Sweet Bitter Honey Page 21

  Ryan heard it but didn’t at the same time. Allergic? He had no idea. Nothing had indicated that before, although he did get a rash when he ate too much peanut butter—which was pretty much all he would eat for a period of time about a year ago.

  He must be choking, Ryan reached out, needing to touch the boy’s still hand when the EMTs appeared with a gurney and took over. Ryan stood and watched, frozen with helplessness while they worked to get his son to breathe again and experienced his entire universe collapsing inward on itself. He wanted his family, but he’d ruined that, and now?

  “Lynette,” he whispered as he watched them try to revive his son. “Cole, somebody call…” He slumped back to the grass, realizing that he neither deserved their support nor did they owe it to him. But he needed it now more than anything. He couldn’t do this alone anymore.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Cole sat, trying to ignore Lynette’s cloying scent. Her honeyed essence was somehow magnified, multiplied times a thousand, probably because he hadn’t seen her for so long. He had to clench his hands into fists to keep from yanking her to him, kissing her, holding her, shaking her silly for being so obstinate. He gritted his teeth. Ignoring the wet nose of the dog that was not Brutus, he found the package on the table and pushed it toward her. “Can you open it? Tell me what it is?”

  He heard paper ripping, tape being removed. Then his ears picked up on something else, something strange and yet familiar. He tilted his head, then decided it was just the dog. He reached out and felt Daisy’s soft head. It was okay. Not Brutus, but fine. He scratched her ears, nervous, waiting. The dog put her head on his leg, whining. “It’s okay,” he whispered.

  He truly did feel centered with this dog in his new house. The new pain-med cocktail kept the headaches at bay much better. For the first time in over a year, he was beginning to feel a bit like the old Cole, thanks in no small part to Frank, the guy who’d literally lived with him the last two weeks, reminding him that no real Marine would wallow and allow the lame funk he operated under. Frank and Daisy were a package deal, the man claimed. Cole didn’t get to keep her without the come-to-Jesus portion Frank provided.

  ‘You are alive, Marine,’ the man had barked after Cole had cursed him to high heaven for the second or third time, while he sat sullen and brooding, sunk in his now comfortable morass of pain and self-pity. ‘Get on your feet and listen to me.’ Frank had been a drill sergeant, no surprise there, and the familiar cadence had snapped something into place inside Cole’s brain. He’d jumped to his feet, fast, and stood, listening carefully while Frank commanded him.

  ‘You are not allowed to be this way, not anymore. You’re fit, a survivor, a Marine-forged bag of muscle and bones, and I will be damned if I let you sit there and sulk your way through the rest of this life.’

  Cole’s body had tensed, and his heart had pounded but he’d felt it then. The small beating pulse of purpose, starting somewhere in his gut and working its way up to the base of his skull. Flashes of sensory memory—sights, sounds, smells and touches from Dan, Ryan, Lynette, Audrey, his baby nephews—made him flinch but he had stood tall and firm and kept listening.

  ‘I will not allow you to toss this chance away. This dog was trained at great expense to be your eyes, your companion, and you sit there and ignore her like so much shit on your shoe? Hell, no.’ Frank had been in his face then, breathing heavy and speaking straight into Cole’s by now eager ear. ‘The enable-Cole-to-be-a-lame-ass time is fucking over. Do you hear me? This.’ He’d grabbed Cole’s hand and put it on the dog’s harness.

  He’d shivered all over, guilt and anger running rampant through him.

  ‘This is your new reality, and you are too smart, too strong and too worthwhile to let it slip away because you are a whiny-ass child. You are not a child. You are a man. Fucking act like one. Now.’

  Frank had kept talking. And Cole had kept listening. And by the time the man had left, he felt good. Not great—that would likely never happen again now that his time with Ryan and Lynette seemed over—but good and independent enough to allow a small bit of satisfaction to creep in under all the usual ‘my life sucks’ bullshit that he’d been living with for the last year and half. He even entertained the concept of reaching out to Ryan and Lynette, once his emotional boot camp was over, hoping he could relay some of his own remorse at how he’d acted to them both.

