Lily Love (28 page)

“Seriously, I think you’re doing a really great thing,” she says as we walk through the front doors. “I’m really proud of you.”

Paige’s words fill me with pride. She’s right; I am doing a good thing, and it feels really nice to be able to do it for someone else.

The receptionist grips the telephone to one ear and hands me the kitchen sign-in sheet with the other. Once I have that filled out, she waves us through toward the kitchen area. I’m showing Paige the drawer where the labels are when she blindsides me.

“I’m not going to ask you if you slept with him, because I can already tell you did. And I’m not going to ask you if you care for him, because I know you wouldn’t have slept with him if you didn’t,” she says matter-of-factly.

I grip the edge of the countertop while my head spins wildly, leaving me dizzy and breathless. “Jesus, Paige,” I huff, exasperated. “Don’t hold anything back.”

“I’m just going to ask one thing,” she warns. She levels her navy-blue eyes on me, and I brace for whatever she may say next. “Does he know?”

I busy myself with filling out a label, trying to act like this conversation is not a big deal. Paige reminds me so much of Tate in the way that she can home right in on what I’m thinking and lay it all out for inspection. It’s seriously uncanny, and I’m slightly bummed that Tate isn’t here to meet her. I know that once she meets him, she’ll love him, too.

“Know what?” I stall. It’s weak, I know; I just don’t want to have to defend how I feel or how he makes me feel.

“Does Tate know that you’re in love with him, Caroline?” She lays it all out there.

“I haven’t told him, if that’s what you mean,” I answer. It’s the most honest I can be. I haven’t told him that I love him, but I sense it’s something he already knows. Paige doesn’t need to know that, though. She’s freaked out enough, from what I can tell by the way she’s pacing the floor.

“What else could I mean?” she shouts, throwing her arms in the air.

“Pipe down, drama queen,” I hiss. “This isn’t the place for your theatrics.” I’m an adult, for chrissakes, not some foolish child.

“Caroline,” she says softly, “I’m worried about you. You’ve given your heart to this guy and you hardly know him. Is this a casual thing? Are you dating?”

“No, Paige,” I insist. “These aren’t casual feelings for Tate. We want to see where this goes; we don’t want to see other people. Everything is fine.” I don’t know if I’m trying harder to convince her or myself. I just want to go back to yesterday, when I was with Tate and everything felt possible.

“Does he feel the same way about you?” she asks incredulously.

“Yes.” Paige and I spin toward the voice at the same time. Standing in the doorway with puffy, red-rimmed eyes is Tarryn.

“My brother is crazy about Caroline, whoever you are.” She dismisses Paige with a wave of her hand before facing me. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach when I see Tarryn’s expression head-on. This is not going to be good news. At. All.

“Of course,” I reply. “Paige, why don’t you wait for me in the lobby. By the way, this is Tarryn, Tate’s twin sister. Tarryn, this is my sister, Paige.” They nod at each other, neither sure of what to say. “I’ll be out in a minute,” I call after Paige as she walks out of the kitchen.

“Have you spoken with Tate?” Tarryn’s voice shakes and her eyes fill with tears.

“Not since this morning. What’s going on, Tarryn?” I wrap my arm around her shoulders as she sobs softly.

“She’s gone,” is all Tarryn can spit out as she fights to catch her breath.

Oh, no—Tate!
Every angry thought I had toward Paige is lost, replaced with panic to find Tate.

“When, Tarryn? I spoke to him around eleven o’clock, but not since then. Does he know?” I cry with her, unable to stop the flow of tears for the loss of my stranger’s family.

“We were both here with her. Around one o’clock she had another seizure and stopped breathing.” She pauses to catch her breath. “She stopped breathing like last time, except they don’t resuscitate. She was alert one moment and gone the next.”

“I’m sorry; I’m so sorry,” I whisper as we cry together.

“Tate took off before the funeral home came for her body,” she sniffles. “I thought he was going to you; when I saw your car in the parking lot, I thought he’d come back.”

