Page 18 of Tear Me to Pieces
By the time he leaves, we’ve figured out what I need from his stock, and he’s contacted his employees to start separating the materials out. This isn’t going to be as Christian-free of a project as Myra thinks it’ll be, but I know something she hasn’t yet come to terms with.
Having a family is all Christian—and the rest of us—ever wanted, so being a person your family can rely on is a dream come true. Allowing Christian to help her, even in the smallest of ways, gives him something he never believed he would have, And that makes it a win-win for both of them.
“I’ll head over later this afternoon to start grabbing things, if that’s okay.” I have plans for my time before that. Like everything else I’m doing, they’re probably overstepping. Butnow that I’ve seen the extent of Myra’s house—of how she’s living in general—I’m feeling less and less bothered by that.
I assumed she’d feel like she was part of our family because Lydia is part of our family, but that’s not turning out to be the case. And if Myra doesn’t think she’s part of our family, that means she’s not part of any family since the bulk of hers is currently in prison.
Not that they acted like her family before that.
“Come whenever you want. Someone will be there to help you load up.” Christian’s eyes drift across the front area that will serve as a basic sitting room until Myra decides what she really wants it to be. “You know, if you put hardwood down in that room, it’ll make just as much sense to keep going into the entryway.”
I give him a sly smile. “I know.”
Christian gives me a grin. “It’s a slippery slope. Everything connects. This project could bleed through to the whole house if you’re not careful.”
“I’m walking a fine line here, man.” I can’t bulldoze my way through Myra’s house. Not when it’s the first home that’s ever been hers.
Christian snorts. “Good fucking luck with that.” His eyes come to my face. “None of us are good at walking lines.”
He’s not telling me anything I don’t already know. “I’m gonna do my best.”
Christian tips his head in a small nod. “I know.”
He walks to the door, pausing to look back at me. “Did Myra tell you she’s going to be singing with us at The Cellar Saturday night?”
That stops me in my tracks. “No.”
“Yeah. Lydia told me she used to sing in church, but I figured they’d ruined it for her.” He shoots me a look I can’t quite decipher. “Guess not.”
I watch him go, too stunned by this new information to do more than breathe.
I’ve been telling myself I need to leave Myra alone because she’s not ready for everything I want. That she’s not in a place for me to pursue her.
I haven’t been listening to myself—I rarely do—but at least I was trying.
But now…
Now that I know she might be ready to take back a little of what was tainted by men who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air she did?
Now I’m even more fucked than I was when I pulled in yesterday.
I’m just finishing layingout the last of the studs I’ll use to build the walls separating the two rooms I’m creating, when I see Myra’s headlights illuminate the backyard. She doesn’t have a garage—an issue that’s only going to be more problematic as the weather cools—so she parks under the large tree dominating theoutdoor space. I’m not sure how she’s going to react to me being in her house—even though she’s aware I’m here—so I hold my breath a little as she climbs the steps and opens the door.
The first thing she does is scan the pile of materials taking up one side of the mostly open main floor. The second thing she does is take a deep breath.
A hint of a smile curves her lips. “Something smells good.”
I release the air locked in my lungs, relieved she doesn’t seem to regret her decision to let me help her out. Looking down at my filthy shirt, I give her a grin. “I can promise it’s not me.”
She laughs softly as she sets her purse and a larger bag on the counter just inside the door. “I figured you didn’t wear cologne that smells like garlic and…” She takes another deep breath. “Seafood?”
“You have a good nose.” I cross to the kitchen, scrubbing my hands clean before turning to pull the foil pouches containing our dinner from the oven. “Hopefully you don’t hate fish.”
Myra comes to stand on the opposite side of the granite island, watching as I peel open the first packet. “I don’t hate much of anything.” Her eyes jump to my face before dropping again. “Food wise.”
I can imagine she has a pretty decent list of people she hates, and I don’t blame her for that. I hate a decent number of people myself.
“That’s good to know. But you won’t be seeing any liver or lamb, so hopefully those aren’t two of your favorites.” To be fair, I’ll choke either of them down if she tells me they are. I won’t be thrilled about it, but I’ve eaten worse.
