“Derek was younger, smarter, better-looking; pretty much better in every way imaginable. He had his whole life ahead of him. He was going to be a lawyer. He was engaged to a girl who loved him like I’d never seen anyone love anyone.” Mason sucked in a sharp breath. “No matter how much Annie, his fiancée, hated me, she never could hate me as much as I hated myself.”
Sara felt something warm and wet on her cheeks, and was surprised to find she was crying. Why that surprised her, she had no idea. Maybe because this time, the first time in a long time, her tears were for someone else, and not herself.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, fisting her trembling hands under her crossed arms.
“Everyone’s sorry, aren’t they, Sara?” Mason’s eyes drilled into hers. “Everyone’s sorry, but does it really do anything? Does it bring them back? Does it bring my brother back? How about your husband? Does it make you feel better? Is there really any point to it? Why do people say it, Sara?”
“I don’t…I don’t know.” She swallowed.
“Then why did you say it?”
Sara stared at him, flustered and confused. “Because—“
“Because why?” he interrupted, his expression stern.
“Because I wanted to help!” she cried, agitated from his berating of her.
Mason smiled briefly. “Spencer wants to help. I want to help. Talk to me. Let me help.”
Sara walked toward the kitchen, stopped, and turned back to Mason. “What good will talking do? It won’t bring him back. It won’t make what happened go away. It’s a waste of time, a waste of words. Just like saying you’re sorry. Right?”
“Spencer told me you’re an artist. Show me your artwork.”
Sara’s body jerked; her mind unable to keep up with Mason’s. “No.”
Mason moved to sit down on the recliner that was his and Sara lurched forward, throwing her body between him and the chair. She trembled as she met his eyes and her breathing was too rapid, her heart pounding. “You can’t sit here.”
His eyes narrowed, but Mason moved away, into the kitchen. Sara wanted him to leave. She opened her mouth to demand it when he directed his gaze toward her. There was stark pain there, so vivid Sara’s mouth went dry. It contorted Mason’s features into a mask of anguish.
“I did a lot of drugs. I’d always had a tendency to drink too much, experiment with illegal drugs, but after Derek’s death, I became dependent on them to function. They dulled the pain, but never for long enough. It was never enough. The pain always came back. The memories. The guilt.”
Mason tapped his fingers on the table, watching his hand. “You don’t have to talk, Sara. You can just listen. I’ll do the talking for now, and when you’re ready, you can talk. Whatever you do, though, don’t do anything stupid.” He looked up, freezing her where she stood with the directness of his gaze. “Don’t do something you can’t forgive yourself for doing.”
“I already have,” she choked out, her eyes burning with unshed tears.
“No. Not yet. That wasn’t your fault.” Yes, it was. It was Sara’s fault. It would forever be her fault and nothing would or could change that.
“So that wasn’t my fault, but what happened with your brother; it was yours?”
“I was drinking. I’d smoked marijuana that night. I think it’s safe to say it was my fault.”
“It could have happened regardless.”
“Only it didn’t.”
A tense silence ensued. Sara finally broke it, curiosity driving her to ask, “What got you to stop? The drugs and alcohol, I mean.”
“I had to find something to make me want to live. I had to find something that was bigger than the guilt and pain I carried around.”
“And you did?”
Mason’s eyes softened. “I did.”
She almost envied that; that Mason had been able to find peace when it continued to elude her for any length of notable time.
A knock came at the door, followed by Spencer. He looked from the kitchen where Mason stood to the living room where Sara was. “Do you hate me now?” he asked Sara.
Sara rubbed her face. Of course she didn’t hate him. She wasn’t especially happy with him at the moment, but she didn’t hate him. That emotion was reserved for herself.
When she didn’t answer, Spencer sighed. “Ready, Mason?”
“I’ll be back next week, Sara. Sunday. At nine.” He didn’t ask; he told. “Be dressed next time. Showered. Oh, and have coffee ready too. I like Dunkin’ Donuts. Spencer said you bake?”
Sara’s face heated at his demanding tone. “You’re bossy.”
He smiled. “Derek tells me that every day.”
She frowned, wondering what he meant. His brother Derek was dead. How could he talk to him every day? Was he loonier than she was? Sara sometimes thought she saw and heard her husband, but she didn’t hear his voice in her head on a daily basis. Not yet.
Spencer paused at the door. “I really did just want to help you, Sara. I hate seeing you like this.”
She hesitated. Spencer was almost out the door. “Spencer.” He stopped, looking over his broad shoulder at her. “I…” Sara blew out a noisy breath. “I know you meant well.” It was as close to a thank you as she could get.
He gave a brusque nod and left, the door closing with loud finality.
The quiet was too quiet. It usually didn’t bother her, but today, for whatever reason, she couldn’t stand it. Maybe because in the silence her thoughts morphed into one mass of questions and remembrances she couldn’t deal with.
You always thought they’d be there, day after day; alive, whole. Sara had thought he’d always be there. She’d imagined years and years of them together; growing old together, having children and grandchildren, and then when it was time, dying together. In her mind it had always been them as a couple; not her without him. If only she’d known. If only she’d known he would be taken from her. She would have done things so differently. But that was the thing about life: no one ever really knew when it would end.
***
Standing just inside the door, she stared at him, watching his black tee shirt tighten over his strong back as he held a nail to the wall with one hand and raised a hammer with the other.
“I’m pregnant.”
Cole dropped the hammer on his foot, cursing. He straightened, turning those magnetic blue eyes on her. He demanded, “What did you say?”
Sara inhaled slowly, shakily. Stomach in knots and alive with wild fluttering she knew had nothing to do with the life already growing inside her, she fought for a calm she did not feel. “I’m pregnant.”
She didn’t look at him; she couldn’t. It hadn’t been planned. Babies were in the future, sure, but not yet. They weren’t ready. They weren’t ready, but she was. Of course she was. Already she could feel the love for her unborn baby inside, already she couldn’t wait to hold her child; their child.
He slammed his hands on his lean hips, inhaling sharply. “What—?” Cole looked down and swallowed. “What was that? One more time. Did you say—did you say you’re pregnant?” His eyes met hers, brighter than normal and focused intently on her.
Nodding, eyes stinging with happy tears, Sara smiled. “Yes. Tell me you’re okay with this.”
Cole exhaled noisily, averting his face. His posture was stiff and he hadn’t moved his hands from his hips. He seemed to be struggling. Sara felt her joy dim. It was scary and new; they didn’t have a clue how to raise a baby, but they’d learn. No one was ever really ready to have one, mentally or financially. If Cole was completely against this, Sara didn’t know what she would do. She couldn’t take that.
“Cole? Are you not glad about this?” she whispered, dropping her purse to the floor. She rubbed her arms, cold in the stillness of his response. “I know it’s unexpected and business has been a little slow and…” Sara trailed off as he strode toward her, his eyes on fire and his jaw tight.