“What do you mean, he took off?”

“I haven’t seen him since they pronounced Mom. It’s been almost six hours. Are you sure he hasn’t tried to call you?” she asks desperately.

I pull my phone from my purse to double-check, and then dial his number to see if he’ll pick up.

“You’ve reached Tate Michaels. Please leave . . .”

I tune out his generic greeting, trying to think of where he may have headed.

“Tate, it’s Caroline. Please call me; I’m so worried about you.” I look up at Tarryn and shake my head. I can tell from the look on her face that she’s frantic with worry and devastated by her loss.

“Jay and Jennifer never even got to say goodbye,” she whimpers, lost in her grief.

“Don’t worry about Tate; I’ll find him,” I promise, and I have a feeling I know where he might be.

I leave Tarryn to finish tying up the loose ends at St. Joseph’s, and take Paige back to her car. Once I’m alone again, I gun it across town to the one place I’m almost certain he’ll be.

where you’ll find me

T
he parking lot is so dark when I pull in that I almost miss Tate’s truck parked in the far corner. Relief washes over me when I get closer and realize that it
is
really his car. I’ve found him, just as I promised Tarryn I would. Now I’ve got to go figure out what condition he’s in.

I close the door gently, unsure of whether he may run if he knows I’m here. I swallow the rising guilt for being here at all; it seems almost like a betrayal to be here encroaching on his grief. I chose this very spot for my own pain because of its secrecy and seclusion. Who am I to deny him the same privacy?

I am the person who won’t let him go through this alone. I will be the person I always wished had come looking for me, refusing to let me push them away from my pain.

I walk through the canopy of willow trees, but no calm greets me tonight. Up ahead I see the soft glow from the lamps marking the entrance to our garden, but I don’t see Tate. Anxious to find him, I find myself sprinting down the path, calling out to him. The longer my calls go unanswered, the more worried I become. I brush past the Casablanca Lilies, the white lavender and moonflowers, anywhere I can
think of until I come to the foot of a bordering tree. There, seated on the damp earth, Tate watches me silently.

“Tate,” I cry, and take a step toward him. His eyes stay fixed on my movements, but he makes none of his own. Slowly I kneel next to him and try to gauge his reaction. When he doesn’t flinch or back away from me, I take his face in my hands. “I’ve been so worried about you. I’m so sorry, baby.” His eyes squeeze shut as his breath hitches in his chest. I pull him against me and pray for all of his hurt to bleed into my body. His agony is so palpable, I can feel the fingers of it reaching in and ripping my heart from my chest. When he wraps his arms around me, I’m helpless to do anything but hold on while he silently weeps.

It takes tremendous strength not to say, “It’s okay,” or “Everything will be all right,” because it isn’t, and it won’t be, and suggesting it will is an insult to the magnitude of his loss. When Lily was first diagnosed with a delay, every time someone said, “She’ll be okay,” it dismissed everything I was feeling as her mother. I would’ve preferred to be slapped in the face than told one more time that everything would be all right. I’m never going to do that to Tate.

“Tate,” I whisper as I run my fingers through his hair. “You don’t need to say anything, but I need you to listen to me, okay?” He nods his head against my chest. “I’m going to give Tarryn a quick call to let her know I found you, and I’m bringing you home with me.” His body stills, and I fear that he’s going to argue with me. “You don’t have to be alone, Tate. Let me be there for you.”

He pulls himself out of my embrace, and I steel myself for him to tell me to go home, go away, get out of his space. What I know of pain is how it hardened me, how it pushed me to isolate myself and lash out at those who loved me. It was never something I considered inviting anyone else to be a part of, and I still struggle with not wanting to divulge the depth of my own sorrow to others—even knowing how much better my life would be if I did. It’s a nefarious poison that can steal your life from you if you’re cocky enough to think you can handle it alone.

“She would have loved you.”

