If It's Only Love (Lexi Ryan) novel Chapter 30

Shay

October 15th, seven years ago

I’ve had months—hell, years—to prepare for this, and there’s still something so surreal about seeing my father in that casket.

The last days were a slow trudge to a finish line none of us was sure we wanted to see. When he finally crossed and we saw the end to his pain, we were all . . . relieved. We’ve grieved, we will continue to grieve, but death itself was welcome.

After a four-hour visitation, my feet are screaming and my fingers ache from all the consoling handshakes. I just want to go home to Mom’s place and curl up on the couch with a cup of hot chocolate, like I’m a kid wrapping up a particularly hard day of school and not a grown woman who’s about to bury her father.

“Almost done,” Mom says next to me, flashing me a shaky smile.

I nod. Almost done. Then tomorrow, we’ll return for the service and put my father in the ground. My throat thickens at the thought.

It’s been a day of whispers and respectful silence, but I straighten when the whispers change, when they seem to roll through the room and heads turn toward the door . . . where Easton Connor has appeared and is hugging Carter with the fierceness of an old friend who understands your heartache better than anyone.

I didn’t know Easton was coming. I didn’t ask. Didn’t even think about him until now.

A shiver races up my arms at the sight of him. He looks so impossibly broad in his black suit, but my mind instantly strips it off him, remembering the sight of him under me in his hotel room, the feel of his rough hands on my thighs as I rode him.

Mom squeezes my hand. “You’re flushed. Do you need to sit down?”

I shake my head. “I’m fine. It’s almost over.”

Slowly, Easton works his way through my family members, inching closer to us with each condolence.

When he reaches me, it’s not the memory of three weeks ago that makes my knees weak but the emotion in those sea-green eyes. I’ve been so focused on Dad and being there for my family the past few weeks that I haven’t had time to talk to Easton, let alone consider how this loss would affect him. How could I be so selfish and forget what my dad meant to Easton? Dad was always there when Easton’s own should have been.

Easton doesn’t say anything. He pulls me into his arms and buries his face into my neck. His body trembles slightly. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his voice thick.

I stroke down his back over and over, and when he finally pulls away, the tears I heard in his voice are streaming down his cheeks.

“Easton,” Mom says, grabbing his forearm. “Thank you so much for coming.”

Easton’s gaze stays glued to me for a long beat before he finally turns to her. “Your husband was an incredible man. I’m so grateful he was part of my life.”

“Come on,” Jake says, taking my hand. “Let’s go back to the house and get something to eat.”

I swallow and give one last look to Easton, like I’m drowning and he’s my life raft. Mom’s taken him over to the casket and is telling him the story about when she bought Dad the suit he’s wearing. He thought it was too expensive and a waste of money, but Mom insisted that with his build, he needed something custom-fitted to him. Dad declared that at the price they paid, the damn thing better fit him till the day he died and make him look as handsome as George Clooney when he was laid to rest.

Jake tugs my hand. “Mom will be okay,” he says. “Unless you needed to talk to Easton again?”

What is there to talk about, really? Do I want to use my father’s funeral as the opportunity to confess that part of me has always waited for him? That I’d probably wait for him forever? “No. Let’s go.”

***

Easton came to the house, and it was like old times. There was so much laughter and food and reminiscing that it felt more like another holiday than a wake. That’s just how Dad would want it, but I kept catching myself waiting for my father to walk into the kitchen.

It’s strange how our brains work, because the dad I had for the past few years was sick more often than not. Thin and weak. Bald. But when I imagine him walking into the kitchen, I imagine the tall and strong father from my childhood. The pre-cancer dad. Even at the end, the reality of his condition only hit me in blips. Most of the time my brain didn’t process the changes. Couldn’t.

