with Giff’s, telling her about the flowers, the conversation, and the kiss. That first perfect kiss. True to her word, she listens to me pore over the details. It’s nice to be able to savor the finer points of the evening with her. I catch her sighing wistfully when I tell her how he told me I make him feel alive and out of control.

“Jesus, Caroline,” she breathes into her phone. “He sounds like a dream. How did you guys leave things at Giff’s?”

I hesitate for a moment, wondering how I’m going to explain the next part of the night, or if I even should. Paige doesn’t know that I’ve been sneaking off to the moon garden to think for the last few years. No one does, except Tate. It is my refuge, a place where I didn’t want anyone to come looking for me, let alone find me, until now. It wasn’t a place that I thought I’d ever share with anyone, and now I’ve shared it with Tate. I don’t want to hurt Paige’s feelings, and I don’t want to breed any unnecessary comparisons. I want her to accept and like Tate, not feel a sense of competition.

“Well, we didn’t part ways at Giff’s,” I start. “I took him to my thoughtful spot. A place where I go to get my head on straight, when I’m dealing with life stuff.” I wait anxiously for Paige to say something, to give me a clue where to steer the conversation from here.

“You took him to the moon garden?” she asks in a meek voice.

I’m glad my butt is planted firmly on the couch, because I’m certain that you could knock me over with a feather right now.

“What?” My voice comes out as a startled whisper. “How do you know about that?”

“Caroline, I knew you were disappearing somewhere at night.” I listen, shocked, as Paige continues to tell me how she came to find out about my secret hiding place. “When Lily first started showing signs of delay, I came over a couple of different times at night when I knew she would be down for the evening. I thought if I surprised you, you wouldn’t have time to throw up the walls you’d been building to keep
us all out. Peter never had an answer for where you were, just that you’d gone out for a drive to think. Around the second or third time I came by, I started to get worried. Peter didn’t seem to know what to do, and I think a big part of him didn’t want to help me figure it out. I think he felt that if you wouldn’t talk to him, he couldn’t handle you talking to me. So, one night, I came a little earlier than usual and waited for you to pull out of the garage. I followed you into the botanical park. In fact, I trailed you for a whole week, just to make sure your visits there weren’t a fluke. I felt like a creeper at first, but I had to make sure you were okay. I sat where you couldn’t see me and watched over you, because it was all I could do.”

“Paigey,” I sniffle between tears. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“How could I?” she sobs into the phone. “It was so clear that the garden was where you let everything to the surface to feel. You never showed any emotion to any of us during that time, yet in that garden I watched you set all of that angst free. I didn’t want to stop you from feeling it; I knew you needed to in order to deal with it. I just always figured you’d tell me about it when you were ready.” I hear the hurt in her voice, and I wish she were here for me to hold on to.

“I never meant to exclude you,” I swear. “I just didn’t know how to let anyone see how broken I was back then.”

“I know that, Caro,” she says. “I’m not mad at you. If anything, it shows me how much you trust and care about Tate already. I know you wouldn’t bring anyone to the garden lightly.”