Take This Regret

  The timid expression she wore spread into a smal smile, tender and kind. Always kind.

  “Hey.” I inclined my head to the side, inviting her to take a seat.

  She came forward, careful as she took the wooden walkway in heels. She tucked her skirt behind her and climbed down beside me, her apprehension clear. The last time I’d seen her she’d been in tears, heartbroken, begging me to love her but strong enough to know she wouldn’t stay for anything less.

  I’d tried so hard. I had real y wanted to love her the way she did me, but in the two years we’d lived together, the fondness I felt for her had never blossomed.

  “How are you holding up?” she asked as she nudged her shoulder into mine and peered up at me with warm chocolate eyes. Her dark brown hair was pul ed back at her neck, wisps fal ing out and around her face. Though she wasn’t tal , she was al leg, a combination of sweet and sexy.

  It had been an immediate physical attraction, the first time I’d seen her here in this very spot.

  It had been at one of my father’s garish New Year’s Eve parties, my presence deemed a responsibility, and just as I’d done so many times as a teenager, I had snuck out back and hidden here by the water when the air became too thick. Brittany had come with her parents, and she confessed later that she’d fol owed me out.

  We’d kissed at midnight, and in that moment, it had felt so right.

  I shrugged, glancing at her. “Not wel , I guess.” She stared out over the water, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt that was bunched up over her knees. “I’m real y sorry, Christian.” She turned her attention to me, her mouth twisting in a grimace. “I know you two had issues, but I know it must be hard losing him.”

  Releasing a slow breath, I rested my elbows against my knees, shaking my head. I stil didn’t know what I felt.

  “It’s just hard to believe he’s . . . gone.” Brittany leaned in, caressed my back.

  I closed my eyes against the sensation, soothing and so wrong, rebuking myself for again al owing myself comfort at her hand, but I couldn’t find it in myself to pul away.

  “I heard you reunited with your daughter.” She rested her cheek on my shoulder and gazed up at me, her expression fil ed with joy. She’d known how it had haunted me, had witnessed the sleepless nights, the guilt.

  “She looks like me.” I leaned my head against the side of Brittany’s, grinning at the thought, Lizzie’s face never far from my thoughts. I wished she were here to experience the place where I’d grown up. I knew I’d never be back.

  Brittany laughed, a smal , wistful sound. “Mmm . . .

  beautiful.” In sync, our legs swung and our hands touched.

  “Funny . . . I always pictured a little boy,” she said softly, her words laced with a hint of sadness as her gaze traveled out over the water

  I tilted my head to look down at her. “She’s amazing, Britt. I wish you could meet her. She’s the sweetest little girl.”

  “I’m so happy for you, Christian.” She looked back up at me, her brown eyes sincere. She bit her lip, snuggled closer, and clung to my arm. “And her mother?” As much as I wanted to say yes, I knew what she was asking. I swal owed, the movement jerky, and shook my head. Suddenly I felt uneasy, our faces too close, her touch too intimate.

  “I miss you, Christian.” With her whispered words, she moved closer, brought her hand to my neck, and pressed her lips to the corner of my mouth. Her kiss was soft, wet, fil ed with need, lingered as she waited for a response.

  On instinct, I turned to her, brought my hands to her cheeks, and held her face, restraining her. “I can’t,” I said, my tone strained.

  “Please.” Her breath spread out over my face as she clung to my arms and pled, “Just tonight.” My body reacted, hungry for release, deprived of it for so long, knowing how good it would feel to lose myself in the familiarity of her touch. But to me, even considering what Brittany suggested was the most debase form of infidelity.

  Even if Elizabeth never again belonged to me, I would forever belong to her.

  I edged away just a fraction, but enough to make it clear that I was pul ing away, that I was saying no.

  “You love her?”