If he were here, he’d follow the sound of our voices into the kitchen. Dad always chased the crowd—loved the house to be full and was happier in the middle of chaos than alone with a good book, like me. He’d go straight to Mom, like always, as if he needed to touch her and convince himself she was real, because a lifetime together would never be enough. Then he’d sit down at the table and listen. That was what he liked best about big groups. He didn’t want to be the center of attention or talk constantly, but he loved hearing everyone’s stories. And when he did speak, you listened, because you knew whatever he gave you would be good.

“Are you okay?”

I didn’t even realize I was staring into space, but I blink away from the alternate reality and turn toward Easton. His eyes are so gentle, his hand warm as it cups my shoulder. I nod. “I think it might take me ten years to accept that he’s gone.” I say it softly, knowing the words might send any number of people into another crying jag if they overheard them.

“I get that.” He points to the back doors. “Some fresh air?”

“I’d like that.” I grab a couple of beers from the fridge and follow Easton outside. It’s dark, well past sunset, but we don’t bother with the lights. He stops on the patio, but I shake my head and lead the way to the treehouse, climbing the old ladder one-handed until I reach the privacy of the fort my father built for us.

I’m sinking to the floor and pulling the bottle opener from my pocket when I hear Easton’s feet scraping against the rungs and spot his head poking into the tiny wooden house.

“I don’t think I’ve been up here since I was ten,” he says, pulling himself inside. He’s too tall to stand, so he stays on his knees and crawls to the wall opposite me, extending his long legs so they’re next to mine.

“You probably haven’t fit since then,” I say, squinting at him through the dark and smiling. I grab the battery-operated lantern from the wall and click it on. It’s not much, but it’s enough to cast a warm glow around us—enough so I can see his face. “You hardly fit now.”

He glances up at the ceiling, way too close to his head, even seated. “Eh, there’s plenty of room.” He nods to the two beers beside me. “Is one of those for me?”

“If you want.” I open them both and hand one to him.

His sigh fills the space a beat before his sadness. “This is the first time since I was drafted that I’ve had more than a single drink during the season.”

“Your body is a multimillion-dollar temple.”

“This temple is all I have. Without this, I don’t have shit.” His words are slightly slurred, and I wonder how many he’s had. I know he was drinking while talking to my brothers. I had a few too. I’m tempted to get sloppy drunk, but Mom’s here and she wouldn’t like that.

“You always thought you were nothing without football,” I say. “I never believed that.”

He gives a small smile and sighs. “Thanks.” He traces the lip of his beer with his index finger, and I can tell he’s trying to work up to say something important. Something I probably don’t really want to talk about right now. “Mom’s sorry she couldn’t come. She wanted to be here.”

I smile. I can handle talking about Ms. Connor. Easton may have grown up without a dad around, but his mom did everything in her power to make up for it. “How is she?”

“Busy. Happy. Finally pursuing her passions instead of just trying to get by.”

“Art, right?”

He nods. “She’s obsessed with watercolors. She’s really talented and doesn’t give herself enough credit.” He lifts those sad eyes to me. “A lot like you, I guess.”

He’s so close to me up here, but with our legs stretched out between us, he feels so far away, so I roll to my knees and scoot across the plywood floor to sit beside him, shoulder to shoulder. “I love the way you take care of her—the way you didn’t question it when you joined the league. You just did it.” When I tilt my face up to look at him, I catch him studying me, his gaze glued to my mouth. “You’re a good son. I bet you’re a good dad too.”

My own apology sits on my tongue, but I trap it there. When he said we needed to talk, he didn’t mean figuring out the details of us—he meant he needed to explain that there isn’t going to be an us. I’m such an idiot. Why did I expect anything else?

I press my forehead to my knees. I can’t handle this right now—this conversation, this rejection. And if he tries to bring Dad into it, I’m going to fall apart.

“And when things were falling apart between them, he stayed.”

I whip my head up. My eyes burn and my stomach aches, but those words. “What? What do you mean?”

“No. You misunderstood.” I shake my head and scoot toward the ladder. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”