Chapter 17

17

"Why a cop?" I asked.

We were in my bed and I was curled into Valentine, doing my best to forget how embarrassed I was.

This was after he'd shown up at the hospital and stormed into my room like there was a bomb threat and he was there to clear the room. And that was after I'd spent hours in the hospital being poked—blood draws—and prodded—blood pressure, stomach ultrasound looking for appendicitis.

It was decided I hadn't been intoxicated—no, duh—appendicitis ruled out, no flu, negative for food poisoning, negative for pregnancy—again no, duh. Nothing. So I was discharged with a prescription to treat ulcers and the directive to reduce my stress level, curb my coffee intake, no spicy foods, and nothing fried even though the breath test that was administered came back negative for some bacteria I couldn't remember the name of. Bottom line was, the doctor couldn't find anything wrong and when the cramping and nausea went away I was fine.

Now I was mortified I'd gone to the hospital for a tummy ache. Though, in my defense when I'd agreed to let Hayden take me in I felt like I was growing an alien in my stomach and it was both fighting to escape and eating my insides at the same time.

"Being a cop was my backup plan," Valentine answered.

"What did you want to be before a cop?"

"A truck driver."

A startled laugh escaped.

"A truck driver?"

"Yup. I had this friend in the sixth grade, his dad was a truck driver. He owned his own rig, if he was home when I was spending the night he used to let us sleep in the truck. Mr. Shorty had these bumper stickers in the sleep area. There wasn't a space that wasn't covered. Every new place he hauled to he got a sticker. To me that truck represented adventure."

"And nine-year-old you wanted adventure?"

He was quiet a moment.

Then he confirmed, "Nine-year-old me wanted adventure. I knew I didn't want a job like my dad who wore a suit to work and sat in an office. I didn't want to do the same thing every day."

I thought back to when I was nine. I had no idea what I'd wanted or didn't want. I was too busy playing with my Barbies to think about important life issues. Hell, when I'd gone to college, I hadn't concerned myself with a major. The thought of deciding what I wanted to do for the rest of my life at eighteen paralyzed me. At twenty when the time came to declare, I went behind my mother's back and chose marketing over her demand I get a degree in human resources management.

"Maybe my mother is right and I'm aimless," I muttered.

With my head resting on Valentine's chest, I couldn't see his face but I knew he was staring down at me. I could feel it, his attention. He was interested in what I had to share, and he'd wait and listen to whatever I had to say.

"I didn't know what I wanted at nine or eighteen or twenty-five or thirty. All I knew was what I was doing wasn't what I wanted for the rest of my life. My mother knew and the more she pressured me to find something, settle in, find a man, get married, be an adult, the more I pushed back. And now I'm wondering if I did that out of spite or rebellion or immaturity. All I know is the longer it went on, her hounding me, the more annoyed I became until I purposely did the opposite of what she wanted."

Valentine's arm resting across my back, holding me to him, tightened.

"There's a fine line between guiding and being overbearing."

He's right .

"I'm not disagreeing," I started before blowing out a breath. "But now I can't stop wondering how much of it I caused. "

"Soph—"

"Hear me out. She's always been strict. A single mother who was raising a child on her own with no help while working full time to keep us fed and housed. When I was young, she used to tell me it was important to be self-sufficient. She wanted me educated with a good job so I'd never have to rely on a man. That was nonnegotiable. She'd struggled when my dad bailed. I get that. She wanted me settled and in a career. It wasn't until I hit thirty she started harping on me needing to find a man and get married. But before that, it was all about me and financial security. Which now has me thinking how sad it is that it was never about happiness. She never talked about finding what would make me happy."

"You need money to live, baby, but nothing's more important than finding your happy."

Was my mother happy now?

Nathan adored her. He worshiped her. I knew he cared deeply for me, he didn't hide it, and more often than not when my mother started in on me, he'd have a gentle, quiet word with her and she'd let it go. That was, until she felt like bringing it up again.

"She's married now. My stepfather Nathan is mellow. Nice guy, treats her like gold. I joke that it's a crime against the universe those two being together. I was happy for her when she introduced me to him. I was thrilled when she told me they were getting married. She seemed happy, but is it weird I never asked her?"

"Asked her what? "

"If she was happy."

Valentine didn't say anything, which I took as his confirmation it wasn't only weird, it made me a horrible daughter.

"I know when you met her she was behaving like a shrew. But she's my mother and I want her happy," I admitted.

His arm went impossibly tight around me.

"Of course you do, Soph, she's your mom."

I had a mom to complain about.

He didn't have a mom.

Damn .

"So a cop, not a truck driver." I moved us back to safer territory.

"Know what you're doing, baby, and you don't have to."

It was a long time ago .

His voice tight with grief.

Not only did I have to, I wanted to. He left work, rushed to my side, brought me home, tucked me into bed, then proceeded to crawl in next to me and hold me. Now was not the time for his mind to wander to anything that would cause him pain.

"I want to know about you."

He gave it a second, loosened his arm around me, and started skimming my hip with his fingers.

"I didn't stop wanting to be a truck driver until I was thirteen. That's when I met Officer Manning. My dad was so lost in shock he didn't notice I'd slipped out the front door. Officer Manning did. He sat next me on the porch. Neither of us said anything. He didn't offer me bullshit platitudes. He didn't treat me like a little kid and tell me to go back inside. He just sat there silently giving me strength on the worst day of my life.

"That's when I knew I wanted to be a cop. That's when I understood what it meant to be of service. Being a cop isn't about writing tickets, it's not about locking up criminals, it's not about kicking in doors or serving warrants. It's about that thirteen-year-old whose life has been irrevocably changed for the worse and sitting next to him in case he needs you. It's about humanity and decency. Knowing there is nothing you can do to bring a mother and sister back to life but still sitting with a grieving kid."

Mother and sister.

Grieving.

My broken heart started bleeding.

No, it hemorrhaged.

"Valentine," I whispered.

"Long time ago, baby."

Broken. Sorrow-filled. Distant .

I tipped my head back so I could see his face.

Jaw tight. Eyes focused on the ceiling. Caught in the past.

Shit .

I did that to him.

"It could be a lifetime, honey, and it wouldn't be long enough. "

"Truth," he muttered, not looking at me.

I fell silent and settled back on his chest.

"Vienna was ten."

His sister.

Valentine and Vienna.

I blinked away the tears and fought to keep my body loose despite his rough voice.

When he said no more I slid my arm across his stomach and held on.

"She's been gone longer than she lived."

Oh, God .

"The mindfuck of that is, if I don't force myself to remember, I forget she existed."

I bet his idea of forcing himself to remember was merely thinking about her. And I'd bet he thought of Vienna and his mother every day.

There was nothing to say to that. So I just held on and gave him what I could while my soul wept for all he'd lost, for the young girl who never got a chance to grow up, for a mother who left her boy, for a husband who lost two out of the three parts of his world.

I felt Valentine take a deep breath, and when he let it out, he relaxed. Proof positive I needed to tread lightly. Go gentle and proceed with caution.

It was his story to tell and he'd give me more when he was ready.