Page 22 of Operator
“What’s all this stuff?” he asks, indicating the box on the ground next to my feet with a jerk of his chin.
“Some of Ian’s old things I’m going through.”
There’s a pause of silence and I can almost feel his concern like a palpable thing. “You really think he didn’t commit suicide? Was there an investigation into his death?”
I shake my head and watch Daisy rolling around in the grass instead of looking at Callum. “No, there wasn’t aside from the”—my throat clutches on the word—“autopsy. I really don’t think he did. You weren’t here, Cal, but he was getting better. He seemed really hopeful at the end. I’d just told him I was pregnant. He was so excited about the baby. There’s no way he would have killed himself.”
“I dunno, Gwen. What’s the alternative?”
His question is gentle, and I can tell by the soft tone in his voice he’s being kind, so I don’t snap at him. Blowing out a breath, I say, “I don’t know, either, Cal. But I’m not crazy. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe there was someone else involved. All I know is he wouldn’t have killed himself. He was getting help.” My voice shakes and I wish I hadn’t polished off the beer so quickly.
“You shouldn’t—”
Can this man evernottell me what to do? I cut him off. “Don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t do, Cal. I get enough of that from everyone else.”
He lifts a hand in defense. “Okay, fine. So, let’s say he didn’t. How do you prove that?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m going through his stuff.” I gesture to the book and my eyes fall on a letter—one with his handwriting. I do a double take. I’d never seen this letter before. It’s written on a piece of yellow legal paper, so it stands out, drawing my attention. I pick it up and my eyes skim over the words automatically.
Then I read them again.
“No,” I whisper. I blink away furious tears. Am I imagining this? I have to be. I’ve gone through all of his things before, and this letter wasn’t anywhere in his stuff. It wasn’t. Right?
Callum is speaking, but I can’t hear him over the sound of screaming blaring in my ears. I feel his hands on my arms, shaking me gently, but I can’t hear him. His fingers cup my chin, forcing me to look at him. Then the sound comes back in a sickening whoosh.
“Gwen, Gwen, what is it? What’s wrong, angel, talk to me.”
Wordlessly, I hand the letter over to him and he reads it, absently at first and then more intently.
Dear Gwen,it begins,I know by the time you find this I’ll be long gone, but I didn’t want to leave you without some sort of explanation because you deserve so much better. That’s the heart of it. You deserve better. A better man would be able to handle coming home and starting a family. A better man would be stronger. All I can say is this isn’t your fault. Please don’t blame yourself. I just can’t do it anymore. I love you so much.
My whole body seizes with disbelief. If it weren’t for the note being in Callum’s hands, I’d almost believe I imagined it into existence. The fact that we were talking about his death moments ago makes the whole experience feel surreal.
The note flutters to the ground as Callum drops to his knees in front of me on the swing. He grips my chin with one hand and forces me to look at him. His other rubs my leg, causing me to shiver. His expression is grave, nearly white. At first, I think he’s read the letter, too, but his reaction is entirely because of my panic.
“Breathe, baby. C’mon.”
At his reminder, I suck in precious gulps of air. I clutch at my middle as pain spears through me. For a moment, reading his words had made it feel like he was here next to me. When I realized what I was actually reading, it had been like losing him all over again. Unbearable. The pain is overwhelming.
Callum lifts me into his arms—a feat considering I’m not the tiny college girl I used to be—and pulls me into his lap on the swing, which groans under the sudden movement. I can’t help myself. I turn into his arms, those big, protective arms, and bury my face in the space between his neck and shoulder. Closing my eyes, I try to blot out the world, the memory of Ian’s words, but it’s impossible. Huge, wracking sobs engulf me, and it’s not a pretty sight.
I cry for a long time. A river of tears. All the while, Callum holds me close against the strong wall of his chest. His hands rub away the chills and soothe the tremors until I’m still and all the tears are gone. When the grief passes, I feel wrung out and raw.
But the pain is still there.
We sit there in silence until my mind clears somewhat. I should get out of his lap, should put some space between us, but I can’t find the energy to move. And it feels so good to be held again. So good to be able to lean on someone else—to not be strong all the time.
I don’t know how long we sit like that. Long enough that shadows stretch over the front yard. Long enough for Daisy to fall asleep at our feet on the porch. The warm afternoon turns cool, and chills rise on my skin, bringing with them the dawning discomfort from how wrong it is to be so at home in Callum’s arms.
My stomach clenches sharply, distracting me momentarily, and at first, I dismiss it as remnants from the crying jag. But then the pain comes again. And again. It comes so frequently I relegate it to Braxton Hicks contractions. I’d been dealing with them for weeks, so they weren’t uncommon. I probably needed to drink some water, take a bath, and get some rest. No doubt the trauma from the note hasn’t helped any. And there was also my blood pressure to consider. Frankly, I’m a mess. What I need is time to think, away from Callum. I have to remember he’s not my safe place. He never was. The only person I can count on is myself.
“I’d better be getting to bed,” I say and manage to peel myself out of his lap. He helps me to my feet, his hands burning through the material at my waist until I’m steady.
“We should talk about this,” he says, and I almost want to laugh.
“Youtalking about things. That’s new.” There. Scorn. That’s much easier for me to deal with than vulnerability. Because I know the second I’m too vulnerable with Callum, there will be no going back. I can’t risk my heart again…not when it’s so fragile—and certainly not with him.
“Gwen,” he warns. The devastation on his face is plain in the deep bracketing grooves framing his frown, but he holds it together because—damn him—he can probably sense my imminent break down.