  Then, this package showed up the day after Frank left, and he’d called the first person he thought might help. Ryan had ignored him. So, his next call had been to Lynette, and he’d never been happier to sense another human being in his space.

  “Um, let’s see, there is a picture. You and…oh, this must be Dan.”

  He sucked in a breath. His hands shook. “What else?”

  “A handwritten letter—looks like it’s from Dan’s mom. And what looks like a flash drive taped to a piece of paper that says “To Cole, from Dan.”

  She rustled around some more, and he heard them. The distinctive clink of metal on metal. He put his head on the table. She took his hand and put the clinking metal in it. He closed his fingers around Dan’s dog tags, felt their edges cut into his skin.

  “And one more thing,” she whispered. He sat up, held out his other hand and clutched the fabric of what must be a folded American flag to his chest. His chest constricted. “Cole,” Lynette said. “Honey.” She put her hand on his face. “Take a breath.”

  He did, but it made a noise, and he realized it was a sob. He sat, gripping his dead lover’s dog tags and the flag they’d draped over his coffin, crying like a fucking girl. Lynette came around behind him and put her arms around his neck. They stayed like this a while, until he got control. “Read it to me, please?”

  She sat. Cole heard the rustling of paper, and that same strange, almost sub-radar blipping noise, but the sound of Lynette’s voice drowned it out.

  Dear Cole,

  My name is Janice Anderson. Daniel was my son. My only child. I hope you can understand and forgive me for taking so long to do this, but I was only able this past month to go into his room and open up the box of his stuff that the Marines sent me. I feel terrible about keeping this from you, but please know it wasn’t intentional. I knew my son well. He was smart, talented in the kitchen, athletic, loving and gay. And I was proud of him.

  Lynette sucked in a breath and continued. Cole’s eyes burned, but his heart was starting to release a small fraction of the agony he’d lugged around since coming home, blind and alone.

  He had a package of stuff with your name on it, including this photo of him with a handsome, blond man sitting on a beach who I assume is you and this computer drive. I didn’t access it, because it had your name on it. He left one for me, too. He recited his favorite recipes to me, told me how much he loved me and his father, who died not long after Dan’s accident. He read us some passages from a few of my favorite books—The Great Gatsby, Of Mice and Men, Pride and Prejudice. And sang me a song—my favorite Rolling Stones tune, actually. I’ve listened to it so many times I get angry at myself for waiting this long to find it.

  It’s obvious to me that he loved you. He said so on his recording. Told me about how you met, how smart you were, although you tended toward being an overbearing asshole, pardon my French. And how right you were for him. I don’t know if you realize this, Cole, but you were Dan’s first boyfriend. His first real sexual experience. I didn’t know that until he told me on the recording, and part of me wishes I still didn’t. Some things are better left private even between parents and children. But there it is. He somehow knew he wouldn’t be coming home from that horrible place and he wanted me to know everything.

  So, I’m giving you as much of him as I can and ask that you forgive a lonely woman’s tardiness, her inability to face reality and go through her dead son’s things in hopes of finding something special—which I did. I found you.

  Yours sincerely,

  Janice

  Cole shook all over. His head pounded. He
stood, bumping his legs against the table then sat, still clutching the dog tags and flag like a little kid with his blankie. His mind was blank, dark, on fire and frozen all at once.

  Lynette touched his hand. “Do you want me to plug in the drive? I can leave you with it. So you can have some privacy.”

  “No!” he croaked out. “Please d-d-d-don’t leave. If you don’t mind listening with me, I mean. Use my laptop. Should be on the coffee table.”

  “Sure thing,” she said. “Come, sit by me.”

  The dog led him to the couch. He dropped onto it, still hanging onto the tags for dear life. He let her put her arm around him but sat frozen and stiff against her.

  Lynette held his hand and they listened to the sound of Dan’s voice, the words rolling through him like waves, making his head pound at first, then somehow, relaxing him. When he began to sing in between reading from their favorite books, the second the first lyrics of a sappy Alan Jackson song rolled out into the room, Cole couldn’t breathe. “Turn it off…” he croaked out, grabbing Lynette’s hand hard. “God.”