  I nodded and held my friend’s face while tears gathered in her eyes. The decision I’d made more than six years ago was still hurting the people I cared about. “I’m so sorry, Britt. I hate that I hurt you.” I held my hands firm against the wetness of her cheeks. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

  She removed herself from my hold and looked away embarrassed, then back at me. “I guess I always knew.”

  embarrassed, then back at me. “I guess I always knew.” She sniffled, her mouth twisting in a self-conscious sort of smile and her expression sad. “I’d always hoped that it was al about the child, that you punished yourself because of it, and wouldn’t al ow yourself to move on and love me.” More tears fel down her face, and she looked down in a shame that was real y my own. “But when you’d make love to me . . . wel . . . I knew you weren’t. You were always a mil ion miles away. I just didn’t want to believe you were with her.”

  More regret.

  I couldn’t even bring myself to apologize again, knowing words would never make up for what I’d done.

  Instead, I held my palm to her face and wiped away another tear that fel down her cheek. “You deserve so much more than one night, Britt.” She deserved so much more than the two years I had stolen from her, so much more than I had ever given her, so much more than I could ever give her.

  Al I had was for Elizabeth.

  Brittany closed her eyes, leaned into my hand, and for a moment, seemed to indulge in my touch, before she stood and without looking back walked away.

  Never had I wanted Elizabeth more.

  The need was suffocating as I rode the hotel elevator to the eleventh floor and opened the door to my suite. Not bothering to switch on the light, I stood in the dark, empty room, the only il umination coming from the glow of the street lamps below.

  The aching numbness I had wandered through since Sunday had become a constant throb, pressing, pulsing, and forcing its way out.

  Today had been torture, burying my father, facing the pain I’d caused my friend, sitting through the reading of my father’s wil .

  Confusion clouded my heart and mind with uncertainty, too many questions, and too many whys.

  I’d wanted nothing that was his, and I stil hadn’t come to terms with what he’d wanted me to have.

  I was sure he’d have erased me from his wil and, in essence, from his life, removing me from what I knew in his mind would be his most valued gift.

  To his widow he’d left the house, his cars, and enough money to maintain it al , to afford her to live out the rest of her days comfortably. But he hadn’t left her his vast fortune, the inheritance he’d received from his parents. A quarter of it had been left to me, and the rest he’d given to my mother.

  With this announcement had come the first real emotion I’d seen from Kendra, first her look of confusion and then the offense with being denied something she believed she deserved.

  Mom had broken down and cried out that she didn’t understand. She’d begged for answers to questions that no one knew, why Richard would choose this life over her and then turn around and try to give it to her. For both of us it was an exacerbation to our confusion.

  When we’d stood to leave my father’s study, his attorney had taken me aside and given me a key to the bottom drawer of my father’s desk. The key had been left in a safety deposit box in an envelope with my name on it.

  Inside the drawer, there were pictures, al of them of me.

  Some I could remember, others I could not. But it was what I had found at the bottom of the drawer that had real y shaken me. It was an envelope, and inside was the picture of Lizzie I’d left him the last time I’d seen him and a crinkled, folded up sheet of paper, the edges frayed and torn as if it had been folded and unfolded a thousand times.

  It was a picture t
hat I had no recol ection of, but one that had obviously been drawn by my hand, the crude child’s work depicting a man and young boy, the worn caption Dady Lovs Crisitian written at the top.

  I’d understood immediately what he was trying to say.

  It had hit me ful force, and for the first time it real y hurt that I’d lost my father.

  He’d loved me, and he’d never once told me.

  I looked around my empty hotel room and tried to hold onto the anger, but it was gone. In its place was only pity.

  The clock beside the bed read just after midnight.

  For the first time since I’d reunited with my daughter, I had missed our seven-fifteen cal .

  I kicked off my dress shoes and peeled the jacket from my body. As I unbuttoned the first couple of buttons of my shirt, I felt despair setting in.

  My head spun, and my stomach twisted in knots.

  My father was dead, and I’d never see him again.

  Gone.

  I wanted Elizabeth. I needed Elizabeth.

  Grabbing my jacket from the chair where I’d tossed it, I fumbled through the pockets, produced my cel phone, and sat down on the side of the bed. I was desperate to hear her voice.

