Communion (On My Knees Duet 3)

"Do you really?"

I smile, shaking my head at him. "Yeah, Sky. I do."

I can hear him exhale. "Okay." The word echoes slightly. "You realize it’s not just about where to go. That I would have wanted to be with you, had you told me you were going today."

"Well, not necessarily. But I didn't need you with me. Not that I don't want you here, but you know...I'm all good. And you have stuff to do."

"I'm waiting in your atrium." My heart clenches at the word. Because the doctor said that any little movement to the shoulder, before I have a surgery to fix it, could fuck things up worse.

I try to keep the sadness out of my voice. "You must have had some free time."

"I made some for you. Because I missed you, Rayne."

"I miss you too, McD." I duck into the car, which I was about to get in when he called, and start toward the church, so fucking relieved to be rid of that awful ache inside my shoulder. "You want to rain check for in a little while?" I ask him.

"Yeah. It might be after lunch, though. I'm working on a surprise...something really big. I was going to tell you today, but I think I might wait a little longer. So it has more impact."

"That works."

I'm feeling so unfiltered at this moment—maybe because I just got a needle stuck into my shoulder—that I almost want to ask Luke how he had so much time for me before he dumped me, and so little now. But I'm just being needy. Actually, it's not even that. It's more like I'm worried. He called it right last night. I don't trust him—not completely. I'm still haunted by the idea of Sky changing his mind. Now that the blush is off the rose. Now that he's fucked me like five thousand times and had his fill.

I blow my breath out as I stop for a red light, knowing how much it would hurt him if he knew I felt this way. Poor McD has tried to make me feel secure. I don't know why I've got such cold feet after everything we shared on the yacht. We said our vows and everything, and it was real; I know that. Maybe it's because I'm so invested now. I don't think I could be more invested if I tried. He's got me by the heart and soul, and all I really want is to be enough.

“Can’t wait to hear about it,” I tell him.

“I think you’re really going to like it.” He sounds excited. Must be some new idea. Or…mission. I don’t even know enough about the various arms of Evermore to hazard a guess at what Sky’s talking about.

But I say, “I know I will.”

We get off the phone, and I still feel unsettled. I guess he's more gripped by all this church stuff than I thought he would be. It doesn't bother me that he loves work, but…fuck, I guess I’m just too insecure. That I don’t fit into his world at all.

I turn up the radio and try to let my mind wander. I'm trying to figure out how much of the current projects I can finish if I keep my hurt arm mostly immobile. It's hard to say, but I'm going to try. My other fucking arm’s not normal, but it’s getting closer—even if it does still look a little skinny.

I'm taken off guard by the way my eyes well when I pull into the parking deck. I think about the day I came here from New York, and how afraid I was. How I couldn't even go into the building without taking a drag off my inhaler. And then he acted like he didn't even know me.

Shit.

He loves me, and I know he does. I've gotta get better at moving on from the past. I lay my forehead on the steering wheel and let my eyes well till they spill over.

He's not your dad, man.

I push my left hand into my hair. I'm okay. It's gonna be okay.

Please help me, God. If you're listening. Just tell me what I need to do to keep this all okay. Mom...you, too. Help make this work. However would be best…or whatever.

I blow out a breath, surprised to find I feel a little better. I don't know about God. I'm not against the idea, and I see how it might help. But I think focused energy works for sure.

Help me turn this all around. And feel better. Just help us chill. And be a normal couple. Please. Whatever you want—that doesn’t get one of us killed, I tack on for good measure.

Then I walk slowly to the side door in some misting rain. As I near it, I see a brown cardboard box—the same kind I just packed to move my shit from New York to here—with its flaps open at the top. As I near it, I hear something like—