“You what?!” I reach out for the doorframe to hold me up. The flashing blue and red lights on top of Wyatt’s cruiser light up the house. Even though I took my contacts out before bed, I can make out Cal’s silhouette in the back of Wyatt’s police car, glaring a hole into his back.
“I just wanted to get under his skin.” Wyatt’s gaze drops to his boots.
“Wyatt Eugene Williams the third. What were you thinking?”
His weight shifts. “I’m sorry.”
I smack his hat right off his head since I can’t slap his face around. “Delilah is going to be so pissed at you for insinuating you were going to fuck me.”
“I already got an earful from Dee when I called to let her know I would be late tonight. She told me to go sleep out on the porch like a dog if I was hell-bent on acting like one.”
“I don’t blame her. You said you were going to…” Nope. Can’t even finish that sentence.
My stomach rolls in protest. There is no way I would ever touch Wyatt, let alone screw around with him since he is not only a good friend, but my best friend’s husband.
Wyatt crosses his arms against his uniform. “I think he’s jealous.”
I let out a loud laugh. “No way.”
“He tried to choke me, Alana.”
“Cal?”
“Yes, Cal! I don’t think I’ve ever seen him that pissed before. It caught me off guard.”
I try to wrap my head around Cal attacking anyone. The only time I saw him unhinged was while playing hockey, and it never went past the arena. Ever.
I shake my head. “He’s got the personality of a golden retriever.”
“Yeah, a rabid one. I panicked for a moment before my training kicked in.”
I rub my eyes. “Is he under arrest?”
“Hell no. There is no way I would risk losing my job for that.”
Of course not. Arresting a Kane on anything less than tax fraud or a murder charge would be cause for immediate dismissal.
I sigh. “Why did you bring him here instead of the guesthouse?”
Wyatt grabs the handcuff keys from his belt. “Since I can’t arrest him, I thought it would be a fun way to torture him.” He leans forward and places both his hands on the doorframe. From Cal’s vantage point, it probably looks like he might even be kissing me.
“You’re asking for it.” I give his shoulder a shove.
“I’m doing it to save you from him sniffing around.”
I peek over Wyatt’s shoulder to find Cal throwing daggers with his eyes. “Be careful uncuffing him. He looks pretty pissed off.”
Wyatt laughs as he jogs back to his car and opens the back door. He is quick to unlock the handcuffs and send Cal on his merry way with another tip of his hat.
“See you tomorrow, Alana!” Wyatt shouts at the top of his lungs.
Cal looks over his shoulder. I can’t make out the expression on his face since he is turned in the opposite direction, but I get a good look at his curled fists. He keeps his eyes on Wyatt until his taillights disappear down the driveway.
Cal walks slowly toward the house, drawing out the process. He still hasn’t looked directly at me, so the closer he gets, the harder my heart pounds.
“So, first night here and you’re already getting arrested.” I lean against the doorframe and cross my legs at the ankles.
He looks up with narrowed eyes. “Technically, I was detained.” He rubs at his wrists.
I shake my head. “What were you thinking, trying to assault an officer?”
“Are you fucking him?” he asks through gritted teeth.
My heart rate spikes. It’s one thing to accuse me of sleeping with someone else, but it’s a completely different issue for him to think I would sleep with his old best friend. Instead of allowing my irritation to guide my reply, I choose a different tactic.
“Would it matter if I am?”
Oh, Alana. You know better than to taunt him.
His nostrils flare. “Hell yeah, it matters. You should hear the way he speaks about you.”
Wyatt, I hope Delilah gives you hell when you get home. “It’s none of your business who I hook up with.”
He rubs his clenched jaw, as if it can erase the tic. “You can do better than him.”
“He’s not that bad.”
“What a glowing review for a guy who probably couldn’t find your clit even if it was labeled with a neon sign.”
I choke on my laughter, killing it before he has a chance to hear it. “Cal.”
His nostrils flare. “What?”
“Wyatt was right. You are jealous.”
He scoffs. “I’m not jealous.”
“Good, because if you plan on staying here, you’re going to be seeing Wyatt a lot. I’d hate for things to be…uncomfortable.”
Stop baiting him.
It’s hard not to when he is clearly jealous yet won’t admit it.
So, what if he is? It’s not like it matters.
Each of his fingers flex before curling back into themselves. “That’s fine.”
“Are you sure? You did try to choke him less than twenty minutes ago.”
“And I’d do it all over again if I heard someone talking about you the way he did.”
My heart beats harder against my rib cage. “Like what?”
“Like you didn’t matter to them.”
My control over the situation slips, along with the protective shell I keep around my heart. “Cal…”
This is exactly what I was afraid of if he came back. It was always easy to pick back up where we left off every summer, like no time was lost between us.
But we lost more than time over the last six years since he left.
We lost out on whatever future we might have had together.
He breaks eye contact first. “Whatever. It was stupid of me to get pissed. So long as he makes you happy, that’s what matters.”