  She answered on the first ring as if she’d been expecting me, waiting for me; the dulcet sound of her voice my consolation, my breaking point.

  “Elizabeth.” The tears I’d prayed would come final y broke free, and I was at last able to mourn for my father.

  “Oh, Christian.” Elizabeth’s tone was soft and understanding and held me the same as if I were in her arms—the only place I wanted to be.

  “Elizabeth,” I cried again. She was my only solace, my first reminder to never become like my father. I’d come so close—had nearly given it al away.

  Had he ever felt the regret that I felt? Had there ever been a day when he’d realized he was living the wrong life; that he never should have let my mother walk away? When he knew he was dying, did he wish he could have been he knew he was dying, did he wish he could have been given one last chance to tel us how he felt about us instead of waiting until he was gone and tel ing us the only way he knew how—with what he’d left behind?

  I choked over the emotion, sobbed against the phone, pleaded with her again. “Elizabeth.”

  I felt as if I were drowning in my father’s mistakes—

  mistakes that I’d made my own.

  I was through wasting my chances. If I died tonight, I’d leave Elizabeth with no questions, nothing to decipher, no reason to wonder.

  “Christian?” Elizabeth’s worry traveled over the distance and touched my heart.

  I cried harder, wept for my father who’d been too proud, and vowed to myself that I would never be too proud.

  “I love you, Elizabeth,” I wheezed out the words, unashamed and laid bare. She had to know. “I love you so much.”

  From the edge of the bed, I curled in on myself and pressed the phone to my ear, silently begging her to be brave enough to say it back.

  Please, Elizabeth, say it back.

  I needed to hear her say it back . . . I needed her to take me back.

  Her phone rustled, and I heard her shift, felt her movements. I pictured her lying down on her bed, envisioned her long dark blonde locks splayed out over her pil ow, saw her in the black tank top and pajama pants she wore to bed—wished I were lying down beside her.

  “Christian . . . ,” she whispered in what sounded adoration. If I could see her face right now, I knew what I’d find. I’d see what was in the expression she’d worn as she had gazed out at me from her kitchen window on Sunday afternoon, the same thing that I had felt in her touch when she’d knelt before me and begged me to look at her, one I’d recognized but had been unable to respond to.

  She swal owed, and in her hesitation, I knew she wasn’t ready to say it.

  Turning to lie on the cold sheets of my hotel bed, I faced the wal in a way that I was sure would mirror her position, pretended that she held me, felt her ghost her fingers along my jaw, and listened to her breathe. It calmed me, soothed the sting, caressed the pain. “Elizabeth,” I said again, this time softly, matching the calm her distant presence brought, her name a promise on my tongue

  — soon.

  “I miss you, Christian.” The words were muffled, slurred against what I could only imagine was her pil ow, but stil distinct, powerful.

  Burying my face in the pil ow, I rejoiced and thanked God she was giving me this moment, as innocent as it was intimate. I gathered myself enough to whisper, “I miss you, too, Elizabeth. More than you know.”

  We lay together in silence listening to each other breathe. Stil wearing my pants and dress shirt, I tugged the sheet and blanket over my body, and hugged a pil ow to my chest. I refused myself the fantasies flickering on the outskirts of my consciousness and forced myself to rest satisfied in Elizabeth’s peace.

  Final y, Elizabeth whispered, “I’m so sorry, Christian.”

  “I’m sorry too.”

  It was usual y only Lizzie who waited by the window for her father, but today I couldn’t help but join her. Every few minutes I went to stand beside my daughter who waited perched on her knees, peering out at the street. The blinds were drawn wide, opened in invitation. The glass was smudged and painted by Lizzie’s eager hands and dotted by her tiny nose.

  Christian had sent a text about twenty minutes before to let us know he’d landed and was on his way.

  My heart palpitated, raced in anticipation, sped in fear.

  Christian told me he loved me.

  My chest constricted as his words flowed through me again with their tenor, their depth.

