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  2. Severed Heart (Ravenhood Legacy Book 2)

  3. Severed Heart: Chapter 57
Severed Heart (Ravenhood Legacy Book 2)

Severed Heart: Chapter 57

FALL 2015
BLINK.
Zach laughs maniacally at Delphine’s stunned expression where they sit at our small kitchenette as he animatedly takes a good portion of her flank down in an air raid. Shaking her head, she catches my gaze over his shoulder, eyes narrowing on me where I’m propped, arms crossed at the threshold. “You asshole, you warned him!”
“Knowledge is power, baby, and he’s on my side,” I quip around the boulder in my throat. Hearing me, Zach turns in his chair, his brown eyes shining with mischief, far more life in the smile he’s flashing me than last week and the week before. His color and overall well-being have improved dramatically in the short time he’s been with us due to our collective efforts to get him to a healthier mental space and weight.
Along with healthy sugars, we’ve been feeding him lots of proteins in combination with the vegetables Delphine grew and harvested this summer. Still about a month or so before the first real frost, Delphine took part in the Jenningses’ annual canning day last weekend with Mom and Aunt Rhonda. Thanks to the hellfire-filled grenades we’ve been forced to take cover from, she hasn’t moved forward in making wedding plans since I ringed her finger, but it’s evident Delphine is already a Jennings through and through.
Since Zach’s been here, he’s been equally inducted into the family fold and regarded as one of our own. Even by Mom, who, despite knowing who he is, or maybe especially because of it, started working with Zach right away, as did Delphine—here in our place of healing. A safe haven we both decided we wanted and needed to share with him the night I brought him home.
Though Zach never really got an explanation for our invitation and ask to stay with us—if it becomes permanent, and it looks that way—I plan on coming clean at some point. For now, I take pride that we’ve started slow. Using our mutual love of baseball, I’ve eased into his company by way of playing catch with him in the orchard like I did with Dad when I was a kid. Recently, he’s started participating in the Jenningses’ Sunday baseball games at the orchard after church. Church that Zach and Delphine regularly attend now because she’s crazy about Pastor Ron, who she claims is ‘so very wise.’ A Sunday ritual I miss consistently to run club errands while they’re occupied to get shit done so I can get right back to them.
I’ve been on two more missions to retaliate on Miami, both ordered by my general, and I hated every single minute because home is where I want to be. But as I stare at the two of them, bantering and talking, the need to escape right now is threatening to take over. It’s the ease and peace in which the two of them interact now—in contrast to the white-hot pain currently raging inside me—that has me making a quick excuse.
“I think I’ll toss something on the grill,” I manage in the perfect tone. “You guys want chicken or burgers?”
“Burgers,” both demand in unison as I feign a smile I don’t feel and don’t know if I ever will again, having just ended a call with Delphine’s oncologist. Despite targeted radiation and the most potent imaginable chemo, her cancer has leapt from her ureters and kidneys to her lymph nodes, putting her at stage IV-B.
Terminal.
Mere weeks into her fight and grueling treatment, her oncologist recommended we stop all efforts, as one would suggest I might need an umbrella today in case of rain. Knowing if he had been in front of me, I would have fucking killed him; instead, I told him I would be seeking a second opinion.
In turn, he relayed that he understood and was sorry to be the bearer of bad news. What he didn’t realize is that he just passed out two death sentences. And by the look of growing adoration on Zach’s rapidly plumping face as he engages her across the table, he might have added another.
As I soak her in myself, I realize her quality of life today, right now, might be the best it will ever get again. That she’s dying, in real time, before my eyes.
Blink out, Jennings. Blink out. Right fucking now!
My chest seizes again when she stokes the emotion I’m desperately trying to camouflage with the silver love she’s showering me with over Zach’s shoulder. Utterly unaware of what that look is doing to me.
But as she continues to peer back at me with so much unguarded affection, a suspicion spikes that maybe the love she’s fusing into me right now is for comfort she thinks I might need. Deep down, a large part of me believes she was certain she was leaving me when she accepted my marriage proposal and after, starting the unforgiving treatment for my sake alone.
