At Peace

“Fantastic. When we come back and Vi makes her risotto again, I’d hate to see you sittin’ there glarin’ at me while I’m eatin’ it. Shit’s fuckin’ ambrosia and, brother, you’re kinda scary. Would ruin the risotto.”


Nothing would ruin Vi’s risotto that shit was the best thing he’d ever tasted in his whole fucking life.

Cal wanted to laugh. He didn’t because he knew, Sam came back, he wouldn’t be sitting at Vi’s table eating anything.

He finished their pool game, said his good-byes to a surprised Melissa and a shocked Vi and he got out of there.

He went home, called Nadia and set it up for the next day.

It needed to be done.

It didn’t matter Cal didn’t open the door, the three of them were charging through. Vi, Kate and Keira, female battering rams who were relentless.

And he needed to close it down, cut her loose, cut all of them loose so he could close himself off and open the way for them to move onto a good life.

But Vi had to end it. It had to be her decision this time so there was no going back.

So he was forcing her hand.

*

He was sitting in the dark, in his living room, in his father’s chair with a bottle of bourbon, a glass half full in his hand when he heard the sliding glass door open.

He’d been home an hour. It took longer than he expected for her to come over.

She slid the door closed and stood at it, her back against the glass, a shadow silhouetted by the moonlight. He didn’t know how she knew he was sitting there. He’d never been sitting in his living room when she came over then again he usually met her at the door. But she knew.

“Did you fuck her?” she whispered.

“None of your business, buddy,” Cal forced himself to say.

“You don’t use protection with me, Cal, so yeah it is. Did you fuck her?”

He didn’t hear any words after she called him Cal. His body had frozen, his mind had blanked.

“I asked you a question,” she prompted, still whispering.

“You want this scene then yeah, I fucked her, Vi,” he lied.

She was silent.

He knew she’d hate it when he reminded her softly, “You don’t get to do this, buddy, this isn’t what we have.”

“I know about Nicky.”

It took everything he had not to surge to his feet.

“Come again?” he asked only after he unclenched his teeth.

“I know about your son, Nicky, your Dad. I know about Bonnie. I know everything.”

Cal swallowed the acid taste burning his tongue then he said, “Everyone knows. It isn’t a secret, Vi.”

“You’re empty.”

He stared at her silhouette. How she knew that, he had no fucking clue but she wasn’t wrong.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

“Nothing can fill you up,” she stated.

“Nope,” he agreed again.

“You won’t let it.”

“Barrel’s got a hole in the bottom, buddy, everything leaks out no matter how much you pour in.”

She was silent a moment then she whispered, “Right.”

She turned to the door and his hand gripped his bourbon so hard he had to focus everything on loosening his grip or the glass would shatter.

Before she opened it, she turned back. “You don’t know, Cal, you have no idea. You’ve shut yourself up for so long in this fucking house with your tragic memories, you have no idea what’s about to walk out your door. Kate, Keira and me, we could have plugged that hole. We could have filled you so full, you’d be bursting. We would have loved that chance. We’d have given it everything we had, no matter the time that slid by, graduations, weddings, grandbabies, you’d have been a part of us and we’d have given everything we had to keep you so full, you’d be bursting.”

Cal didn’t reply.

“Joe,” she whispered, “you let me walk out this door, you’ll lose your chance.”

Cal didn’t move.

Vi waited.

Cal stayed seated.

Vi slid open the door, walked through and slid it to. He didn’t hear her calmly walking across his deck to the steps, he heard her running.

When he heard that, the glass shattered in his hand.





Chapter Thirteen


The Beginning





It was bad timing. Then again, it was never good timing for shit like that.

Never.

Ever.

But this was different. This was the worst.

Because Cal was home.

He had been home once in the last two and a half months. Once, for a night, gone the next day. I hated myself, but I’d looked. I always looked to his drive, even through the windows, a million times a day at first. I was getting better, bucking the habit. Now I only looked when I drove home, or drove away, or got in or out of the car. Progress.

Though I wore his t-shirts to bed every night. I knew I shouldn’t, I kicked myself every time I pulled one over my head. I just couldn’t stop.

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