  His declaration had nearly undone me, had almost unraveled the knot I held so tightly twined around my broken heart. I’d wanted to say it so badly. I’d felt it dance on my tongue, longing to admit that I loved him too. Somehow, I’d reined it in, harnessed it, and left it to smolder, knowing it would only grow.

  For one more day, I’d kept my heart hidden and protected.

  Running my palms over my arms, I attempted to tame my nerves. I forced myself into believing that the moment we’d shared in place of those words hadn’t been so much more powerful than had I just said them aloud. I pretended that my heart wasn’t the farthest from secure and that I didn’t feel more vulnerable today than I had ever in my life.

  Movement from the street brought Lizzie to her feet, the tail of Christian’s silver car visible as he pul ed into our driveway. “He’s here,” she al but whispered. Her face looked determined as she set out the front door and ran down the sidewalk to meet him.

  She had not been herself al week but quiet and contemplative. Final y, last night as I’d tucked her into bed, she’d opened up, confessed her fears, and asked, “What if my Daddy dies too?” It had been one of the hardest things I’d ever discussed with my daughter, the balance of giving her both peace and honesty, the truth that life ultimately ends in death. She’d only been able to fal asleep once I’d lain down next to her and ran my fingers through her hair. I’d whispered for her not to worry and promised that she’d see her father again.

  Pushing a hand through my bangs, I steeled myself for the emotion I knew would come. I hesitated at doorway and listened to their greetings.

  Even though they were out of view, I could almost feel Christian’s relief when Lizzie was final y in his arms again.

  When they rounded the corner, Lizzie was attached to her father’s hip, clinging to his neck as if she’d never let go.

  Christian came to a standstil when he saw me, his breath rushing from his chest as his gaze washed over me.

  His eyes swam their deepest blue—midnight—warm but so very tired; his body weary, leaden with obvious exhaustion.

  Chaotic shocks of black hair stood up in disaccord, salient circles beneath his eyes, his white, printed T-shirt wrinkled, and his expression hopeful.

  I couldn’t refrain from taking a step forward and whispering, “Welcome home.”

>   Slowly he approached, each footfal measured, calculated, and purposed. Every step that brought him closer escalated my already rapid breaths. The pieces of my broken heart were at war, tangled and twisted, the smoldering, conflicting emotions threatening to burst.

  Inches from me, he stopped and kissed the side of Lizzie’s head before he set her down, never taking his penetrating gaze from me.

  Frozen, I waited, unable to look away.

  Somewhere inside me, I knew I shouldn’t reach out when he reached for me; knew I shouldn’t wrap my arms around his waist when he wrapped his arms around my shoulders; knew I shouldn’t bury my face in his chest at the moment he buried his in my hair.

  I just couldn’t stop myself.

  Christian tugged me closer, his body heavy and perfect against mine, fatigued and seeking support.

  “I missed you so much,” he whispered against my ear as he pul ed me impossibly closer and breathed me in. The heat of his breath licked at my skin, his nearness setting it aflame.

  He clouded every faculty, interrupted reason, tempted me to forget. I closed my eyes against the sensations and tried to block the resurgence of memories, to ignore the familiarity of his touch. I pushed it al aside and focused on what he needed— comfort.

  He clung to me as if his life depended on it.

  A warning signal flared somewhere deep within my soul.

  Dangerous.

  For once, I ignored it.

  Instead, I crushed my chest to his, al owed the rush of relief to surge through my veins, and savored the heat of his skin and the warmth of his body.

  Echoes of our past surfaced in my mind, our happiest moments, the way only he could make me smile, the way only he could make me feel, our most intimate times. I wanted to hold onto them, but they fluttered and flickered and gave way to vivid images so strong I could almost taste them—sick, cold, alone—and I remembered why I could never give into this.

  Even then, I didn’t want to let go and al owed myself a few moments more before I placed a hand against his few moments more before I placed a hand against his chest and gently pushed him away. He covered my hand with both of his, pressed it over his heart, and smiled at me in a way that chipped away another piece of my armor.