That her intuition is just as fucking damning as her nephew’s was, who knew too that his time on earth would be cut short. That she already knew that in a matter of months, this life we have, this heaven we made together, will be stolen—robbed from us. A priceless fortune gained by and meant for others.
Unbearable pain starts to unfurl through every one of my veins as I cement my mask in place. Hellfire burning inside my skin as the woman I’d move heaven and earth for sits with a boy who looks a lot like me. Nurturing and bringing forth his inner soldier the same way she did mine. Saving him while becoming his refuge from his father’s cruelty and mistakes—just like she did for me.
Which is what I asked her for the night that I brought him home and pled with her to save him the same way.
Though it took little to convince her after hearing why he’d fled his father, and even less once she laid eyes on him. Just after, we settled him into what we deemed his room as we lay in bed, hands clasped, a decision brewing between us as she echoed my own thoughts about him. “He’s a younger you, Tyler, just like you.”
With that decision now solidified, but with her God’s decision to take her, He’s threatening to relinquish the family we just became. Unable to handle another second of our new reality, I stalk over to the fridge to continue the charade as I plot my escape. Albeit temporary, I need a reprieve to gain my bearings and reinforce my levee, which feels obliterated in my mind as my body threatens to follow.
Grabbing some hamburger meat, I mentally summon a list of people I could call. He’s just one oncologist. There are specialists all over the world I can contact for additional help. I have millions in the bank that mean fuck all to me, but that money will buy an audience and has the power to gain the attention of those people. People who can tell me different words. Miracles happen every day. She still calls me hers, and I want more than anything now to make that true.
“I can help you after this game,” Zach offers.
“That’d be cool,” I hear myself reply in the perfect tone. I’ve mastered this.
Blink out, Jennings. Blink the fuck out!
“I’ve always wanted to learn how to grill,” Zach adds.
“Then I’m your man,” my voice deceives in jest as I miraculously speak again, my delivery just as convincing. “God knows that French menace in front of you can’t cook for shit.”
“Asshole,” she spouts as I glance over at her and lie again with the wink she loves so much. How in the fuck did I fake that? More so, how did she accept it without knowing I’m dying too, right along with her?
Or is she actively deceiving me as well?
Though none of those answers matter because she’s . . .
The burn wins as I take measured steps outside, the steps of a man in no hurry, gait typical. The easy strides of a man who’s going to cook dinner for his fiancé, and . . . what Zach is or will become to me, not yet definable. Just as I step out of the front door, I think I might be made when she calls my name, until I turn back to see her smiling.
“Imbecile,” she drawls lovingly, “I may burn and over-salt everything, but even I know you have to make the patties first!”
She bought it, she’s buying it. I can fake my way through this, but for how long? That question is answered a second later as the sledgehammer swings again—the doctor’s words slamming into me full force, damn near taking me to my knees, hastening my decision to temporarily retreat.
“I’m aware, General,” I drawl dryly, the deceptive execution professional as my heart continually seizes, threatening to give out. “Shit, I forgot,” I lie, stalking back to the fridge to ditch the meat, “I have an errand to run. I’ll only be a few hours and will cook when I get back.” I quirk a brow. “Unless you two want to brave it?”
Both grant me easy nods before dismissing me, the two of them already sparring in their shit talk by the time I’m taking more measured steps out the front door. The instant I’m clear of their line of sight, a slight relief sets in, which is promptly annihilated by the sight of the porch swing—a swing I installed to watch a lifetime of sunsets with my general. With that added fuel, I go up in a blaze and free myself with the sweep of my eyes.
BLINK. BLACK.
* * *
BLINK.
“‘I’m your Huckleberry,’” Jeremy quips the Tombstone quote to Peter as the two clown around in the bay. Their banter reminding me of Cecelia and our game, the guilt-filled tug in my heart promptly following. Our last interaction was horrific. An interaction in which Cecelia stood covered in my brother’s blood, destroyed by Dom’s death, and consumed by fear while begging me not to turn my back on her.
