Page 56 of Tripped By Love
Cassidy
TO HELL AND BACK
“My wings are frayed and
What’s left of my halo’s black
Lucky for me
Your kind of heaven’s been to hell and back.”
Performed by Maren Morris
Written by Dillon / Morris / Veltz
Whenever I didn’t have Chevelle withme, I walked the few blocks back and forth to the restaurant instead of driving. It saved the environment and was good for me, even after a day on my feet. As Marco and I headed home after locking up the restaurant, the late-afternoon sun beat down on us in full strength. The humidity dripped over me, thick and heavy—as heavy as my thoughts and my fears.
Clayton’s threats were still terrifying, but a feral protectiveness had reared up inside me since he’d arrived in Grand Orchard. One thing was certain: he couldn’t have my son. Not even occasionally. He’d wanted me to get rid of the baby before he’d even existed, so he couldn’t claim him now.
As we walked, our silence wasn’t uncomfortable, even when there was a layer to it of the things left unsaid. Things that needed to be discussed before we could go back to the smooth camaraderie we’d had before. I wasn’t sure if we’d ever get that back completely. It made me sad, but it also made my heart skip because maybe we couldn’t go backward, but maybe we could go forward. Replace what once had been with something more. Bigger. Deeper.
I still wasn’t sure I should even attempt it, because I had the message playing on repeat in my brain that it wasn’t fair to him, or Chevelle, or even me, when every minute of my day was already accounted for. But the ache to try was there. Momentarily, I wondered if we had to be all in or if we could have something that was there casually, but a piece of me recoiled at the thought because it felt too close to what I’d had with Clayton.
I’d barely opened the front door of my parents’ home before my boy was throwing himself into my arms. “Mama!”
I held him close, kissing the top of his head, squeezing until it felt like the air had left both our bodies, and he giggled before squirming out of my grasp. He ran to the coffee table with his awkward gait and then back, shoving a paper at me. “Hippo’s bruder.”
It was a picture of a stick dog, and even though it was rudimentary and childlike, it was too good for Chevelle to have drawn. “Did you draw a picture for Hippo?” I asked with a smile.
He shook his head. “Papa give doggy.”
I looked over to where my father was sitting on the couch with a book in his hand about the return of Latin to our modern world. He barely glanced up.
“Papa drew this for you?” I asked with a smile. My dad was definitely not known for his artistic abilities.
Chevelle nodded. “Real doggy. Real doggy home soon.”
Chevelle was giddy with happiness, and I looked at my dad, shocked. “You did not promise him a puppy, Dad. Did you? There’s no way?”
“I bought one of the Romeros’ Boston Terrier pups. For your mother and me,” he said, hardly glancing up.
I stared. We’d had a dog when I was little, and when it had passed away, Dad had sworn he’d never own an animal again. It was too hard when they were at the house so little he’d said. So, getting one now was obviously because of Chevelle.
“Dad,” I warned.
He laughed, finally putting the book down. “I can get a dog, Cassidy.”
Mom came into the room at the same time, and she rolled her eyes. “Your father has completely lost his mind. He doesn’t remember the potty training, the gnawed wood, and the destroyed shoes.”
“He wants to spoil Chevelle,” I said with a huff.
Mom laughed. “Yes,cailín deas. He does.”
“A man should have a dog to take on long walks as he enters his sunset years,” Dad said. Marco let out a surprised grunt of humor that drew both my parents’ eyes. “Marco, good to see you.”
Mom squinted. “What’s wrong?”
I almost rushed out with my normal, “Nothing,” but I couldn’t.
