Two hours of slamming his fists into the punching bag, jumping rope, running on the treadmill and lifting weights hadn’t worked so far. But he wasn’t a quitter.
For the last time, he set the weights down and levered off the bench. His arms were jelly, the muscles trembling in protest. They might be screaming “What the hell did we do to you?” but his mind, whirling with snatches of his conversation with Sydney at his office earlier that day, assured him they had this. Keep going. Don’t stop until nothing works. Not his body. Not his brain. Not his fucking heart.
His breathing sawed out of his chest, a rough, labored sound that reverberated against the cement walls. He closed his eyes and immediately an image of Sydney’s face snapped into vivid detail. The shocked hurt. The confusion. He’d caused that by leaping away from her like she’d contracted a disease. Guilt pounded away at him, aching and relentless.
Sydney couldn’t have known how her innocent declaration would be a sucker punch to his chest. Couldn’t have known that panic had seized him in its razor-sharp teeth.
...when they’re born...when they’re born...
He’d felt his son move in his wife’s belly. Had shared the joy and awe when that life they’d created brushed and rolled. And then, when his child was born, he should’ve rejoiced in each wave of his tiny foot and fist, should’ve delighted in his enraged cry. Instead he’d held a devastatingly still baby. Heard nothing but silence.
In that moment, with his hand on Sydney’s belly, with her words echoing in his head, fear had ripped through him. What if he became attached to this baby that grazed a caress under his palm? What if he grew to care for them...love them?
And what if he lost them as he’d lost his own boy?
No. He couldn’t. He couldn’t.
Yes, he’d shot to his feet, backed away from that new life and his or her mother. But it hadn’t been about disgust. It’d been pure self-preservation.
But trapped in the grip of the past, of his own personal terror, he hadn’t been able to assure Sydney he wasn’t an asshole who ran hot and cold. He hadn’t meant to ruin what should’ve been a sweet, memorable moment for her as a mother.
He was just a scared man who couldn’t stop his bruised heart from beating.
“Mijo?”
Cole jerked his head up and glanced toward the door that led from the garage into the tiny mudroom off the kitchen. As his gaze settled on the petite, older woman standing in the entrance, he rose. A warm glow settled in his chest. Love only tinged a little by sadness. Because looking at his mother-in-law, Valeria Narvaez, was like peering into the future and seeing how his wife would’ve appeared if she’d lived another twenty years.
“Bendiciones, Mamá,” he greeted, smiling and crossing the small garage in several steps. “What are you doing here?”
She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Making sure you’re alive, what else? You haven’t been by to see me and Ramon in a few days, so I know your refrigerator is probably lonely and pathetic.” She shook her head, tsking. “Bony is not sexy, mijo. Why do you think I keep feeding Ramon? A woman needs something to grab a hold of and keep her warm at night.”
He groaned, swiping up his towel off the top of the dryer and scrubbing it over his face and head. “Please, stop. My tender ears can’t stand any more of that. And I’m fresh outta bleach to cleanse my mind.”
“Ay dios mio, when did you become so sensitive?” She snorted. “Get in here so I can feed you. But first,” she scrunched her nose up as he neared her, “shower. I can’t have that stink in my kitchen.”
“Actually, it’s my kitchen,” he reminded her on a playful smirk.
Valeria sniffed. “I’m in it. My kitchen.” Then she disappeared through the doorway.
And he went to shower.
Fifteen minutes later, clean and dressed in a fresh T-shirt and pair of black sweatpants, he approached the small kitchen where Valeria stood over the stove—barely. While Tonia had inherited her height from her father, her mother just crested five feet. But what she lacked in inches, she more than made up for in personality and love. He’d known Valeria and Ramon since he’d been a tall, lanky fifth grader. They were second parents to him, and in the two years since Tonia’s and Mateo’s deaths, they’d been his sole connection to the woman who’d owned his heart from the time she’d run up to Branson Greggs on the playground at recess, kicked him in the nuts and called him a pendejo for spitting “spic” at Cole.
The memory was only edged in pinpricks as he sat at the breakfast bar and smiled. Tonia had been a firecracker when riled, as the hints of red in her dark brown hair had hinted. And nothing set her off more than someone coming after those she loved and considered under her protection. At ten years old, he’d become one of those people to her.
“I was right about your refrigerator,” Valeria gloated, tossing him an arch glance over her shoulder. “Good thing I brought groceries along with dinner.”
“Mamá, you didn’t have to do that,” he murmured, her generosity never failing to touch him.
“I know I didn’t.” She returned to the food warming on the stove, and in minutes, slid him a plate piled with his favorites, ropa vieja and arroz con gandulez. He groaned at the delicious aroma wafting from the shredded beef and rice with pigeon peas and dug in. Humming, Valeria patted his free hand. “Slow down, mijo. There’s plenty more.”
“Thank you for this.” He pointed his fork toward the food. “I wasn’t even aware I was starving until I smelled your cooking.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She perched on a stool across from him, her gentle but perceptive gaze fixed on him. Sometimes, it was difficult looking into the brown eyes that she’d bequeathed to her daughter. “I tried calling you earlier to let you know I was headed over. Now I see why you didn’t answer. Working out again.”
He nodded. “I’m sorry. I left my cell inside the house and didn’t hear it ring.”
“That’s not the problem, Cole.” She tilted her head to the side, studying him. “When I walked into that garage, sweat practically poured off your body and you were shaking. Which means you’d been at it for a while. Something is on your mind. Or something happened. Which is it?”
He considered lying. And even parted his lips to give the standard “nothing.” But that didn’t emerge.
Before he could reply, she softly asked, “Is this about Lacy Mitchell? I know she called and left a message for you today. She contacted me when she didn’t hear from you.”
Cole frowned. “The real estate agent?” He shook his head. “No, but I haven’t checked my messages in the last few hours. What did she want?”