Communion (On My Knees Duet 3)

“I miss you, too.” He sounds completely miserable.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind? I’m making a bottle. Little Missy says to tell you she loves Papa.”

I’m almost afraid he’ll say he doesn’t want to keep her, but he says, “I love you and her too.”

“Come home, babe. It’s late and I’m tired, and I want to hold you.”

“I just…can’t.” He puffs a breath out. “Not tonight.”

My stomach sinks. “Why?” I whisper. I balance the phone between my cheek and shoulder, sliding the formula jar closer to the edge of the counter.

“I just need to think,” he half groans. “Not about us. About all this stuff with the church.”

When he doesn’t expound, I murmur, “Okay.”

“I’ll be home tomorrow. I’m not going in until noon.”

“Did you talk to Pearl?”

“I texted,” he says. He sounds tired.

“How’re you going to sleep without me?”

“I don’t want to sleep. I need to think.”

I want to tell him I can help him think. Instead I say, “I’m sorry things are like this.”

“Don’t be sorry, Vanny. Never sorry—about anything. Give Eden a kiss. And please, disregard that crap I said up in the office. I was losing my shit…as the kids say.”

Fuck, I want to hug him so bad. “I love you, Sky. I love being your husband.”

“Love you more,” he whispers.

“Call me if you need me.”

“Always,” he says.

Then it’s me and Eden again, alone in the house’s midnight quiet.

“You look like a wrinkly potato,” I tell her, as she stares up at me with her rumpled eyebrows. Then the garage-hallway door creaks open.

26

Vance

My heart slams up against my ribs so hard that my arms go weak. I tighten my grip on the baby as my lungs scream for more air. Already, I can't fill them. Before I even see the person's face, my hands are shaking, and I know it’s not gonna to be good.

"Who is it?" I call in a voice I hope sounds tough. My mind is racing, wondering how I'll fight someone off while holding Eden—with two fucked-up arms.

There's a big thump, the sound like a collapse or something falling. Holding Eden tight against my chest, I step into the hall between the kitchen and the garage door, finding...someone.

Fuck. The guy is big, but crumpled over like he passed out.

"Hello?"

A soft, pained sound comes from him.

"Dara?" I step past the dude and look into the empty garage. Maybe Dara didn't leave yet after all and Tased him?

The garage is empty. Fuck.

"Are you okay?" It's my first instinct. But my second one is tucking Eden under my bad-shoulder arm and freeing up the newly surgerized one—which, sadly, is stronger—so I can punch this fucker in the face if he jumps up swinging.

As I do that, I'm running my eyes and up down his sprawled-out body, searching for some clue of who the fuck he is and why he's here, face-planted in my hallway.

Younger. Big guy. Built. He’s got on jeans that sag down, showing me a swatch of underwear, and a T-shirt. Short hair—really short, like mine—and a sunburned neck.

As I'm checking him out, he pushes up on one arm. His face twists as he looks up at me, and I notice he's got some dark, thick eyebrows.

"Are you...Vance?" His voice is soft, like he barely has the energy to speak, and his mouth is sort of trembling, which makes me notice that his lips are pretty chapped.

The way his eyes are squinted makes me think he's got a headache or something.

"Who's asking?" I don't mean to sound so surly, but fuck. "We don't like to get surprise guests at our house. You need to start explaining or security will come down the stairs. Hold off for now, Steven," I say, raising my voice like Steven’s here.

I can tell this scares the guy because his face loses some color. "I'm sorry." He tries to get to his feet, but his knees buckle as he does. He grabs the wall, but it's not wall, it's one of the Rothkos.

"Fuck! Let go of that thing." My arms are like a pinwheel, trying to hold onto the painting and also Eden. Then at the last second, as the guy sags back down to the floor, I realize I should let go of the painting and help him.

I manage to keep the painting on its mount and support Eden's floppy little head. I crouch down beside the guy. Part of me feels like I should touch his back, but...I think that's the wrong move.

"What's wrong, dude? What's the what here?" I notice his white T-shirt seems dirty, and he smells like the inside of a locker room. "You need some help or something?"

He shakes his head. He lifts his head off his arm, gray eyes holding mine even as they seem like they're about to roll back. "Don't call the cops."