Scars of Yesterday (Sons of Templar MC 8)

“Love you,” I whispered.

“Love you more,” he whispered back.

I walked through the house, past the photos I didn’t look at anymore, straightening pillows, putting away shoes. It was the routine I had every night. One that Ranger had always helped with. Then we’d go to bed. Not always together. But since the club had settled, thar had been more and more common. I’d read. He’d read. We’d watch a movie. He’d make love to me. Or fuck me. Usually a combination of both. Not every night. Sometimes twice a night.

Our marriage was stronger after we got through those hard years. But we had valleys. Peaks. Though the lows were far lower, more like potholes really, the highs were higher, more constant.

Now I wasn’t just in a valley. I was in the basement of my life.

I poured myself a whisky and walked outside. It was Saturday. I was allowed hard whisky on Saturdays.

A few years ago, Ranger had spent an entire month working whenever he could to completely redo our backyard. He’d wanted me and the kids to have an oasis. He built a greenhouse similar to the one Olive had. We had all sorts of vegetables in it, and Olive came over once a week to make sure I wasn’t killing anything.

He’d built a large deck jutting off from our French doors, complete with fancy wicker furniture, a small dining area, a hammock. Pavers led to our built-in barbeque area and a corner where we could pitch a tent and have campouts with the kids. Solar lights that automatically came on and lit up the entire area when the sun went down were strung across the entire area. It was my favorite place to be no matter the weather. The kids loved being outside too.

I hated it now, with all its memories. But it wasn’t as loud in its silence as the house was. So I came out here, for respite. For... something.

“I don’t really know that much about astrology, but I know there’s power in a full moon,” I said, looking up to the sky. “I might’ve liked to learn more about it all, but kids and all.” I trailed off, embarrassed that I was talking to the moon like it was some old high school friend I’d ran into at the grocery store. “I know there’s probably a lot of people out here doing the same thing as I am right now, looking for some strength, asking for something. Surely those people need it more than I do. But I’m not asking for a lot. Anything you can spare. I just need a little...” I trailed off as my voice cracked.

It was a large crack, resounding evidence of how damaged I was. How close to falling apart I’d become. But I wouldn’t let myself break completely. I had to stay strong because I had two children inside that house who needed their mother whole. Who at least needed to believe that she was.

So that’s why I was out here looking to the moon for help. For strength.

“I just need something,” I continued. “Whatever I can get, whatever you can give. I just need it. To get through this night. I just need to get through this night. I think I’ll be able to figure out tomorrow when it gets here. I just. Tonight...”

I stayed out there for a long time. Maybe too long. The moon didn’t answer. No one did. I was alone.Chapter 3There were a plethora of women who I could trust with my children. I was aware that there were a lot of mothers out there who couldn’t say the same, so I knew what a blessing it was to be surrounded by women who would protect my children as if they were their own. Who loved them.

Adored them.

Cared about me.

For years that was great. Ranger and had been able to have date nights, even weekends away. But these were not regular circumstances. I didn’t want to let my children out of my sight, and I surely didn’t want my well-meaning, strong, loving and overbearing friends trying to make things better.

A lot of other people’s friends would’ve given up. Not because they were bad people, but because there was a limit of someone else’s suffering most people could handle.

Most people didn’t do well at witnessing grief so close to home, being assaulted with the knowledge of just how close they were to that kind of pain. That kind of loss.

But these women were not most people.

They had certainly proven that throughout the years.

I’d been proud to call them friends, that the club finally had Old Ladies who inspired the men to head in a more legitimate direction.

Not that that had mattered for me, of course.

But I also resented them. That was the prickly, ugly truth of it all. I resented that they got to witness my pain and then go back to their homes, to their husbands, and they didn’t have an empty bed or broken heart.