That gnawing guilt increases as I pull my cell to check on her and see that she’s parked at school. No doubt going through the motions while replaying the trauma and questioning if we truly are the cruel deceivers we led her to believe we were. Who left her flailing and utterly isolated in the dark, cast out and grief-stricken. Our current war only reinforcing Tobias’s initial decision to keep her away from the club. A decision seemingly heartless, but in truth, fueled by his love and dire need to protect her to his own paralyzing detriment.
If Cecelia knew that Tobias fights himself every fucking day to keep from going to her, she’d put herself in harm’s way to be here, and they’d both be moving targets. So, while I feel it’s unusually cruel to have alienated her, again, even I agree it’s for the best—for now.
Jeremy’s hysterical laughter jars me out of thoughts of her, as does Sean’s curse before he noisily tosses a tool on the concrete in response. His accusatory eyes cutting toward them both as they play oblivious—the tension growing thick. Even from where I stand at the counter in the lobby, I can feel the anger rattling off him. After sealing the last envelope as they continue to crack on one another, I walk into the bay to join them for a few. I need a little more time to level myself out, to keep capable of faking what remains of the day for Delphine, who will get the results tomorrow.
I blinked back when I pulled up to the garage, the roar returning with a vengeance, no breathing technique capable of taming it. But because the woman I love has to endure it—as does everyone else without access to my created loophole—I decided to man up and do the same.
As I continue watching Sean rattle in his skin, I realize that when you’re experiencing the same discomfort and pain, it’s easily identifiable in others. That truth ringing clearer as I observe him, knowing I’m not the only one in the garage currently raging against the hand life has recently dealt. Even from feet away, it’s obvious Sean is seconds away from implosion. Then again, he has been in this state since the day Dom died.
Though we’re somewhat functioning at this point—having managed to open the garage just yesterday—I’m still uneasy about trying to attempt club life as usual, or whatever the fuck that might have meant before I was wasted an hour ago by a doctor’s words. It’s when I see Sean glower at them both that I recognize he, too, has no idea what as usual is, either. Not anymore.
“The fuck is so fucking funny?” Sean demands a second before their laughter ceases, and they both turn to see him bristling feet away.
“Chill out, man,” Jeremy says, “we were just cutting up, having a laugh.”
“Yeah? Well, maybe I want to laugh, too,” Sean prompts in a voice I don’t recognize.
“Something tells me you’re not in the mood,” Jeremy says with a sigh, his delivery lacking sarcasm but baiting enough for Sean—who’s begging for any reason to lash out, his thinning patience already threadbare.
“Sean,” I bark in warning, with enough bite behind it that he immediately shifts his glare to me, “you’re behaving badly.”
In the next second, I’m dismissed as he cocks his head at them both, his tone condemning with audacity. “How can you fucking laugh? How can you two fucking idiots laugh at anything?”
“How can you not?” Jeremy counters lifelessly, eyes dimming, but Sean’s already stalking across the bay, keeping his glare on them both as he pulls his smokes from his jeans before blasting through the side door.
“It’s all right, man,” I relay on Sean’s heels. “I’ve got him,” I offer as both sets of wary eyes trail me until I push through.
Just outside of it, I find Sean crouched against the building, his cigarette already burnt in half as I study the hard lines etched into his expression. Lines I’m certain didn’t exist before France.
“Unless you’re out here to bum a smoke,” he delivers in that alien voice, “I have nothing for you.”
“Pain seems to be the only vehicle you’re operating right now, brother. But I can’t say shit, I’m driving the same one.”
“Are we still brothers?” he counters sarcastically, “because we’ve only spent, what, maybe a year together collectively since you left.” He gives me a wary side-eye. “I knew you well once . . . but let’s be honest, Dom was my brother.”
“So, I guess that in death, Dom gets a pass for his own extended absence, huh? That’s quite an unfair edge.”
Silence.
“Well, I guess it’s a good thing I’m not competing and wouldn’t try to, but that fucking stung, so congratulations, Sean. Would you like another?”
