Saving Forever (The Ever Trilogy: Book 3) (11 page)

He just stared down at me, his pale blue eyes roving over me. Oh, yes, he saw me. And he liked what he saw. I could tell that much. His mouth opened, and I felt myself anticipating the sound of his voice. It would be a low, powerful rumble like the sound of an engine. He’d ask me to go swimming with him. Maybe. I’d learn where he lived. Maybe.
 

But then he shook his head, closed his mouth with an audible
click
, and headed toward the water. His fists were clenched at his sides as he jogged toward the waterline. Now, what the hell was that? He’d been about to say something. I knew he had. And then he’d just…run off. Had I scared him off somehow? Although I couldn’t imagine what I could have done to do that.

I watched him plow through the water until he was waist deep, and then he dove in and was gone. Just…gone. I kept watching, expecting to see him reappear a few feet farther away, near the dock maybe, or the boat. But he didn’t. He dove in and was simply gone. I stood up and moved toward the shoreline, squinting at the bright reflection of the sun on the water, hunting the orange-diamond surface for a hint of him. Where could he have gone?

This was becoming a mystery. The man who never spoke, who appeared and disappeared on the beach. I couldn’t think of any explanation for his behavior except perhaps he had some far-off destination to which he swam, somewhere out of sight. It really was strange, and it made him that much more of an enigma. Was he just shy? Did he want to talk to me, but was too nervous? But I dismissed that notion right away. He didn’t seem like the shy type. His posture and his body language were that of a man who knew himself, who was comfortable in his own skin. He moved with powerful grace, athletic and in tune with his body. Yet he seemed unwilling or unable to speak to me. Maybe he was mute? But the way he’d opened his mouth just now made me think he
could
talk, but he just wouldn’t. For whatever reason.

I waded into the water, dove under, and swam out to the dock, letting the blissfully cold water rinse the sweat off me and cool the heat from my skin. I tried to push away thoughts of the mystery man. It wasn’t easy, though. The scent of him was in my nostrils, a seductive mix of sweat and sawdust, all man, sexy and drunk-making. Yet I had no business thinking about him. Even if he did get the courage to talk to me, it couldn’t go anywhere. I could only hide my…condition…for so long, and then I’d be forced to tell the truth, and he’d be gone. No one would want to waste their time with someone like me. I’d be a single mom soon. And the story of how I’d come by my baby would be impossible to tell.
 

Where’s the daddy?
they’d ask. How was I supposed to tell them the father was my twin sister’s husband? And that I’d conceived the baby while my sister was in a coma she wasn’t expected to come out of.

God, that sounded more horrible every time I thought about it.
 

I dove off the dock and swam to shore, gathered my book and blanket and bottle of water. I jogged home, tripping on rocks and wincing as pebbles dug into my heels and arches. I barely made it home before the tears hit me.
 

What had I done? I couldn’t imagine how to fix this. How could I ever face my sister and Caden again? Just show up at their condo one day with a black-haired and amber-eyed baby in my arms?
Hey, sis, meet your nephew. Oh, by the way, Cade’s the daddy. How ’bout them Lions?

 
It was better I was gone and out of their lives. Sure, they’d wonder where I’d gone. They might even come up here and look for me. Ever would think of this place eventually, and come looking.
 

I’d probably have to move away. Find a job and someone to watch the baby. Find an apartment. Maybe I could teach cello from home, and that way I wouldn’t need to find a sitter.

Fuck me. I knew nothing about babies. I’d never even held one. I had no friends with children. No nieces or nephews or cousins. The closest I’d gotten to a baby was when my classical music history prof had had her baby and brought the strange pink, gurgling little thing to campus. I’d watched in horrified fascination as she held the baby, cooing and making bizarre noises and tickling its chin, making faces and talking in a high-pitched voice. I remembered seeing Professor Ennis with her huge belly. She had been barely able to totter and waddle from one end of the classroom to the other. She’d always been a pacer, Professor Ennis. She’d pace from one end of the room to the other, waving her hands and gesticulating wildly as she discoursed. By the end of her pregnancy, she’d had to lecture sitting down, her belly a massive thing almost big enough to topple her forward. And then she’d appeared after a month of leave to show us her baby, and everyone had oohed and ahhed, and one of the older students who had children asked a question about the birth and we’d all been privy to some truly horrifying details none of us had wanted to know.

