Loneliness consuming.
It was all mixed up with the regret of taking off the way I did. Guilt of not staying and being there for Evan after he’d found out this way.
Knowing he had to be home by now. Destroyed the way that I’d known he would be. Left alone to deal with it, and I knew firsthand that was not a good place to be.
Knowing he would be harboring all that guilt too when really it was neither of our faults.
Lots cast long before either of us had been born.
And then that cycle would just repeat, and I’d get sucked a little deeper into the vortex of what if and guilt and the need to get up and fight for what was right.
I ached.
I ached to hold him.
For him to hold me.
For him to come to me and tell me I was forgiven, tell me he didn’t blame me, so I could tell him that I had forgiven him and didn’t blame him either.
So we could cry together and finally begin to heal.
My mouth opened on that disorder of thoughts, a silent cry cast to the heavens. For the clarity for us to finally figure out how to make this right.
I nearly hit the ceiling I jumped out of bed so quickly when I heard the doorbell ring.
He was here.
Maybe his presence slammed me face-first into the realization.
The realization that it didn’t matter how terrified I was to be put in the same position—to love someone so hard that it felt impossible.
Maybe that was when I realized that was just what loving a child was.
Maybe that was when I realized the full magnitude of it.
It didn’t matter if they were healthy or sick or young or old.
That love remained the same.
I raced for the door, my bare feet echoing on the hardwood planks, the errant sensation that it was so wrong that Milo wasn’t there right beside me.
This place that I’d considered a home for two years suddenly feeling vacant.
And I was ready. I was ready to go home.
To confess and forgive and love.
I jerked the door open only to stumble back a step when I saw who was standing on the other side.
Not Evan.
My thundering heart stuttered a beat before it jumped into a jagged sprint. I stared dumbfounded at Chris who was standing on the porch, his dark hair hanging over his forehead and his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans.
He blew out of a sigh of relief when he saw me.
“Frankie Leigh, thank God. I went to Evan’s parents’ house and no one answered. Do you know where he is? I found my sister . . . she’s in bad shape. Really bad shape.”
Dread curled. “What? What happened?” I demanded, pissed that he’d disappeared for all these days when he’d been the one asking for help.
“Think she tried to overdose. I found her in her motel room passed out with a bunch of empty bottles scattered around her.” His voice quavered. “She is okay, but she needs serious help. But she’s worried about that kid. She’s going to try to take him back and that is the last thing she needs right now. We need to talk some sense into her. Convince her he is better off with you and Evan.”
Agony tightened my chest, the thought of that little boy being snatched away.
But this woman obviously needed help, and I wasn’t going to stand in the way of that.
“Where is she? We have been trying to get in touch with you for several days.”
I rubbed my hands up my arms, trying to quell the chills that lifted.
A frown crawled to his brow. “What do you mean? I haven’t heard from anyone. Figured your cop friend didn’t give a crap about another basket case roaming the streets.” Bitterness filled his short laugh, and he shook his head. “I gave up and headed back for California then turned back around when I got another call from her yesterday.”
The constricting lump that had been in my throat was back, although this time it was all different. The need to protect this little boy greater than anything I’d ever felt.
Bigger than my fears.
Bigger than the wounds.
He started to back away, his demeanor urgent. “Listen . . . do you know where Evan is? I need to talk to him . . . see if I can get him to come down and talk some sense into her.”
My nod was frantic. “Yes. We . . . he moved just a short while ago. Let me grab my keys and my phone and you can follow me over there.”
“You sure? It’s late.”
My tongue swept across my dried lips, the words rushed and haggard. “Yes.”
Absolutely.
Yes.
I needed to do this. Be there for Evan. Fight for what was right for that little boy.
My spirit shivered in awareness. In fullness. I’d already felt it—experienced it—the depth of the love I had for him. Maybe right then was the first time I really felt like I had the right to feel it.