This is the Cal I fell in love with. The selfless man who would stop at nothing to make me happy, even if it meant sacrificing his own happiness in the process. It reminds me so much of how he was before the pills, alcohol, and lies.
Before the betrayal.
“I’m not dating Wyatt.” My confession rushes out of me.
His brows shoot up. “What?”
“He married Delilah almost a year ago. They’re celebrating their first wedding anniversary in September.”
“Wyatt got married to Delilah?”
I cross my arms against my chest. “Yup. I guess you were too busy trying to choke him out to notice the shiny wedding band on his finger.”
“Shit. You’re right.” His cheeks flush. “But if you aren’t with Wyatt…” His voice trails off.
“If I’m not with Wyatt what?”
He clears his throat. “Nothing.”
“You sure about that?”
He tips his chin up at me. “I’m sure. Night.”
“Good night.”
He stomps off the porch steps and disappears down the path toward the guesthouse.
What the hell was all that about?
I shut the door behind me and lean against it. My legs tremble beneath me, the weight of our conversation making me unsteady on my feet. If this is day one of Cal living here, I can’t imagine what’s to come.
I’m busy folding laundry upstairs in my bedroom when something heavy thuds above me, right where the attic is located. Cami knows better than to go up there, so that only leaves one person who could have caused such a loud noise. The same person who has spent the last three hours upstairs doing who knows what.
I haven’t seen Cal since he went up there with a single cardboard box. He only spoke five words to me, most likely because he was still upset after everything that happened with Wyatt yesterday.
A second crash, this time much louder, has me running for the stairs at the end of the hall. My lungs burn from exertion as I bolt up the steps two at a time.
I storm into the attic. It’s impossible to see much past the stacks of boxes nearly reaching the support beams.
“Cal?” I call out.
A groan from somewhere to my left has me working my way in that direction. The attic is a maze of boxes, chests, and containers, so it takes me longer than I’d like to find Cal laid out on the floor like a starfish.
He doesn’t move at the sound of my footsteps, although his fingers twitch at his sides. His eyes remain screwed shut as I kneel beside him and scan his body for any injuries.
“What happened?” I ask.
He doesn’t sit up. “I fell.”
“And you didn’t think to get up?”
“The room keeps spinning,” he slurs.
Concern has me jumping into action. Is he having a stroke? Or maybe something with his brain? “What—” My question is cut off at the sight of the half-filled bottle of premium vodka spilling out beside him.
Of course.
I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve seen this story play out time and time again with Cal, yet the sick feeling weaving its way through my stomach has me curling my hands into tight fists. Years’ worth of anger rises to the surface at the sight of him plastered on the floor, unable to sit up from how much alcohol he consumed.
Once an addict, always an addict.
I slide my mask into place, keeping my voice detached as I ask, “Are you hurt?”
“Only here.” He taps his chest, right over his heart.
God. It’s so sad to see a grown man like him suffer the way he does. During our childhood and early adulthood, he was always so full of life. To see him reduced to this broken version of himself only draws out the protector in me.
Cal has so much to offer the world, but his self-loathing and destructive patterns get in his way every single time. A part of me hoped that he found happiness in the six years we spent apart.
Not with someone else, but with himself.
He is no better than the day he left.
I pick up the vodka bottle so it doesn’t spill any more before taking in our surroundings. A few of Cal’s old hockey trophies are scattered around the floor, along with an old NHL jersey of his and a few opened boxes.
No wonder he was drinking. Going through those kinds of memories—the ones that represent the highest highs and the lowest lows—would upset anyone. It’s just that Cal’s way of coping is the worst.
“What happened?” My voice is much softer this time.
He blinks up at the ceiling. “I fell.”
“So you said. But how?”
“Lost my balance when trying to pick up the bottle.” He stumbles over the sentence. Despite the puddle on the floor, Cal must have drunk a decent amount if he is falling over himself and tripping over his words.
I help prop him up against one of the travel trunks, grunting from how much he weighs. “What happened before that?”
Stop asking him questions and go.
Except when I think about leaving, the image of Cal tapping his chest and saying it hurts replays in my head.
I don’t stick around for the drunk man in front of me. I stay for the man I once loved more than anything.
He steals the vodka bottle back and tips it over an open box beside him.
“Stop!” I steal the bottle from his hands and put it out of reach before assessing the damage.
“Oh, no.” I press my hand against my mouth. “What did you do?”
Vodka soaks through hundreds of photos of the Kane family. The one on top features Cal’s mother, who beams at the camera. Her blond hair looks like spun gold and is slightly lighter than Cal’s. His father has an arm wrapped around her. He looks just like I remember, stern with a hint of something lurking behind his dark, beady eyes. The three Kane brothers smile up at the camera, with Cal just barely standing taller than Declan. Rowan is the smallest, although he was probably barely ten years old here.
“Who cares? It’s all ruined anyway.”
I try to salvage some of the photos, wiping off the vodka with the bottom of my shirt. “These are memories.”
