Come to Me Softly (Closer to You #2)(86)
Author: A.L. Jackson

I’d made a thousand promises never to return here.

The stupor of the day they laid her in the ground remained so distinctly clear, a photographic memory that somehow I hadn’t been present for. Like my eyes had been pinned wide open, forcing me to see what I’d done. But it felt as if I’d witnessed it from afar, my ear acutely trained to every cry that rippled through the grieving crowd as I watched on from a distance.

At the same time, I could feel nothing.

Excruciating numbness.

Like I’d been removed from the mourning because I had no right to it.

And God, I’d wanted to cry. I’d wanted to cry for her so badly, but it’d just locked up in my throat, wedged there forever because I didn’t deserve to weep for her when I was the one who brought all the tears to the endless sea of black surrounding me.

Swallowed by the pain of the crowd, I’d sat staring into the void.

Vacant.

Lost.

Lost in the spray of roses blanketing the shiny casket.

I’d been unable to look away. Like I was locked to the beauty getting ready to be left forever in the cold, hard ground, willing them to wrap me up and somehow take me, too.

It was the day I made a promise to her I would find a way to pay for the sin I committed.

Even through the numbness of that day seven years ago, I still knew the exact spot.

I slowed as I approached. Another wave of sorrow crashed into me. Overwhelming. Staggering. That physical hurt in my chest only intensified, and my breaths snapped in and out of my lungs. Weakness overcame me when I came to a stop in front of her stone.

Helene Rose Holt.

I sagged and dropped to my knees.

An intricate rose was carved into the marble behind the deep imprint of her name, a reminder of the beauty that had been my mother.

My fingertips brushed over the engraving.

Memorizing.

Guilt flickered around the edges of my consciousness, warning me I had no right to be here. But it was muted, nothing more than a fading burn replaced by an intense grief I’d never allowed myself to feel.

I missed her.

“Hey, Mom,” I whispered so low no one could hear, but my heart felt it deep. That rock of unspent emotion flared. A tingling sensation ran the length of my throat. I swallowed down the saliva gathered at the back of my mouth.

I’d give anything for her to be able to respond, to talk to me and look at me with that smile that promised I was her world, for her to once again tell me it would be okay.

But she was gone.

Had I ever truly accepted that?

Slumping back, I sat, planting my feet on the ground as I wrapped my shivering arms around my knees. Nervously, I tugged at the front of my too long hair.

I didn’t know if I had. All these years had been spent wrapped up in that one singular moment. The disastrous choice I’d made. For years, I’d been stuck there. A prisoner to all the shame, regret, and hate.

I never reached the point where I accepted I had to live in a world without my mother.

All the muscles in my body went rigid when I sensed the tentative footsteps approaching from behind. Maybe he didn’t know if he belonged here any more than I did. I stole a wary glance over my shoulder.

My father.

Swallowing over the sadness that hit me at seeing him there, I turned my attention back to my mother’s grave. “You followed me?” I asked on a quavering voice, not knowing if I wanted to cry out in some sort of f**ked-up relief at the idea or run as far as my feet would carry me.

I stared at the date on my mother’s grave and buried my fisted hands between my knees.

February 3, 2006.

It was the day I’d begun the run.

The race.

Sprinting toward anything that would usher in my destined destruction.

I’d been so strong, so convinced of that certainty. Of my conclusion. Paying for my sins with an empty life I could never truly give, hating each day I was forced to live.

But God, I was tired, worn down, weakened now in that belief.

I felt my father’s presence grow as he advanced from behind. Slowly, his head drifted to the side, weighted by his own sorrow as he edged forward. Passing by me, he knelt and swept loving fingers across my mother’s headstone, even softer as he brushed them over the sacred ground.

I cringed, thinking of the woman who’d stood gaping at me from their front door yesterday.

Nothing made sense, because looking at my father now, I was pretty f**king certain he hadn’t forgotten about my mom.

Hurt dripped from his every pore.

I blew out a troubled breath, dropped my eyes because whatever passed through him now felt too private, too intimate for me to see.

Finally he stood and took a couple steps back. Exhaling heavily, he settled to the ground off to the left of me, facing into the stillness of my mom’s silenced voice.

“No, I didn’t follow you here,” he finally answered. “Figured if you came to my door, it was about damned time I had the courage to show up at yours. Should’ve done it years ago,” he admitted quietly.

I fidgeted, rubbed the back of my hand under my chin. Sure as hell didn’t know what to do with that statement.

At one point in my life, I would have confided anything in him. Now he’d become nothing more than a stranger. I didn’t know him any more than he knew me. And here we were, tiptoeing around all the shit we should’ve hashed out years ago.

His voice grew thoughtful. “As soon as you took off last night, Mary hurried inside to her computer and searched to see if she could find out where you lived.”

A hard breath escaped my nose. Mary.

“Saw you had a house back here in Phoenix. Drove all night to get here . . . hoping you’d gone home after you left my place last night. Went straight to your house.” He lifted his face in my direction and quirked a sharp brow. “Imagine my surprise when your front door opened and there stood Aly Moore.”

Aly.

Just her name tightened my chest.

Soft, disbelieving laughter seeped from him. “Pregnant, too.” He shook his head and looked off in the distance. “Would’ve made your mom real happy, the two of you being together.”

I tucked my knees closer to my chest. “I heard something about that.” I paused around the discomfort, sucked in a breath and forced myself to continue. “She always knew everything before the rest of us, didn’t she?”

God, it felt like treachery, talking about her aloud. Voicing her had always seemed forbidden. Taboo. Like I’d overstepped my penance, illicit in my taking, dipping my fingers into the memories of the good when I’d been given over to the wicked.