  But Dan’s voice kept coming. He read more passages from his favorite books. Catcher in the Rye, The Old Man and the Sea, The Stand, even some non-fiction stuff Cole liked like The Tipping Point and The Blind Side. Long stretches of nothing but reading, bringing the man back to him as though he’d never left. Cole kept a death grip on Lynette’s arm, mesmerized.

  Then a new sound, a second voice. Cole’s. Laughing while he taught the hapless kid to play poker. Or tried to anyway. He gulped, remembering how that session ended. Dan stopped recording before their arguments about the statistical unlikelihood of having two royal flushes in one game ended in loud, energetic sex in a hotel room.

  “Oh, Cole.” Lynette held him close, rocked with him back and forth. Dan spoke after reading a few more snippets from books, recited the sports stats of his favorite baseball team—the Reds, which Cole had almost forgiven him for—and his favorite football team—Ohio State, which Cole would never forgive him for. He said simply, “Cole Traynor, I love you. Now go and live your life. Because I know you’re not—you’re holding back something, probably from someone who loves you as much as I did. I release you. I want you to be happy.”

  Cole identified it then—the unmistakable sound of a small fluttery heartbeat. He dropped the dog tags and the flag, turned to Lynette and gripped her arms. “You didn’t do it, did you?”

  She stayed quiet, sniffling.

  “Answer me, damn you.” He heard her sharp intake of breath. “Oh, please, Lynette, please tell me I’m not hearing things.” His voice sounded strong to his own ears, reflecting a strength he’d retrieved, thanks to Dan’s recording.

  Finally, he knew what he wanted. She stood, drawing his ear to her stomach. He held on to her, listening, gripping her so she’d never leave him again, then spoke. “I knew he was a virgin. He was a lot younger than me, and so amazing.”

  Lynette ran her hands through his hair, soothing, calming. He let her and then he sensed it again—the sound of his baby’s heartbeat.

  “I love you.” He stood, holding her close and kissing her so hard he didn’t know where his lips ended and hers began.

  She broke away. “I’m so scared, Cole. Ryan is… Wait, did you say you loved me?”

  “Shh…” He put his fingers to her lips, ran them across her cheeks, nose and eyes, brushed away her tears. “We’ll get him back. It will be fine. And yes, I did.”

  Both of their phones rang within seconds of each other. He pulled his out of his pocket. It was Audrey’s tone.

  “Quinn’s calling me,” Lynette said. Cole felt a lick of dread in his gut when he answered.

  He listened to his sister’s voice a few seconds before he dropped his phone. He heard Lynette’s gasp, felt the dog dancing around his ankles. The dog that wasn’t Brutus…

  Cole gritted his teeth and let Daisy’s softer, less aggressive presence soothe him. She was a licker, which was something Frank had tried to break her of, but Cole didn’t mind. She got nervous, or thought he was, and she licked his hand until he told her to stop, but usually not until he actually did feel better for it.

  “It’s Jamie,” he said. He grabbed her arm. “Get your keys. Let’s go.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Lynette raced into town from Cole’s new neighborhood, cursing and running red lights while Daisy barked enthusiastically. Cole white-knuckled the armrest. “Jesus, Lynette.”

  She ignored him. Her heart was pounding so fast it hurt. Her eyes burned. She had gotten one of her men back and was ready to work on the other one. But Jamie, he was… “Oh shit.” She hit her brakes and screeched to a halt at the red light before the hospital.

  Cole put a cool hand on her arm. She started to shake him off but something about his touch calmed her. He peeled her fingers from the steering wheel and kissed them. “It’s okay. It will be fine. It has to be.” He let go of her and faced ahead again. “I mean, if you don’t fucking kill us and my new dog getting there.”

  “Don’t be a backseat driver. It’s unbecoming.” She scratched away from the signal, jerked the wheel to the left and was jumping out of the car at the emergency room nearly before she had the thing in park.

  Cole and Daisy followed on her heels. They skidded to a stop at the security check. Lynette tried to relay that it wasn’t her or the blind man with her who needed help. They were there to find a boy. “My nephew,” Cole piped up, gripping the dog. “James Shannon.”

