It remindsme of the Amityville house of horrors. The large wooden house is set back away from the street. It’s a tall, sky-blue monster with an octagonal stained glass window at the highest peak in the center. I’m always amazed at how my surroundings change after a short drive. Smith’s parents have a wooded property. We live close to the beach. And we’re both considered SoCal residents.
Smith drove us in his truck and told me all about them on the way. His nephew is turning seven, and his younger sister is married to an accountant. They live a few houses down from his parents. “I wish I could take you to meet my parents,” I say, violently twisting the chiffon dress in my hands. “You can never trust a person without any family.” I smile, but it’s wistful. There has to be some truth to that statement. The only person I considered true family, my grandmother, died when I was a teenager. “I’m a broken, orphaned woman.” I’m only half joking.
After I split from Roarke, I spoke with a professional.Because some things shouldn’t be bottled up inside, and although I know what’s wrong with me, hearing it from someone who specializes in crazy is refreshing. He told me it could be why I create characters in my stories. It combats the loneliness and fills the void where loving parents are supposed to reside. He also told me it’s one of the reasons I stayed with Roarke after he beat me both verbally and physically. There’s nothing like clinging to attachments no matter how destructive they may be. Smith doesn’t have my same concerns, but when we spoke about it, I think he understood.
“Show me the house you grew up in?” he asks. He knows every sordid detail about my past. When I interview him, he always asks questions in return. What’s fair is fair and all of that. “He’s gone now, Carina. It’s just a house now.” Smith knows not to use his name. We know each other well.
I shrug, sigh, and make a grab for his leg. The heated moment in my bedroom turned into a heated hour and a heated drive, and basically it’s simmering in every pregnant pause and lull in our conversation. “We could drive by,” I say. Thinking of the house I grew up in sets my teeth on edge regardless of my insane libido.
Smith pulls behind a large garage structure and puts the truck in park. He takes my hand in his but leaves mine on his leg. His need to touch me is as strong as mine to him. “No one is ever going to hurt you again,” he promises. When he smiles and squeezes my hand, Ibelieve him. He’s the type of man who can protect me from anything that goes bump in the night. Smith has my trust implicitly.
“What about you?” I ask. “You have the means to destroy me. Destroying is kind of in your job description if you want to get technical.”
His gorgeous eyes close, shielding me from his true thoughts, and he exits the vehicle to reappear on the passenger side. He opens my door.
Taking my head and neck in his hands, he says, “I would never hurt you. You mean everything to me. You’re likemy precious.I’ve wanted you from the first moment I laid eyes on you.” I wasn’t the same person when he saw me in that theater.
I smile because the radiant truth I find in his eyes is too much. Also, theLord of the Ringsjoke. “Does Gollum live in the basement? It looks a little bit…” I trail off, my gaze flickering to his childhood home.
“Scary?” he asks.
I nod, and he pulls me against his chest. I can breathe here. The monsters that follow me disappear. I’m not truly afraid of the house. Smith knows this. I’m afraid of everything that follows. The future. The unknown. Deployment. Tiptoeing in the new waters of our structurally unsound relationship. “Let’s go. I know a little man who wants to eat cake. He is waiting for us. I’d be scared of him before anything else.”
Smith leads me into the house, one hand securely onmy waist. He is wearing a blue, long-sleeved button-up. I observe that he tries to cover his arms when we’re in public, so I notice he’s doing it now when we’re visiting his parents. It says something. I’m not sure what quite yet. When a petite brunette rounds the corner with a stack of teetering, multicolored presents in her arms, Smith tightens his grip.
“Fiona,” Smith says. The house is warm and smells of scented candles and pizza.
She peeks around the gifts. Her eyes light up as she sees her brother, then her face falls when she notices me. “It’s so good to see your ugly mug,” Fiona says, setting her son’s loot down on an empty table and approaching her brother with arms wide. I step away so she can hug him properly. “And who might this lovely lady be?” She’s polite, at least. I expected some magnitude of hostility because of our strange circumstances and because of Megan.
I extend my hand. “I’m Carina. It’s so good to meet you. Smith has spoken so highly of his baby sister.”