I take a step forward. “Tell you what, you can escalate this and swing at me too if you think it’ll make you feel better, but the alternative feeling you’re looking for right now does not exist in you drawing upon or causing the pain of the people closest to you. And yeah, we might not know each other as well as we once did, but that’s not you, no matter how things change or what you’ve been through.” Remorse fills his gaze briefly before his expression morphs back to unapologetic. “And you’ve always made it obvious who your favorite is.”
“He was,” he clips.
“That’s common knowledge to even a village idiot, but that stung, too. You want some more?”
“I don’t know what I want. No.” He exhales a cloud of smoke. “That’s bullshit, I know I don’t want to fucking be here right now, or tomorrow, or maybe ever.” He takes another exaggerated drag. “I know I don’t want to glimpse this fucking tattoo every day thinking only one thing—that I’m forever linked to that motherfucker. Or continue to work with him to see this war through, and I sure as fuck don’t want your judgmental ass telling me how I need to act right now because I know you still pledge allegiance to him.” He lifts his chin in dismissal. “So why don’t you run along and go be his brother.”
“Before you fire another shot or go a step further with an agenda that won’t work no matter what bullshit you hurl at me today, I’m going to tell you right now I just found out Delphine is terminally ill. If I’m lucky, she’s got six months. So, you should know I’m standing here because I still consider you brother enough to give you a few of her precious remaining minutes.”
“Jesus . . . fuck.” His eyes instantly water as regret pours from his lips. “Tyler, I’m so—”
“Why? You weren’t sorry a second ago, so don’t be sorry now. Dom’s your favorite, and you’re pissed at me for staying loyal to my ink and to T, and that’s your prerogative. But know my stance on those things aren’t changing no matter how big of a fit you pitch, so stay mad. But for the sake of today, let me have the win in the grievances department. Though, right now, we’re talking about you.”
“Fuck that man, you’re right”—his eyes spill over as he runs a palm over his mouth and jaw—“I am so out of line . . . I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t mean any of that.”
“You meant some of it, there’s always a little truth mixed in with your lash outs, but rest assured, I don’t give a shit what part you meant most because, again, I’m operating the same vehicle you are. But we need to be talking about you because, for one, selfishly, it’s distracting me, and two, so you stop pointlessly attempting to alienate your brothers . . . because like it or not, Sean, if either of them goes down tomorrow, you’re going to grieve them just as hard even if you do successfully manage to push them away.”
“Jesus, is that what I’m doing?” He shakes his head. “That’s . . . sadly predictable.”
“It’s natural.” I shrug. “In thinking that if you distance yourself enough, you’ll never feel like this again. But it’s not going to work. Not for you. Your heart won’t have it. You can’t cut off your hand and think you’ll still have the use of your fingers because you’re all heart, Sean.”
A tear slides down his jaw as he stares up at me, looking utterly lost before he inhales more of his cigarette. “I don’t know how to manage this, Tyler. I don’t know how people manage this . . . and go on living. I’m so fucked up,” he croaks. “I can’t sleep. I can’t concentrate on shit. I got a new place, bought a house . . . thinking it would be a project to keep my mind occupied, but I haven’t done anything to fix it up. I haven’t unpacked a single box or suitcase. I just keep buying new shirts and underwear.” He glances back at the garage. “I’ve got two jobs I don’t want anymore. I don’t know if I want this life without him.”
“So, switch it up and see what sticks.” I shrug.
“What does that look like?” he asks as his silent tears track his cheeks while he lights another cigarette.
“You want a plan?”
He nods. “I could use one, yeah.”
“I’m thinking you switch vehicles, and the opposite of the vehicle you’re in, of pain, would be pleasure. How about you start with food you love or hike a trail you never have. Not here in Triple, but miles away. Something new, uncharted. The point is to start small . . . and instead of looking for a way to escape the pain, start searching for pleasure while you feel that pain. Little by little. Day by day.”
“Sounds like slogan advice,” he harrumphs, “and I don’t see that happening,” he dismisses.
