Page 70 of Six of Hearts
“It all scares me,” I responded simply. “I just had to get away from that.”
“Of course you did,” Khloe said. She reached out and rubbed my hand. “Well, it’s okay. You can stay here as long as you need.”
“Thanks,” I said.
I wasn’t sure how long I was planning to stay away. I knew that pretty soon the kids would be realising that I wasn’t there to pick them up, and that thought broke my heart.
Some of the kids had even started thinking of me as a mum to them, and given that all of them lost their mothers earlier in their lives, I hated thinking I was letting them down too. I started to cry, and Khloe must have realised I was losing control of my emotions, because she scooted closer to me in a very ‘time to dish’ type fashion.
“Okay, wanna hear a story to take your mind off of it all?” she asked, reaching up to wipe the tears away from my face.
I nodded. “Yes, please.”
“So, I’ve been working on this wedding for this woman, right, and you remember the hubby’s seven groomsmen I’ve told you about?” she began, recounting what she’d already told me before. “You’ve heard of bridezilla, or even groomzilla? This is groomsmenzilla.” I started to chuckle through my tears. “I’m serious!” she whined, laughing along. “They’re insufferable. They’re pulling me in all these different directions, and they would be satisfied to have this wedding in a sports bar with BBQ wings and sliders.”
“Stop it,” I managed to squawk out.
“Girl, they’re too much,” Khloe continued. “It’s worse because they’re all drop-dead gorgeous and charming, so they’re convinced they can get away with anything they want, and from what I’ve seen, they aren’t wrong.” She let out a long, deep, exasperated sigh. “They’re going to be the death of me.”
“You’ll figure it out,” I told her. “You always do.”
“Maybe,” she replied. “But believe me when I say I need this mimosa too.”
We continued to enjoy our brunch drink and chatted about subjects that kept things light, but my heart still felt heavy. I wanted nothing more than to rewind the last 24 hours and act like they had never happened.
Ronan meant so much to me.
Of all the dads, I trusted him the most, and he betrayed that trust; suddenly I was painfully aware of the fact that I had no reason to believe anything any of them had told me. Were any of the others closeted criminals? Why would they hurt me so badly? Khloe did her best to keep me from getting too depressed, but there was only so much she could do.
I wasn’t just going through one heartbreak, I was going through six; even more considering the fact that I was pained over disappointing the kids too. I was a wreck.
When the night came, I opted to turn in early, hopeful that sleep would bring me at least a little bit of peace, but I was wrong. When I could manage to drift off, I was plagued, not with nightmares, but with blissful dreams of me and the guys, all gathered around a Christmas tree, opening gifts with the kids.
I imagined their smiling faces as they realised they’d gotten everything they asked for, and watching the guys be floored by the presents I’d helped the kids pick out for them. It was tooth-rottingly sweet, and when I woke up in the morning to find it wasn’t real, all I could do was cry. I wanted my happy life back and I had to come to terms with the fact that I was never going to have that again.
I entered day two separated from the guys and the kids with the worst realisation of the entire horrible process settling over me: I was still madly in love with them all, Ronan the murderer included.
Five days at Khloe's apartment blurred together in a haze of coffee, tears, and mindless television that I couldn't focus on anyway. She tried to distract me with movies and takeaway, but nothing worked.
My mind kept circling back to Ronan—to all of them, really, but especially him. I'd see a father and son walking past the window and suddenly I'd be remembering the way Ronan looked at Finn, the gentleness in his eyes when he'd tuck his son in at night. The way his whole face would soften when Finn would reach up and pat his cheek with those tiny hands.
I remembered lying in bed with him after we'd made love, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my bare shoulder.
"You make me want to be better," he'd whispered into my hair.
"You make me believe I deserve good things." How could that man—that tender, vulnerable man—be the same person in those photographs?
My phone buzzed for what felt like the hundredth time, vibrating against the coffee table with an angry insistence. I glanced at the screen. Noah. Before that, it had been Gabriel. And Liam. And Julian. They were taking turns, I realised, making sure I was never without a message waiting, a call I was ignoring.
My chest tightened every time I saw their names light up the screen. My finger would hover over the answer button, my heart screaming at me to just pick up, to hear their voices, but thenI'd remember the blood and I'd set the phone back down with shaking hands.
The manila envelope sat on the edge of the couch where I'd left it, taunting me. Twice I'd reached for it, thinking maybe if I looked at the photos again, I'd see something different. Some explanation that would make it all make sense. But I couldn't bring myself to open it. The image of Ronan's face, splattered with blood, was already burned into my brain. I didn't need to see it again.
"He couldn't have," I whispered to the empty room, my voice cracking. "He wouldn't. Not Ronan. Not the man who reads bedtime stories in funny voices and makes sure Finn's nightlight is on before he leaves the room." But then the other voice in my head would counter: But the photo. The blood. His hand. What if you don't really know him at all?
I was trapped in my own mind, caught between the love that had taken root so deeply in my heart and the terror that maybe I'd been fooled. Maybe they'd all fooled me.
And I had no idea how to find my way out.
