Page 68 of Chasing Wildflowers
I lean in, just a fraction, my voice low and rough. “From the moment I laid my eyes on you, you are all I saw. If you need time, I’ll give it to you. If you need space, I'll take a step back.” My fingers tighten on the railing. “But don’t mistake that for me walking away.”
Her gaze flickers, softening for the faintest heartbeat before hardening again. “We shouldn't talkabout 'us’ until this is over. For all we know, I could be dead or in prison by next week.”
“First of all, I’ll never let either of those things happen.” My voice is steady, unflinching. I cup the side of her face, letting my thumb trace along her cheekbone, needing that one last connection before I give her the distance she’s asking for. “I’ll back off until this is over, but know this, Lane, I’m not done fighting for you. For us.”
I let my hand fall and turn, forcing myself to walk away. I feel the weight of her gaze on my back as I walk toward the barn, and the heavy bag. I need to hit something, anything, because it’s the only way I know to silence the storm that’s tearing through my chest.
Twenty-nine
Lane
I’m exhausted, both mentally and emotionally. Even more so after my conversation with Jameson. All I want to do is hide away with Kam in the relative safety of our temporary bedroom. I’m halfway down the upstairs hall when Vic’s words about the doors echo in my head.
My eyes land on the door to my right. It’s painted a soft blue, dotted with daisies in varying sizes. I step further down the hall, curiosity tugging me forward. I trace my fingers over one of the bright pink daisies.
I turn to look across the hall. Two more doors. One with large, vibrant orange poppies, and the other; my temporary bedroom, with soft light purple lavender.
As expected, Kam is waiting when I walk into our room, sitting cross-legged in the center of the bed, staring at the door.
“How did it go?” The words are out of her mouth before I can shut the door behind me.
Closing the door, I cross the room and drop onto the bed across from her, the mattress sinking under my weight. I recount mine and Jameson’s conversation, still leaving out anything about his dad because it’s not my story to tell.
Kam’s eyes soften. “Do you want my honest opinion, or do you want me to agree with you and tell you what you want to hear?”
I sigh, knowing I’m not gonna like what she’s about to say, but it’s probably what Ineedto hear. “Just tell me.”
She doesn’t hesitate, the words coming out in a single breath. “I think you are being too hard on him.”
My mouth drops open. What the fuck? She’s supposed to be on my side.
She puts her hands up, stopping the protest that’s on the tip of my tongue. “You asked for honesty.”
I cross my arms over my chest, annoyance vibrating through veins. “He lied to me, Kam. How am I ever supposed to trust him again? I can’t believe you are taking his side.”
“I’m not,” she sighs, dropping her hands, sympathy shining in her eyes. “But you haven’t been honest with him either. You didn’t tell him the truth about your past; you kept him at arm's length for weeks. I know you had your reasons, but so did he.”
She takes my hands, making sure I hear her. “I think he was stuck in an impossible situation and was trying to shield you from your past. Should he have toldyou anyway? Absolutely, he was wrong not to. But that doesn’t make him a bad guy. Just a flawed one.”
She’s right, of course. She always is. Kam definitely missed her calling as a therapist or life coach.
He hurt me, even if it wasn’t intentional. He broke my heart. Made me question everything. Put my life in danger. Put my best friend's life in danger. And it was all because of my secret, a secret I’ve been carrying for five years.
My gaze drops to my lap, a single tear slipping down my cheek. “What should I do?”
“Right now, we are going to go learn how to make soap with Mama C. Then later, we are going to put on our big girl panties and talk to Vic when he gets back.” She stands from the bed, hand held out to me. “The rest, we’ll figure it out, together,” she says, her voice full of confidence that I envy.
And that’s what we do. We spend our afternoon with Jameson’s Mom, Carol. Or Mama C, as she told us to call her.
We stand in her sun-drenched dining room at a large wooden table, measuring oils and stirring in fragrant herbs. It’s soothing.
She has an easy demeanor, much like Jameson’s, that puts me at ease. He has her smile and dark hair, but that’s where the similarities end. She’s a petite woman, standing around five feet, with short, graying black hair and deep brown eyes.
There’s no doubt in my mind that her husband has filled her in on everything, but she doesn’t push other than to let me know she’d be there if I wanted someone to talkto. She’s the kind of mother everyone should be so lucky to have. Something I’ve always been missing.
My mother never wanted children. A fact she made painfully clear from a young age. She only had me because my dad wanted her to, back when she was still committed to playing the role ofperfect wife.
The illusion shattered shortly after I was born. She showed little to no interest in me, often leaving me with the nanny while she went to lunch with her friends.