“Because the pain is taking up your headspace, and you’re allowing it. So, try to edge it back just enough to seek its opposite. And while you’re at it, add some structure for yourself. Force yourself to do one thing to fix that house every day without fail—to unpack one box and then leave that house and go seek out one thing that brings you some pleasure, no matter how small.”
“And you think that’ll work?”
“I think it’s better than what you’re doing. You wanted a solution, and that’s the only one I can think of that might help.” I palm the back of my neck. “And while you’re at it, maybe you could help me. I could use a little extra time at home today, so I have an errand I want to opt out of, which may kill two birds for us both. It will get me back to Delphine, and in helping me, you might be able to draw upon other people’s happiness.”
“Name it,” he says, standing, his posture perking slightly.
“There’s an envelope on the checkout desk full of your blessings. I’ve got about fifteen business owners eagerly waiting for those checks. Why don’t you deliver them today? And while you’re at it, Layla has been telling me about this dress shop called Retro Stitch. You know the one on Main?”
“Yeah, I know where it is.”
“Go there and ask for the shop owner, her name is Tessa. Layla said she’s good people. Maybe you could feel her out and see if she’s a good fit for future bird commerce.”
“Done . . .” He scours me, and I can feel the shift in him the second his worry for me begins to override his selfish pain because I do know him that well, and I’ve already forgiven him. “What else can I do for you?”
“Cure cancer.” I shake my head ironically. “Stop smoking.”
“Anything but those?” he counters, the harder shell he’s growing accustomed to temporarily discarded as his worry for me kicks in.
“Take care of, and do your best to get back to some semblance of your true self, Sean . . . That’s the best thing you can do for us both because I might need to call in that favor soon.” I scrape my lip as he nods in understanding before pulling me to him, his whisper hoarse.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” he croaks before releasing me. “Please, brother, please take my apology.”
“Accepted, and we both know it won’t be the last time you lash out at me and vice versa. That’s the way of things, but . . . Sean, I know some of the reasons it’s hard for you to draw full breaths right now, and you do too.” I hesitate briefly, knowing what reception it’ll bring, but push it anyway. “You won’t even try talking to him?”
“He can call every day for the ink, and I’ll answer for that reason, but I’m done with him otherwise.” He gives me a pointed stare.
“Don’t say it,” I warn, “Sean, don’t—”
“I wish it was him,” he spits. “I do. I wish it would have been him.”
“And now you have to live with that,” I sigh. “Go.” I pull my truck keys from my pocket, feeling the weight of his stare. Keeping my eyes averted, I refuse to get drawn any further into his dark, bleak headspace while still battling my own. “Get that envelope and go,” I repeat, my anger for his admission evident in my delivery. “I’m here for you no matter what,” I add with the grudge I feel, “but do us all a favor and check your shit before approaching anyone for any more face-to-face today.”
A few stunted heartbeats later, he mutes whatever words he was summoning and disappears into the garage as I make a beeline for my truck. Turning over the engine, I idle for a few seconds to warm it up and scan the garage, not wanting to be here, either. No matter how much pain it brings me to face my newly doled out future, I’d rather face it with her. So, when Sean fires up and pulls out, I file in behind him, eager to get back to the woman who owns the majority of my heart’s real estate, along with the boy who’s quickly stealing some of his own.
As I near the orchard, a trail of leaves spills across my hood and windshield, bringing me back to the memory of a hilltop a year ago. To the day Delphine confessed her love for me—one of the best moments, days of my life. Pressing the gas to hasten my return, I decide to steal our heaven back from all threats. To take the power back from the war looming over us, continually dividing us, and from that doctor’s condemning words. From anything threatening to steal any more of the peace we fought so fucking hard to find. It’s then I realize that though our time is limited, what happiness we created and the memories we made can’t be taken or stolen unless we allow it. As much of a mental fuck as it might be, it’s not only possible to keep what we have but to make more peace, more of those memories in abundance, during what seasons remain.
As I eye the heavily veined, light-yellow leaf now plastered to my windshield, I task myself with a new mission to do just that for as long as I’m capable. Mission sorted, by the time my tires cut into the gravel to meet and return the collective smiles through my windshield, I’m no longer faking anything.
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