Hold On

“Cher—”

“I got a good mom. I got a good kid. I got good friends. It’s not like I’ve never been happy. But with you, havin’ you, I’ve been happy.”

His voice gentled as he said, “We’ll talk about this Saturday, Cherie.”

“There is no way in fuck, Garrett, that I’m givin’ you two full days to lock yourself away from me,” I replied. “Ethan’s asleep. He’s good. Tilly’s with him. And now I’m here, askin’ you to talk to me.”

“I’m fine,” he declared. “We’re fine. You’re makin’ a drama out of nothing.”

“And you’re standin’ there, lyin’ to me.”

Any gentle I’d gained took a hike.

“You know me, but you don’t know me enough to say shit like that to me.”

“Talk to me,” I repeated.

“You need to go home, babe.”

“What tripped it?” I asked.

“Cher, won’t say it again. You need to get your ass home.”

“What took you away from me tonight?”

“We’re not talkin’ about this.”

I threw out both arms, leaned toward him, and lost it.

“What took you away from me?” I shrieked.

I took an automatic step back and hit couch when he leaned my way, his face twisted in a way the feeling it expressed hurt me, he slammed his fists to his hips, and roared, “Flowers!”

I stood still, finding myself suddenly breathing so heavy, my chest was actually heaving.

Because I just witnessed Merry going from gentle to pissed to impatient to destroyed.

Staring at that look on his face, I had no fucking clue what to do.

And that look scared the living shit out of me.

“Flowers?” my mouth whispered for me.

Merry studied me. Then he moved jerkily, prowling toward the dining room table, lifting his hand and tearing it through his hair, moving like a caged animal, until he stopped and turned back to me.

“Fuck,” he snarled.

I didn’t move an inch except to follow him with my eyes.

“Flowers, baby?” I prompted.

“Fuck,” he repeated.

“Flowers, Merry.”

“Fuck,” he whispered.

“What do you need?” I asked quickly.

He looked to the side and I saw his jaw tight, his cheek ticking.

“Merry, what do you need?”

He looked back to me and announced, “I’m a cop.”

“I know that,” I told him carefully.

“You get that?” he shot back.

I thought I did, but the way he was speaking, I wasn’t sure. So I just nodded.

“You need to get that, Cher,” he stated roughly.

“I get that, Merry.”

“You don’t.”

“I do,” I promised, even though I wasn’t sure I did.

“We eat, we do it in front of the fucking TV.”

His abrupt subject changes were bizarre, and even if I was getting him (which I wasn’t sure I was), with the quickness of those changes, I wasn’t keeping up.

“Okay,” I said hesitantly.

“No fuckin’ flowers.”

“No flowers, Merry,” I agreed.

“Your mom wants me back, I’ll eat at her table. But you tell her that shit—no flowers.”

I nodded.

He said no more.

“Why no flowers, baby?” I asked quietly.

“Cecelia liked flowers.”

I shook my head.

His baby niece liked flowers?

“I—”

“My mother, Cher.”

I shut my mouth.

Shit.

Shit.

Fucking shit.

“We Merricks aren’t real good at sittin’ down with family.”

“Your mom liked doin’ that,” I whispered.

“Every night. No fail. And either Dad bought ’em or she got ’em herself, but in our house, there were lots of flowers.”

God.

God, Merry.

“Weak,” he grunted, that one word sounding torn from him in a way so extreme, it also ripped through me.

“What?” I asked, knowing we were now somewhere else. I wasn’t keeping up, but it was essential that I did.

“This shit. I’m fuckin’ forty-two and still not over it. It’s weak.”

Was he crazy?

“I dread it,” I told him.

“Bet you do,” he said like he knew what he was talking about.

Maybe he did.