She shrugged. “When I had my bad dream.”
“Last night?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You met Thatch?”
“Mm-hmm.” Like what she’d just told me was no big deal at all, she reached over and grabbed one of her juice boxes. “I liked him.”
“You did?”
“Mm-hmm.” Cat nodded her little head. “He was nice, and he didn’t like warm milk either.”
I giggled as I asked, “Then, why’d he make it for you?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged once again. “Said it’d make the bad dreams go away.”
“What else did he say?”
“Hmm ... That he was your friend.” Her eyes lit up as she smiled. “He told me about his tattoos.”
“Oh, he did?”
“Yeah, they’re cool. I liked the Army one.”
My mind was reeling.
There was so little I truly knew about Thatcher.
I’d met several of his brothers when they came to the nursing home to see McClanahan. I’d also seen them when they came by to see Delilah. We worked at the same nursing home and worked the same morning shift, and over the past couple of years, we’d gotten close enough for her to share a few stories with me about the guys. I’d even been to a small club party with her.
But no one, not even Delilah, knew I’d been seeing Thatch.
We’d kept it a secret.
We’d kept everything a secret, so I was a little shocked to hear that he’d opened up to Catherine about his tattoos. He’d never once told me anything about them or anything personal about himself.
But in all honesty, I hadn’t exactly been open and forthright with him.
I’d never told him that my ex-husband was in prison.
I’d never mentioned any of my scars or how I’d gotten them.
I thought it was better to keep it simple—especially if we were doing this whole no-strings-attached thing. I could just enjoy the moment with him, forget about the past, and when we were done, I could step back into reality feeling a little lighter—a little more capable of facing life’s bullshit.
But now, I’d put all that in jeopardy. Thatcher and I were no longer in this secret little bubble where no one knew we were even remotely involved.
That was my fault.
I should’ve gotten up and made sure Cat was asleep.
I should’ve locked the door or let him go on home like he usually did.
I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking—otherwise, I wouldn’t have let my seven-year-old daughter walk into my room while I was in bed with a man she’d never even met before. Guilt washed over me at the thought, and I immediately went back to work on her pancakes. “So, did he say or do anything else?”
“No ... Just took me to your room and put me in your bed.”
“He did?”
She nodded.
“Well, that was sweet of him.”
“Mm-hmm.” I was busy pouring the pancake batter onto the skillet when Cat asked, “Can he come to dinner?”
“What?”
I whipped around with surprise. In a single breath, a million thoughts rushed through my mind. For years, Catherine had been terrified of men and refused to even consider being in the same room with one she didn’t know, but here we stood, imagining Thatcher sitting at the table having spaghetti and meatballs with us, laughing and talking about our day like we were some kind of family.
The thought was absolutely asinine.
Thatcher made it clear that he wasn’t looking for a relationship. He was upfront from the start and told me not to expect too much from him, and that his club meant everything to him—everything, and his brothers came before all else. He also alluded to the fact that he’d been burned once before and never intended for that to happen again.
Even if that wasn’t the case, I’d decided a long time ago that I’d never get involved with another man—not even one as amazing as Thatcher, who made me feel things I never dreamed I could feel.
I took a moment to collect myself, then turned my focus back to Cat as I continued, “Umm, no. Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said so.” I scooped her up and lowered her to the floor. “Now go to your room and change out of your PJs while I finish up these pancakes.”
“Okay.”
With that, she scurried off, leaving me alone to finish up our breakfast. I tried to swallow the knot that was growing in the base of my throat, but the damn thing simply wouldn’t budge. I inhaled a few deep breaths and prayed it would be enough to keep me from having a complete breakdown.
But just as I thought I was starting to wrangle in my emotions, I felt a tear trickle down my cheek.
Damn.
Just like that, I could hear Trevor’s voice in my head, so full of hate and rage as he told me I was worthless, that marrying me was the worst mistake of his life and how he wished I was dead. Without even realizing it, I was clutching the sink as I fought back the onslaught of tears.
It always amazed me how quickly the anguish and all-consuming regret could come rushing back with absolutely no rhyme or reason. It was just one of the many wonderful side effects of PTSD.
I wanted to think I didn’t have PTSD. I wanted to believe that I was strong enough to get past that night without any residual side effects, and for the most part, I managed fairly well. I could face the day like anyone else, but I didn’t like surprises; I hated the dark, and I wasn’t a big fan of being confined or held down—but then again, those were issues I still might’ve had even without PTSD.
The nightmares and flashbacks were different. Those were definitely brought on from that night, and I hated them.
I hated them with every fiber of my being.
I was doing my best to try and breathe through the moment when I heard Cat say, “Momma, you’re burning the pancakes.”
“Oh no!”
I quickly turned to the stove and grabbed the skillet, pulling it from the burner. I didn’t bother trying to flip the pancakes. I could tell by the billowing smoke they weren’t salvageable, so I raked them into the sink and turned on the water, letting them seep into the garbage disposal. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I’ll have some more ready in a minute.”
“It’s okay, Momma. I’m not that hungry.”
Feeling even more guilty, I quickly started making another batch, and thankfully, this time, I didn’t screw it up. There was more than enough for both of us with plenty of leftovers, so I gathered a few and put them on a plate for Henry—our beloved neighbor.
As soon as Cat collected her things and rushed outside to get on the school bus, I put on my shoes and coat, then headed over to see Henry. I knocked on his door, and a few minutes later, I heard him shout, “Come on in!”
I opened the door and found him sitting in the living room with a blanket draped across his legs—the same place I found him most mornings. On my way to the kitchen, I lifted the plate of food and said, “I brought pancakes.”
“Mighty kind of you.” He motioned his hand behind him. “Just put ’em in the kitchen.”
“You got it.” Henry was in his late seventies, maybe early eighties, and even though his health was failing, he refused to move into a nursing home. “How are you making it this morning?”