“Every day wondering where you were, if you were okay. I called, messaged, and knocked, and you ignored me.” He takes another step closer, but I don’t stop. I won’t stop. I can’t stop. I’ve been allowing my anger to fester for so long I need a release.
“I wasn’t asking for much, Hetch. Just to know you were okay. I was worried. Fuck, I thought you were going to do something stupid.” I hate the shake in my voice, hate I even had the thought. Hate the heated flush of rage that covers my body from the inside out. But I was there. I held the man while he cried for his father. “Jesus, I had your mom and your sister out looking for you. Do you even care how sick to the stomach I’ve been? Do you care I couldn’t eat for days?”
“Baby, I fucked up.” He brings a shaky hand out in front of him like he’s worried I’m going to make a run for it and he needs to approach with care.
“Yeah, you fucked up. You fucked up so badly, I’m not sure you can fix it.” He’s in front of me now. My pulse is speeding and my muscles quiver, and in a brief moment of clarity, I see my own fear reflected back at me.
“Please don’t say that, baby.” His hands cup my jaw, holding me steady in his grasp. I want to slap him away, scream at him not to touch me, but the warmth from his touch anchors me there. The gentleness of his voice, robbing me of any more fight.
“Say anything you want, but don’t say we can’t fix us.” His eyes glass over, like the lake down behind my parents’ house in the middle of February, and it’s a stark contrast to the warmth I’ve grown to love.
“You left, Hetch.” I fight the wobble in my chin, the crack in my resolve. “You left me after you begged me never to leave you.” This time, I can’t control it. Over three weeks of anguish holding me hostage, finally pours out of me. I lash out, hitting him against his hard chest, releasing my anger and my heartache.
Hetch doesn’t move, just stands there, taking everything I give: every hit, every word, every tear. It’s not until my head becomes too heavy, and my sobs too quiet do I realize he has me in his arms, holding me steady from my own volatile storm.
“I’m sorry, I–” I start to pull away, his embrace too much for my broken heart, but like my soul, his arms don’t allow it.
“I hate I did this to us, Liberty. But I’m here now, and I’m not leaving again. I’m fighting for you. Fighting for us. Can’t you see?” A calmness settles between us, yet uncertainty still churns viciously around us. We’re stuck in the eye of the storm. One wrong move here could tear both of us apart, destroying everything we had and could have been in its wake.
“Hetch, I nee?” I start to say, attempting to fight against my own wants.
“Whatever you need, sweetheart.”
“I need some time.” My words are the resistance my body doesn’t want to hear. Seconds seem to drag into minutes, and like a criminal serving time, I feel each and every one of them.
“Then time is what you’ll have, sweetheart.”
A simple promise with a simple concept.
Time.
It all comes down to time.
A temporal length of an event or an entity’s existence, period.
I’m not sure how it’s going to end, nor do I know for certain the duration of us, or the continuance of him and me, but judging by his curt nod and set jaw, he has a plan.
And I don’t expect any less of him. After all, having a course of action and being able to see the big picture in order to focus on the outcome is Hetch’s specialty.
Different scenario, but the same strategy.
Something tells me I’m not going to stand a chance.
I am his end goal.
Hetch will find a way to cement his way back into my life.
I just don’t know how or when.
Twenty-Nine
Hetch
“What the hell do we need to go there for?” Fox grumbles beside me after I tell him to head to Cherry Lane Flowers across town.
“Why else do you visit a fucking flower shop, Fox?” I try to keep my patience in check, but after four hours with Fox and his perpetual mood, I’m not doing too well.
The minute I turned up for my first shift back and discovered I was patrolling with Fox instead of Sterling, my partially good mood was in jeopardy.
“So, you’re still groveling like a fucking puppy?” He thinks we’re heading to Cherry Lane to order flowers for Liberty, but he would be wrong. The flowers are for my mom. Not only have I been a stupid fool with Liberty for the better half of a month, but I've also been a dick to my mom.
For three years.
From ignoring her calls months on end and missing memorials for my dad, to letting her knock on my door for hours only to leave her on the other side begging me to let her in. Thinking back on those moments, I wish I had answered the phone, showed up on the dreaded anniversary, but most of all opened the door and let her in. Maybe if I had let her in, the one person who hurt like me, I wouldn’t have pushed everyone else I love away.
Maybe I would have let Liberty in from the get go.
“They’re not for her.” I don’t know why I clarify. Fox doesn’t need to know I’ve not only fucked up with Liberty, but I've also fucked up in every aspect.