That garners a smile from her. She takes my hand, says the pleasure is all hers, and excuses herself to tend to the mob of children clamoring for cake. Brief, yet pleasant. If all of the interactions with his family are similar, I’ll be free and clear.
Smith tells me he’s going to help and says I should make myself at home. I wave him off and keep the lump in my throat under wraps. The foyer has childhoodphotos in every direction. I spot Smith in most of them. Watching him grow up from year to year makes me giggle and swoon at the same time. He went through the bowl cut, crooked teeth, and chubby bunny phases like most children who grew up in the ’80s and ’90s. I see the strapping man he would grow up to become when I get to the wall that houses their high school years. My heart drops when I come upon Megan in a glittering prom dress, and then again clutching his hand, sitting on the tail of a truck, and several more. I have to remind myself she’s been the only one. She’s his only one. From first kisses to bedroom acrobatics, it’s been Megan.
“He was quite the handsome fellow back then, wasn’t he?” a voice chimes from behind me. Smith’s mother is beautiful. She’s petite like Fiona but holds more authority. Her graying hair is swept up into a neat chignon, and her face is free of any deep wrinkles. She’s aged well. Her smile, though? I see where Smith got his from. It dimples on one side, and her white, straight teeth are on full display.
I shake her hand. “Carina,” I say. “He’s quite the handsome fellow now as well.” I return her grin, and in an unexpected move, she wraps me in her arms, hugging me tightly. When she pulls back, her mascaraed eyes are brimming with tears. “I haven’t seen him this happy in a long time, Carina. Thank you,” she whispers, looking both left and right to make sure we’re alone.
I clear my own throat. She’s skipped all pleasantries.No weather, no work talk, just straight to the core of why I’m nervous to be standing here. “Please,” I say, shaking my head. “Don’t thank me. Smith is the most incredible man I’ve ever met, Mrs. Eppington.”
“Margaret, please, dear. Call me Margaret,” she corrects, waving one hand. “He is indeed incredible. We’re lucky to have him with us. I remind myself of that daily.”
I hear children chattering and Smith laughing in the kitchen. The sound reassures me that everything is okay. I’m safe here. He’s safe.
“He wasn’t this incredible after his accident, though.” She smoothes her hair back on both sides even though it’s already perfect, not a hair out of place. “The man you know is the best version. Hearing that excitement in his voice when he talks about you is something I feared I’d never hear again.” She looks behind me at the photos of Smith and Megan. “Not even back then was he this smitten.”
How is that possible? And what does she have to gain by telling me this tidbit? I know she loves Megan like a daughter. Smith has told me as much. I know she still speaks with her too. There isn’t a woman in the world that would be this okay with her ex-fiancé moving on. And with such severity and haste. We’re living together. If Megan is at peace with this situation, she’s truly a better woman than I ever gave her credit for.
I resume twisting the sides of my dress.
“I find that hard to believe, but appreciate the sentiment nonetheless.” I nod, trying as hard as I can to keep my posture straight and my chin up. Subconsciously, I always shrink into myself, warring with feelings of self-loathing.
“He is a good man. Perhaps a little confused right now, but he’s a good man. I hope you realize what a treasure you have.” It’s very sweet. I hear the threat behind her words, though.
Crossing my arms, I let it roll off my back. This is what mothers do. They protect. Seeing it firsthand is odd and reassuring. There was one time when my own mother, God rest her soul, tried to save me from Greg. She snuck into my bedroom early in the morning and told me to run. She didn’t stand up to him or shield my body with her own, she told me to get out of dodge because he was angry. I went to my friend Jenna’s house for two whole days. When I returned, she was on a liquor run, and my stepfather was home, waiting for me. That was the first time he raped me. I always wonder what would have happened if we never went down that road—if I hadn’t listened to my mother. If I’d stayed, perhaps Greg would have locked me in the shed for a few hours—maybe a night. He was upset I couldn’t get the blood stain off his favorite button-up. The memory forces a shudder.
“I couldn’t possibly hurt him, ma’am. I’m not that kind of woman.” I open my mouth to tell her that I lovehim, but I can’t. I haven’t admitted my feelings to Smith yet. “He’s important to me.”