“I would’ve loved her, too.” I know I would have. How could I not love the woman who gave me Tate? I wish I could’ve known her, if for no other reason than to tell her how very much I love her son. Wherever she is, I hope she knows he’s not alone.

“Let me take you home.”

I hold my hand out to him, and he takes it. Together we leave the moon garden behind—for now.

i may not let go

J
ust before I pull out of the Robert Waldron Jr. Botanical Park, I send a quick text message to Tarryn to let her know that Tate is with me and that I’ll have him call her soon. I’m grateful when she texts back to let me know that she and Tom are on their way to meet her in-laws and pick up her children. Selfishly, I want this time alone with Tate. I know the next few days are going to be a bombardment of family and friends that I don’t quite fit into yet. The last thing I want to do is make things harder than they already are.

It’s late when we pull up to the house, and exhaustion weighs heavy in the dark circles under Tate’s eyes. I can only imagine how physically and mentally spent he must be. I want to get him inside so he can clean up, have something to eat, and get some much-needed sleep.

A sudden rush of nerves ripples through me when we walk through the door. I feel silly. It’s the last thing that Tate is going to be thinking about, but I hope he feels at home here. Better yet, I want this to feel like home to him.

“Are you hungry?” I ask timidly.

“A little.” He sighs wearily.

“Let me get you a towel, and you can take a hot shower while I fix you something, okay?” I lead him down the hall to my bedroom, where he hesitates. “What’s wrong?”

He shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Will this be weird to you, me being in the bedroom you shared with Peter? I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable . . .” He trails off.

“Yes, it used to be Peter’s room,” I confirm. “However, when Peter served me with divorce papers a month ago, I had all of our old furniture hauled out and redecorated just for me. So technically, this is
my
bedroom.”

“Oh, thank God,” he says. “I don’t want to sleep without you in my arms tonight.”

I pull him into my room to show him the adjoining bathroom and where to find the things that he needs. A warm sense of satisfaction washes over me as I watch him strip out of his clothes and step into my shower. It’s not all sexual, either. Don’t get me wrong, the sight of Tate’s gorgeous body makes me want to get naked and join him, but having him here in my space feels right, feels whole.

“I’ll be back,” I call out as I walk away.

It feels so domestic and normal, if you remove the hardship from the equation—but you can’t. This love story is never going to be “normal,” but I think that’s exactly why it’s got potential. We both know how cruel life can be, and we’re both learning that you can’t let the hard stuff keep you from living.

I brought back a tray with some soup and a sandwich for Tate, only to find him sprawled sideways across the bed, asleep in his towel. I tucked a blanket around him, wrapped up the food, and padded down the hall to my office, where I sit now, trying to find a way to start this new paragraph. So many emotions are battering my brain you’d think the words would fly off the page. Instead, I find myself plagued by a blinking
cursor and nothing to say. I’m restless. I don’t want to go to sleep, because I’m afraid I’ll wake up and this all will have been a dream.

Tiptoeing into my bedroom, I ready myself for bed and climb in next to Tate. His face is turned toward mine, and I’m so relieved to see that it’s peaceful in his sleep. Very gently, I lean forward and kiss his forehead. When I’m confident that I haven’t woken him, I can finally tell him what I’ve wanted to for days.

“I love you, Tate.”

be still my heart

M
orning brings a heightened state of confusion along with it. As my brain lifts from the fog of sleep, I vaguely remember telling Tate I love him. I blink against the bright sunlight filtering into my room and fight to string together the details.

I brought Tate home from the moon garden.

I tucked him into bed after he fell asleep in his towel.

I kissed him and told him I love him while he was sleeping.

There’s no panic, no fear, just peace in knowing what’s in my heart and accepting it.

The next thing I notice is that I’m in bed alone. I prop myself up on my elbows and take a look around my room. The clothes I folded for Tate are missing from the chair, making me wish I’d woken up sooner. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and find a note on my nightstand.