But thanks. I know exactly what a pain in the ass that would have been, cancelling our show appearance.”
“Well, every time you cause a pain in my ass, it gives me a reason to inflict pain on yours.” Marcus’s green eyes flickered, a light smile on his dangerously sensual lips. “So that’s sufficient compensation.”
Initially, it was a relief when his mother departed for her trip, Marcus and Thomas heading off to San Diego a couple days later. Though he had to handle more texts and calls from them than would have been the norm, Rory was relieved to have the house to himself. Now Amanda and Johnny were the only ones physically present who might try to push. Everyone else he could keep at arms’ length with canned friendly interaction.
His mother had said she’d continue her daily calls to Dr. Taylor, and let him know if anything had changed. Nothing had. Nothing did.
So here he was, eight days later. He’d closed up the store for the night, gone home, eaten a sandwich for dinner. He didn’t want to watch anything on TV, so he sat on the screened porch and stared out at the garden behind the house, the neighbor’s harvested corn field stretching out behind that. Why was the ache in his chest expanding, getting worse? Even talking was an effort.
He didn’t want to think it, acknowledge it, but he knew the signs.
He’d fallen out of the boat and was sinking.
Back when he’d found out he’d never walk again, he’d reached that point without knowing that was where he was. For way too long after that, he’d only done anything thanks to serious bullying from his mother. His reaction to it had been inexcusable. If his father had been alive, Rory wouldn’t have had to worry about how to go on living. His dad had one rule not one of his kids ever broke—not if they wanted to keep breathing. No one talked disrespectfully to their mother.
During that time, Rory had been even less restrained with Thomas. Thomas didn’t care; he’d practically dragged him out of bed to make him work in the store again.
Eventually the who-gives-a-shit lassitude had been replaced by anger, and anger, destructive as it could be, had started him up the mountain he needed to climb to get where he eventually needed to go.
Now he’d been blindsided by something he hadn’t expected. He was tumbling back down the rocky slope, without the will to catch himself, stop the fall. Not even the anger was there to help him.
He hadn’t asked, but he was pretty sure Dr. Taylor hadn’t given Daralyn his messages. She’d said no contact right now, no distractions, and Rory had accepted that. However, maybe because she’d recognized where he was—or his mother had expressed her worries—the doc had suggested Rory could write to Daralyn. For himself. Later he could give Daralyn those missives, or not. It would be an outlet either way.
He wasn’t much for writing things down. But he tried, and all he ended up doing was writing down the basic, inane wishes of the heart. I’m sorry. I miss you. I need you. I’m fucking losing my mind.
When he’d fallen in love with Daralyn, he’d overlooked the downside of cracking open his heart. It made him vulnerable to attack in ways he’d thought he’d overcome.
He stared up at the night sky. “Come back to me, baby,” he murmured. “I love you. Whatever you’re going through, know that you did nothing wrong. Not a damn thing to make me love you less. There’s no possible way you could ever do that. I really…I’m lost without you.”
It was like praying, wasn’t it? If so, he was fucking it up. This was supposed to be about her. It should be about him praying for her happiness, whether that included him or not. He should ask God for strength to let her go, if that was what was best for her. For the strength to continue to be the best brother, son and friend he could be to the others in his life who counted on him.
He needed to go to bed. He didn’t. He left the porch, pulled the axe out of the stump that served as a block and began to chop wood. The simple act of swinging and letting the cord of wood split, an ongoing chore for his mother’s wood stove and the fireplace they used in the winter, kept his mind occupied and numb.
He worked himself into a sweat,