The soft patter of her bare feet on the wood floor making tracks down the hall filled his ears, but he stayed in the studio. He attempted to gather his thoughts, to enjoy Cali’s work, and to let the hope now flourishing in his chest chase away the God-awful fear that she wouldn’t care anymore. He knew differently now. She cared. Which meant he still had a chance.
Turning, he walked back into the living room. She stood by a window looking out onto the backyard. Slowly, she faced him, but stood silent.
He stopped a few feet away from her. “I’ve missed you so damn much.”
Seemingly unimpressed with his confession, she looked away.
He forced words out of his mouth. “I was wrong.”
“Yes, you were.” Spoken so quietly, her words seemed to float in the air.
“I’ll do whatever it takes to get you to forgive me.” The pause grew heavy. “I know you still care or you wouldn’t be painting us.”
She stared down at her bare feet. He followed her gaze to her toenails, red-tipped and perfect like the rest of her. When she didn’t answer, he realized she didn’t plan on making this easy for him. He didn’t blame her. He didn’t deserve easy.
He deserved hell. But it had been hell. “I spent four weeks in Mexico waiting by the phone. Praying you’d call.”
She kept her eyes downward. “You left without even speaking to me.”
He tried to think of a way to pretty up the truth he needed to tell her, but the truth wasn’t pretty. “My father beat my mother, Cali. I saw it. I got in the middle of it. I hated him. Then he died, and I thought things were going to be good.” His palms itched with nerves. He’d never told anyone this.
Silence fell like soft rain. “But Mom, she brought home someone else just like Dad. Every time I stood up for her, but she chose them over me.”
He took a sip of wine because his next words hung in his throat. “When I met you, I assumed you were like her.”
She studied her wine glass, not speaking, but listening. It was more than he’d thought she’d give him. “When I found out that you didn’t think Stan was guilty, it felt just like those times with my mom.”
He inhaled, wanting to say it all, needing to say it all. “I realize now that I was less afraid of you being like my mom, than I was afraid of me being like my dad. Or maybe just being like both of them. I’ve always felt relationship impaired. That’s why I left with even talking to you. I felt you deserved better.” His voice cracked and his pride took a beating when his eyes began to sting.
“And now,” she asked in almost a whisper.
“Now, I spent a lot of time this last month thinking about who I am and who I’m not.”
She looked up.
He continued. “I don’t want to be like them. I don’t have to repeat their mistakes.”
She nipped down on her bottom lip. Was she going to ask him to leave?
“I’ll beg. I’ll do whatever it takes.” Tears filled his eyes, but his pride could be damned. This was bigger than pride.
She set her glass on the table.
“I love you.” The words he’d never told a woman came out. His breath hitched in his throat. He set his wine down beside hers. “I love your laugh and the way you blush when you say sex. I love watching you eat all proper like. I love that you seldom cuss and that you bite your lip when you’re nervous. I love that you’re so nice to everyone you meet. I love you. All of you. Every single thing about you.”
She took a step closer. Did that mean something?
Her blue eyes washed with emotion. Her next step brought her against him. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t repeat the words he needed to hear, but she rested her cheek against his chest. Was this good-bye or welcome home? He was so damn scared. But he couldn’t help but wrap his hands around her back, and bury his face into her hair. He would take this moment for however long it lasted. He savored the feel of her against him. She felt so right in his arms. So right in his life. Was having forever too much to ask?
“Your mother,” he said, finding it hard to admit. “She…I had a dream.”
Cali raised her head and rested her chin on his chest as she gazed into his eyes. “You dreamed about her?”
He nodded and noticed she had a little piece of soup pasta, an O and P on her cheek. He reached up and knocked them off. “She told me, when it wobbled like a duck and quacked like a duck, it was duck. She said I wasn’t a duck. I think what she meant was that I’m not like my dad. I’m . . . I’m a softy.”
A smile touched her lips. “Sounds like Mom.” Emotion filled her eyes again.
A knot of fear formed in his throat.
She looked at his chest. “Why do you have alphabet soup all over you?”
“Oh, I almost got in fight with a guy I thought was your new boyfriend.” He just stared at her. It was heaven looking at her. His chest filled with a light, bubbly feeling.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
He smiled. “I know, I found out.”
“What?” she asked.
God, being with her felt so damn good. He wanted to laugh, to pick her up and swirl in her his arms. “I went to your old apartment and he answered the door.”
And he threw soup on you?” she asked.