That was going to be me, in a little over six months.
 

What was I going to do? How was I supposed to be a mother? I couldn’t change a diaper. I didn’t even know how to hold a baby. I was so unprepared.
 

I fumbled Apollo from his case and drew the bow across his strings, choking on my sobs of terror. The note was discordant and screeching, and I had to try again. This time, the note came out properly, and I focused on the sound, on the wavering golden tone. I drew another note. A third. I brought the bow across and tilted to hit the D string. Found myself playing the intro to my solo. Lost myself in it. The music dried my tears and buried the fear and the guilt beneath the weight of perfect notes. Music was the one thing I could do right. It was my only solace. I played the whole solo through, refusing to think about Ever and Cade even when I played the parts dedicated to them. It was just music, notes on a page, sounds in my heart.

Eventually I was calm enough to sleep, but when I did, I dreamed of an amber-eyed baby, and of Ever, her green eyes distraught with confused grief and betrayed hurt. I woke up crying, as I did so many nights after dreams like that.

~ ~ ~ ~
 

The beach was my haven. I always ended up there somehow. Early in the morning, after my run, I’d stop at the beach and watch the sunrise. I’d put away Apollo late at night with aching fingers and turmoil in my mind, and I’d go to the beach with the stars shining like countless diamonds, clustered and scattered across a black felt cloth. The moon would be reflected in the rippling lake water and the waves would lap gently, and I’d find some measure of peace.
 

It was early morning, just past 6 a.m. Dawn was breaking on the water, and I’d already run three miles. I hated running, but it was all I had to keep fit, to distract myself. So I did it--—three miles every morning. Maybe next week I’d try for four. I’d run until I was too pregnant to do so.
 

I was panting for breath, slimy with sweat, and my thoughts were starting to run wild with fear and panic. I straightened, gazed out at the water, and I saw him. The water god. He was suddenly there, just like last time. Waist deep in the bay, water sluicing down his lean, powerful body, hair wet and black as night and slicked back against his scalp. I stood watching him as he waded to shore and stopped about ten feet from me. I felt his gaze, felt his presence like some kind of electric force blazing in my blood. Blue like ice, like a clear winter sky, his eyes were inscrutable and piercing. I wished, stupidly, that I wasn’t in my running gear, dripping sweat and gasping for breath. This stupid sports bra was too small, and I felt his eyes flick down to my cleavage, and then away. To my hips in my skin-tight shorts, and then away.
 

I felt a burst of something hot inside me at his gaze on my body. He liked what he saw, I knew that much. And Jesus, did I like what
I
saw. He was so, so beautiful. I didn’t look away, expecting him to say “hi.” To shake my hand or something. Anything. Make a move, even though I’d have to find a way to shoot him down, but not wanting to.
 

But he didn’t. He just smiled at me, a small polite, not-quite warm smile. A nervous, forced thing. And then he moved past me, wiping drops from his face, and then making a fist. I turned to watch him go, and damn it if he didn’t have the most amazing ass, outlined by the wet fabric of his shorts, round and firm-looking. I shook myself, forced those idiotic thoughts from my head. That was the kind of thing that I didn’t have any time for, and had no place thinking.
 

But yet I couldn’t help watching him go. He was striding quickly, as if angry.
 

Was he mad at me? It was a public beach, so I had every right to be there. I didn’t get his reaction. He’d stared at me, acted like he was about to say something, and then he just took off. Maybe he was shy? But a guy that hot, with that kind of body? No way he was shy. Guys who looked like him were cocky, arrogant. Self-assured. Not…like he’d been. As if afraid to even say hello.
 

He rounded a corner, and then a moment later I heard the same throaty rumble I’d heard last time, and I watched the road leading out to M-37. A classic truck of some kind. Not a sports car like I’d thought. I didn’t know anything about cars, classic or otherwise, but I knew his was sexy. Masculine, powerful, but not showy, not overdone. It suited him.

