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I’d give my life for the man in front of me, since that’s what he gave me. He saved my life by saving Cat. For a long time, I was barely living after what our kids suffered through. Had Cat died, I wouldn’t have been able to live through it.
“You know I’ll forever be in your debt, Jimmy,” I say solemnly. “There’s nothing I could ever do to make up for what you gave me.”
Clearing his throat and looking off to one side, he appears uncomfortable. “Yeah, well,” he mutters gruffly. “I’m just glad I was there for her.”
With a nod, I let the subject go. Jimmy never feels comfortable when I express my gratitude for saving Cat. Though he says he doesn’t need my thanks, I’ll tell him until the day I die.
“Anyway, I better get going. I’m sure you’re anxious to get inside.”
“I’ll tell Cat you stopped by. She’ll be disappointed she missed you.”
“I’ll be back. Or you can bring her by my place.”
“Will do.”
We shake hands again before he gets in his car and takes off. As soon as he pulls out of the driveway, I head inside. My first stop is the downstairs bathroom to wash and bandage my hand, and then I head straight for the second floor, knowing Cat is lying down. She texted me earlier, saying she was getting a headache and wanted to try sleeping it off.
When I walk into the room, the thick, light-reflecting curtains are closed, so it’s dark, but I can spot Cat sitting up in bed. As I sit on the side of the bed, some of the ire still radiating throughout my body fades. Cat is the only one who can ever calm me down when I’m drowning in the blackness of rage.
A soft smile curls her lips at the corners as her sleepy eyes meet mine. “Hey.”
I cup the side of her face, smoothing my thumb along her cheek. “How’s your head?”
Turning her head, she kisses my palm before looking back at me. “Better.” Her eyes drop to the papers in my hand and she notices the bandage.
“What did you do this time?” she asks as her brows pucker into a frown.
I ignore her question and hold out the papers. “These are for you.”
She nibbles her bottom lip as she takes them. Her mind is still on my hand, but I don’t want to discuss it right now. Thankfully, she drops it and looks over the papers.
“I love Presley’s stories.” She flips through them. Seeing her delight has more of the fury blackening my soul drifting away. “I can’t wait to read what other shenanigans she’s come up with.”
“With Presley, there’s no telling,” I say with a laugh.
“This is true.”
Keeping my hand on her cheek, I pull her head forward and dip my lips closer to hers. My eyes close, and I savor the precious gift.
“How about we order in tonight and sit in front of the fireplace while we eat?”
“You truly are a man after my own heart,” she answers with a smile.
“You got that wrong, baby,” I say, rubbing my lips against hers. “I already own your heart, and I’m never letting it go.”
ChapterTwenty-One
Caterina
An unexpected laugh bursts from my lips as I read about Presley dressing her baby brother in one of her doll outfits. The baby was barely three months old, still small enough to fit into the pink tutu and leotard. What makes it so funny is her father’s reaction when he saw it. According to Presley’s description, her dad nearly had a stroke, and the horrified look on his face made her and her mom laugh so hard they cried. Her dad scooped up the baby, informing his two girls that he was taking charge of dressing his son from now on.
The story continues to tell how Presley’s mom went to her dad to apologize for what they did, and her dad’s scowl only made things worse. Then she explains how her mom made it up to her dad by kissing him. It’s amusing to read Presley’s reaction to her parents’ affection. She claims it grosses her out when they kiss with their tongues, but she also doesn’t mind it. This is because it means they love each other like a mom and dad are supposed to.
I set the papers down on the coffee table with a smile on my face. Presley has been gifting me these stories for years, and every time I read one, I get a surge of love for her. Presley is pure innocence, and it shows in her writing.
I consider my own writing. It’s the exact opposite of Presley’s. Mine are filled with darkness and pain. While each story ends with a happy ending, the path my characters take before they reach that point is filled with heartache, misery, and hopelessness. I’ve tried writing fluffy stories. Ones where the characters laugh and smile and enjoy life, but they always seem so stale and boring. I need my characters to suffer horribly, feel lost, and have to fight tooth and nail for their happiness. They need to feel helpless and alone before they see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.
The doorbell rings, and I grab my phone to check the camera app. I see a young man holding a small box under one arm and a clipboard in his other hand. Tension stiffens my shoulders. I never answer the door if I don’t recognize the person on the other side. A delivery is usually dropped off, and I wait until they leave before I grab whatever it is. This one, however, seems to require a signature.
