Page 69 of Fight from the Heart

[Jacob]

When Mandi sabotaged me outside the elevator, I refused to take her to my apartment. Everything in me told me to chase after Pam. Run down the flights to stairs and catch her at the bottom of the hell we’d just been propelled into. Instead, I stood still, frozen by the cold sensation of Pam’s hand slipping from mine.

Hand holding.

She’d let me go. For all my begging and pleading not to give up on me, she let me go, and I couldn’t blame her. Mandi stood before me spewing lies, and I had no reaction.

“This can’t be true,” I hissed in the face of the woman I’d confused for love. Her aggressive behavior. Her seductive attitude. Her hits, her scratches, her promises. All of it a lie. People want to proclaim love is a lie, but I disagreed. Love was the truth. Mandi had been my lie.

Pam was my love.

“We haven’t been together since . . . since . . . I don’t even remember when.” I’d meant what I said to Pam. I was not with Mandi on our miserable vacation

Mandi flinched at my lack of memory. “New Year’s Eve. We were together then.” Hastily, I counted backward from mid-March to the new year. I hardly remembered the night, hardly remembered getting it up for her.

I didn’t remember because I’d been drinking.

My chest squeezed, my lungs constricted. I couldn’t breathe.

Drinking.

It’d be the ruin of me after all because I couldn’t remember anything, and this woman might be carrying my baby.

Did I stop drinking as my world fell apart? Did I slow down because the love of my life walked away from me? Did I give up on my drug of choice because my life was ruined?

No, I delved into a bottle that night and the next three days, until I found Theresa McTigue standing over me.

I’d tried to quit—not drinking—but my writing.

I’d told my agent I couldn’t finish the book I’d been writing. I couldn’t continue working without my muse because my inspiration had quit on me.

Two words from Lilac. I quit.

She’d quit me, us, and I couldn’t blame her. I was a mess. I’d hit rock bottom, and those rocks were hard and edged with the truth. I had a problem.

In my weakest moment, I asked Theresa to help me, and here I spent days, staring out at the budding spring landscape of Upper New York.

I promised myself I would not miss the blooming of lilacs in Michigan. I’d see the unveiling of purple and white flowers, no matter how much it reminded me of the scent of my personal woodland nymph.

I refused to think about how she’d run away from me.

+ + +

I’m nervous as I sit at the bar. I missed Ethan’s grand opening and the announcement of his engagement to my sister. I haven’t always been the best big brother, although Ella tells me I am. Part of my therapy was coming to terms with my role in her scars and then accepting that it wasn’t my fault. She cried as she listened to me apologize and then explain my feelings about her situation, and she forgave me as she had years ago.

I didn’t deserve her, but that’s another term I’d had to accept. I did deserve things in my life—good things—and the best thing for me was my angel.

My hands sweat around the glass, slipping up and down on the condensation outside of it. Ethan helped set this up for me, and I’m grateful for his friendship. I’ve had to learn to let go of those who hadn’t been friends over the years and recognize the people who were truly friends to me. It wasn’t hard to walk away from the people who held a false label.

“She’s here,” Ethan whispers to me, and I shift the barstool.

She’s so fucking beautiful. Her curves. Her face. Her short, loose curls. There’s something that looks different about her, but whatever it is, it doesn’t matter.

She’s here.

She doesn’t see me at first, and I watch her walk in the general direction of the bar. It’s located in the back corner, not more than four stools across. This isn’t really the type of place to hang out and drink but a place to eat and linger at tables. Ethan did a beautiful job of setting up the place with its crisp white shiplap, soft mini-bulb lighting, and wrought-iron contrasts. Tables scatter throughout the place with white linen and an eclectic collection of chairs per table. The kitchen entrance is flanked by the bar and a stone fireplace with a black and white painting over it.

Ella intercepts Pam, who smiles at my sister. My fingers itch to touch her again. Hell, I just want to hold her and inhale her scent. I’ve missed my Lilac.