I went home and spent the day working on the house. It wasn’t in good shape. There were things I just couldn’t do, didn’t have the tools or skills to fix, or the money to have them fixed. So I’d just have to live with it. Like the leaky roof, or the peeling paint on the outside. The floors that dipped in some places and bulged up in others. The screens that needed replacing. I could peel the wallpaper off, though, and I could probably manage to paint the walls. Maybe I could start on that. Or not.
   

The next day was rainy, so I spent it inside reading. I’d brought my box of favorite books with me, of course, and I’d also bought myself a Kindle and loaded it with about a hundred novels. It was summer, and I was determined to act like I was on vacation for as long as I could. I was trying to ignore the fact that this broken-down cabin on the beach on an isolated peninsula was my new home. It wasn’t a vacation. Not really. It was life. I could pretend, though. Sit on the beach and read. Jog, swim, play the cello.

I was curled up on my couch with a steamy novel when I felt a drip on my head. And another. I looked up, and cursed. There was a huge dark spot on the ceiling. Another leak. Great. That made four. I tossed my book onto the coffee table, which was several years older than I was, and found an old plastic bowl in a cabinet, then set it on the couch beneath the leak. I already had a bucket on the kitchen table and one in the bathroom next to the toilet. I had another bucket in the second bedroom, near the closet.

God knows what would happen in the winter. The whole roof would cave in, probably. While I was sleeping, most likely. I’d be buried in snow and never wake up.

Maybe that would be the easiest way out.
 

I shook my head at the dark thought. I was no coward. Well, okay, so I was. I’d run away rather than deal with the fallout of my actions. But it wasn’t just for me, I reasoned with myself. Maybe I’d go back someday. When Ever was stronger, physically and emotionally. When she wasn’t so vulnerable.

By then, maybe, it’d be easier to tell the truth. Or maybe not.

The rain had stopped by late afternoon, so I changed into my running gear, needing to get away from my whirling thoughts. I put on my headphones, set the iPod to repeat my playlist—mostly electronic dance tunes with a fast beat and few words. It was humid and hot, the post-rain air thick with moisture.
 

I headed north, toward the lighthouse, setting myself a hellishly hard pace. After turning through the lighthouse parking lot at the tip of the peninsula, I headed south with the lake on my right, hidden here and there by a thin scrim of trees. I was panting and sweating, and I was sick of my playlist. I hit the “skip” button several times until a beat I didn’t recognize came on. I had no recollection of downloading the song, but it was fast and lighthearted, a country song I’d heard once or twice before. I didn’t usually like country, and rarely listened to it, so the appearance of Dierks Bentley’s song “What Was I Thinkin’” on my iPod was a little strange. It was fun, though, and it helped me pick up my pace and kept my feet moving.

Why did I have this song? I just couldn’t remember. None of the guys I’d ever dated had been too much into country, so it wasn’t that. Cade and I hadn’t ever shared music. Ever? She wasn’t a country music kind of girl, either. Where had the song come from?

And why had I let myself think about Cade and Ever again? I clenched my fists and swung my arms to get my feet moving, to push my pace faster, to get the burn and the ache to a roar loud enough to distract me. It didn’t work, though. My thoughts returned to Cade. He seemed like a country music type. He’d lived in Wyoming, after all. He’d been a real-deal cowboy, living on a working horse ranch. But he and I had never discussed musical tastes. I’d played Apollo in front of him a few times, but that was about it. I had no idea what kind of music he liked. He watched James Bond movies because his dad had liked them. I knew that. What else did I know about Cade? Not much. His mom had died of cancer. His dad had died of a broken heart, otherwise known as a heart attack, caused by the burden of grief. His grandparents had died of old age. He was an artist.
 

I’d spent months with him, and that was all I knew? I didn’t know his favorite color. I didn’t know his favorite band. I was pregnant with his child, and I knew nothing about him.
 

Fuck. I was an idiot. I’d gone running to escape these thoughts, and now here I was wallowing in them all over again. I fought the sting in my eyes, focused on the beat of the music pumping in my ears, a Three Days Grace song, “Misery Loves Company.” It was a workout song, hard and fast, and it let me keep my feet grinding the miles away.