Page 89 of Direct Action

Chapter Twenty-Seven

My eyes opened. I felt Ryan’s arm around me, the heat from his body against my back. The sun was up, heralding a new day, and I knew by the way the sun was shining into Ryan’s room I’d slept in. Further, I knew either he didn’t sleep this late normally or he could sleep when the sun was shining, because he didn’t have blackout curtains like I did.

I shifted closer but froze when he gave me a lying-in-bed one-armed hug.

At this early stage in our relationship, it was silly to think I could wake up for the rest of my life just like this and be happy. But I knew to my bones it was the truth. With Ryan at my back, I could face the day—whatever it might bring—and be able to face it.

“Mornin’,” Ryan rumbled from behind me.

God, that sleepy, sexy morning gravel made my womb contract. My mind immediately raced to all the ways we could make it a really great morning.

Before I could respond, Ryan went on, “Sleep okay?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah, Chloe, but what I’m really asking is if you’re okay?”

Why wouldn’t I be . . .

Last night’s crying jag.

I felt my neck start to itch with embarrassment.

Ryan rolled, keeping me pinned in place when I tried to roll away. “Shit. I shouldn’t’ve asked.”

No, he shouldn’t’ve. Such was the power of waking up with his big, strong body pressed to mine—I’d forgotten all about crying myself to sleep.

“I hate being weak,” I asserted, yet I relaxed into his tight embrace, drawing much-needed strength.

“There’s nothing weak about you. If you’re talking about crying, showing emotion is the strongest thing a person can do. Anyone can hide behind a mask; it takes bravery to expose emotion.”

“My dad used to say something similar.” Admitting that made my sinuses sting.

“Yeah?” he prompted, like he was interested in hearing more.

My stomach did a somersault, thinking about all the wisdom my dad used to happily bestow. That nasty feeling of loss reared its head, but before the feeling could take root, I felt the strength of Ryan’s body surrounding me. The way his arm anchored me close. The rise and fall of his chest. The way his chin rested on my head. The way his fingers had found mine and laced together with them.

For the first time since my dad had slipped away, I felt like I was cocooned in emotional safety. That was not a dig on Poppy. I knew she loved me. She had and always would listen. Same for my mom. I’d always been safe to unload my thoughts and feelings on her. It was just that she was a fixer. You went to Andrea Baughman when you needed a plan and a clear path forward. Unfortunately, there was no fixing what was going on inside of me.

You went to Hank Baughman if you wanted a listening ear.

I sensed Ryan was more like my dad.

“My dad told the lamest jokes. Like horrible jokes, but they were hilarious because he had great delivery.” I felt my lips twitch. “My mom loved those dumb jokes. My dad loved making her laugh. So he told them all the time. And he was the best listener. When I was in high school, if he sensed something was preying on my mind, he’d wake me up early, drive through MickyD’s, get us sausage-and-egg biscuits, and take me to the beach. We’d sit in his car and eat breakfast, then go for a walk, and he’d listen to my tales of teenage woe. When I got older and moved out, he never let more than a few days go by without calling and never more than two weeks without seeing me. I thought he was being overprotective when he’d call to tell me my presence was required at dinner so he could, and I quote, ‘look my baby girl in the eye and make sure she’s good.’ He knew I was working two jobs, trying to make my way in the world. He also told me more than once he’d demand I move back home if he wasn’t so proud of me and how hard I was working.”

God, how I missed those dinners. At the time they’d felt like interrogations. Now they were precious memories of my dad showing me how much he loved me.

“He also did what he could, in ways that I would let him, to ease my financial burden. Like one year for Christmas, my parents paid my car insurance for the year. And one year for my birthday, they gave me gift cards to the grocery store. Stuff like that. Dad did stuff that showed how much he loved me and wanted to take care of me. And he loved my mom like crazy. He’d dance with her in the kitchen just to make her laugh at his horrible moves. And he’d sing Christmas carols, badly. Again, just to see my mom smile. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to make her happy.”

Since when did I start thinking of my dad’s love in the past tense?

I closed my eyes to beat back the tears that threatened.

Ryan gave me more of his weight and asked, “How long has this been going on?”

“About three years ago, my dad started showing signs of memory loss. Little things, silly things, like what he’d had for dinner the night before, but if you gave him a few minutes, he’d remember. And it didn’t happen all the time. Then he started forgetting bigger things, like my parents had taken a weekend trip up to LA, and a month later he had no recollection of that trip. But when my mom showed him a picture, he vaguely remembered, or at least parts of the trip. This continued for about a year, my dad just blowing it off, making jokes about old age. And again, it wasn’t like this stuff happened every day.”

I paused to blow out a frustrated breath. All the what-ifs, all the guilt, all the we-should’ve-done-something-sooners pressing in, making it hard to breathe.