Caveman (Wild Men 1)

Octavia

The kids are quietly playing when I finally make it back down to the living room. It’s like stepping into a different universe after all that’s happened upstairs. The toe-curling, wild sex in the bathroom. Matt’s explanation about the dress and his past behavior. His small breakdown, the scar on his wrist.

The admission he’d tried to kill himself… but also that he didn’t.

Didn’t go through with it.

Not to the end, at least. The scar isn’t that long, doesn’t seem that deep. He has none on his other wrist.

And despite the despair that filled me when I saw the scar, what he said filled me with hope.

I’m helping Mary dress up one of her dolls in a red dress with Cole tugging on my sleeve to get my attention, when Matt finally comes down the stairs. Good. I was starting to worry all over again.

You’re in too deep, Octavia. What’s wrong with you? Stop it.

But he’ll be late for work, and I don’t want any more stress piling up on his shoulders. He’s got too much on his plate already, and God that breakdown in his room…

And this is why you’re in too deep for your own good.

Guy’s an adult. Older than you, even. He’s been dealing with his wife’s death for years now. He’s probably had worse breakdowns.

He’ll be fine.

Yet my heart aches for him. I want to lighten his burden. And I want to be the one to make him better.

Jesus. This is more dangerous territory than I thought. More like a sinkhole of the heart. Emotional quicksand.

Oh God, I’m in love with him.

I suck in a sharp breath.

He’s grabbing his truck keys from the bowl by the entrance, raking a hand through his messy hair. Then he glances at me, a warm spark in his dark eyes, a softness that’s rarely there, and it’s as if my whole world had shifted on its axis.

He was always hot, from the first time I saw him, but now… Now he’s coming into focus, slowly but surely, one detail at a time. The crease between his dark brows speaks of sorrow, the shadows in his eyes all make sense. His attitude, his violence, his words, his actions.

It’s becoming clear to me that I’ll never meet another man like him. He’s damaged, and hurting inside, he’s lashing out, but he’s strong and he has a gentle side he doesn’t show to many. He’s been wounded by the twists of fate, but he’s still hanging on.

And don’t ask me how I know, but I think he’s the one for me.

The kids are feeling much better today. They’re still a bit cranky, easily tired and impatient. Mary throws a magnificent tantrum when her mug falls and shatters. It wasn’t her favorite mug or anything, but she can’t get over the poor mug breaking.

And then Cole has a whole rolling-on-the-carpet-and-screaming fit when I pour him his apple juice because he wanted to do it himself. Even though I gave him the bottle and he didn’t want to even touch it.

Never mind. Doesn’t have to make sense. I remember this, especially from when Merc was little. That kid was a walking tantrum. Weird how he turned out so mellow and quiet now he’s all grown up.

“So there’s still hope for you,” I tell Cole, lifting him from the floor and into my arms. Ugh he’s heavy. “Maybe there’s hope for all of us.”

I think about that as I carry him to the kitchen, a wailing Mary following us—“Why are you carrying Cole? I want you to carry me too. S’not fair!”—and to the table where I plop him on a chair.

Then I turn, lift Mary and seat her in the chair across from him.

> “Eat your food,” I say, “and I will tell you a story.”

“Don’t want a story!” Mary sniffles.

“No wanna,” Cole stands by his sister, suddenly supportive.

Or maybe it’s just the start of another screaming fit.