“Memories of what? A family that doesn’t exist anymore?” he snaps.
I keep at my task with every intention to save as many photos as I can. “I understand you’re upset.”
“What do you know?” He scowls.
“You’re not the only one whose mother died. Our situations might not have been the same, but I understand what it feels like to lose someone you love to something you can’t control.”
His glassy eyes track my movements. “She would be ashamed of me.”
I rear back. “What? Why do you say that?”
“Because look at me.” He grabs a trophy and launches it in the opposite direction. It slams into a tower of boxes before clattering against the floor.
“Stop it!”
“Why? It’s not like any of them mean anything.” He repeats the same thing with another trophy, but this time, it smashes into a wall before snapping in half.
“Enough!” I shove the other two trophies away before he destroys those too. “Get angry. Get loud, but don’t get violent. You’re better than that.”
He throws his hands in the air. “Am I? Or am I just biding my time until I turn into him?”
He doesn’t need to clarify which him he is speaking about because I already know. It’s written all over his face.
My chest pinches, the tight sensation making each breath I draw painful. “The only thing you two have in common is an addiction issue.”
“You’re right. Because unlike me, my father is successful. He has a legacy. What do I have?”
“For starters, a heart.”
He frowns. “Who cares? What has that gotten me in the long run? Pain? Misery? Disappointment?” He looks up at the ceiling with a sigh. “I can’t get a single thing right. My whole entire life has been one failure after another, and I’m so fucking tired of pretending it doesn’t bother me.”
Cal steals a fragmented piece of my heart in that moment as a single tear slides down his cheek. A tear that wrecks whatever last bit of anger I have toward him today.
Tomorrow, I’ll be angry about him being drunk in the house.
But today…
Today he needs a friend.
I pull him into my arms and wipe away the tear, banishing it from existence like it never happened. “You haven’t failed at everything.”
“Name one thing.”
I don’t miss a beat. “You made it into the NHL.”
He scoffs. “Only to lose my spot a few years later.”
“So what? Not many people can say they even got that far in the first place.”
“I didn’t even win a championship.” His voice sounds so small. So unsure. So broken.
It tears me up inside, knowing someone as vibrant and lively as him can be riddled with this many insecurities.
Sometimes it is those with the loudest voices who struggle the hardest.
“Life is about perspective. Until you change yours, you’ll always be tied to this.” I hand him the vodka bottle.
He clutches the bottle with a death grip.
I lock the image away in my head, reminding myself that no good can come of Cal and me being around each other. Even after all these years apart, he still hasn’t put in the work to change himself.
No matter how much I love him, it was and never will be enough so long as he doesn’t love himself.
That much I know to be true.
Cal must have gone on a drunken shopping spree yesterday because there is no explanation for the ten packages that show up on my doorstep the next afternoon. The labels on the boxes range from the most expensive luxury department store in America to some French names I can’t pronounce, let alone recognize.
“Please sign here.” The delivery man hands me a clipboard.
You have a delivery.
His reply is instantaneous.
Be right there.
Perfect. At least this way, we can talk about what happened yesterday and get something straight.
I had planned on speaking to Cal once he came over this afternoon to work on the attic, but he never showed after I came home from work.
It doesn’t take him long to pull into the driveway with his fancy car. Not sure how he plans on fitting all those boxes inside his trunk, but I wish him the best of luck regardless.
“Hey.” He doesn’t remove his sunglasses.
I cross my arms. “Hi.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “About yesterday… Thanks for checking on me.”
My lips tug down into a frown. “I don’t want you getting drunk inside of my house again.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it. If I find you like that again, then I’m calling a moving company to bag your stuff for you.”
His head hangs and his sunglasses slide down the bridge of his nose, revealing his bloodshot eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Apologizing doesn’t mean anything when you have no intention of fixing the problem in the first place.”
His hands clench by his sides. “You’re right.”
“I am?”
He looks up, and the tick in his jaw has my heart sinking in my chest.
I don’t want to hurt him, but I have a kid to think about. There is no way I want Cami to find Cal stumbling about the house, drunk and incapable of controlling his emotions.
She deserves better than that.
“I have a problem. An addiction.”
My mouth opens only to shut a second later.
“I know I’m powerless over alcohol. They taught me as much in rehab and AA. But I can’t ignore how ashamed I am, knowing I’m only slightly better off than I was six years ago.”
My eyes burn.
He takes a deep breath. “I can’t quit drinking completely yet, but I’ll limit myself for you. I don’t want to hurt you any more than I already have, and what happened in the attic was unacceptable and pathetic.”
Oh, God. My whole chest aches.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Okay,” I rasp.
He releases a heavy exhale before grabbing the largest box from the pile and turning toward his car. With the size of his trunk and back seat, he only manages three boxes before he runs out of room.
Rather than stick around, I slip back inside, leaving him to sort out the rest of his packages, along with how the hell he plans on tackling the attic without drinking again.