  “Cole!” She heard Audrey’s voice, saw the woman’s tired eyes when she rounded the corner. “I just came down to find you. They moved him upstairs to the pediatric intensive care unit.”

  “Fucking-A, Audrey, what happened to him?”

  “Anaphylactic shock. Turns out he’s allergic to cashews.”

  They got in the elevator. Lynette held on to Cole’s hand as Audrey gave them the details. Jamie had been having a reaction for the better part of an hour they believed, having been given a trail mix fruit and nut bar by one of his friends’ moms. He’d been itchy, the boys claimed, his eyes kept watering but he’d been playing in the pool and the sand so they figured he was just overheated, with eyes full of pool water. By the time the kid’s mom had figured out something was wrong, he’d had a grand mal seizure and stopped breathing. That was when Ryan had found him.

  “Oh God.” Lynette put a hand over her mouth. Cole tightened his grip on her other hand. “Is he…I mean…”

  “He’s still out. The problem is, even after they got him breathing again, he wouldn’t, he won’t, wake up. They aren’t a hundred percent sure how long he was without oxygen.” Audrey sucked in a breath, rested her hands on the elevator rails. “Ryan is catatonic. He won’t talk to anyone, not even Quinn. Well, except when he’s roaring and tearing the medical staff new assholes because they won’t let him hold Jamie.”

  Lynette’s heart clenched. Ryan and Jamie’s bond was special, she knew. She’d observed it first-hand. This was the worst possible thing that could happen to him. She leaned back, waiting for the elevator doors to open. Audrey turned to them both. “Listen to me,” she said, her green eyes snapping. “Get your fucking shit together. He needs you.”

  “Our shit is fine, sister dear,” Cole said, putting Lynette’s hand to his lips then touching her stomach. “All of it.”

  “Good.”

  The doors opened and Lynette rushed out, her need to see Jamie for herself so great she nearly tripped over Quinn, crouched down on his ankles outside a closed door. He stood and pointed to the glass window. Lynette peered in, saw the boy’s small form dwarfed by the bed, all sorts of bleeping monitors surrounding him.

  “Jamie,” she whispered, touching the glass. As if he heard her, Ryan looked up, still clutching his son’s hand. His face was hard, set, angry. She bit her lip. The self-loathing and fury hovered around him like a dark cloud. “Can I go in?”

  “No,” some bossy nurse said, without even looking up to see who spoke.<
br />
  “But, I’m…”

  “This is the boy’s mother,” Cole said, shoving her in the door. “Thank you very much.” Lynette looked over her shoulder. “Go. It’s okay,” he whispered to her.

  She made her way over to the bed, terrified, horrified and sick to her stomach. Jamie’s face was gaunt, his chest rose and fell on its own, but his eyelids weren’t moving. She touched Ryan’s shoulder. He didn’t look up, kept his gaze trained on the boy, a small hand clutched in his large ones. They stood together, watching Jamie breathe for nearly an hour in complete silence.

  “You didn’t do it, did you?” Ryan’s voice was raw, rough, when he finally spoke.

  “No. I didn’t.” She knew what he meant. “I love you, Ryan. I love what we had. And I want it back.”

  He glared up at her then resumed his visual vigil. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Why?” She put her hand on his neck, hoping to dispel some of his tension. “You love me, too. I know you do.”

  “You don’t know anything about me.” His voice broke. He rested his forehead on the bed.

  “I know enough,” she said, leaning down to kiss his cheek. “Can he come in? If you tell them, and I go…”

  “Good luck with that.”

  She backed out of the room, motioned for Daisy to bring Cole forward. He put a hand on her face. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. And if you spend the next seven months asking me that every minute, we are going to have an issue. You go in.” She opened the door. “Hurry before Nurse Ratchet gets back.”

  Ryan’s eyes ached but he refused to take them off Jamie, as if by watching him he could force the kid back, make him wake up with the sheer force of his will. He heard the door open and close again but ignored it. He clutched his son’s hand and tried like hell not to yell and throw anything.