Undone Read online

  “Mom, he needs to focus on what makes him happy. That shithole gives him a purpose right now, so please back off of him about selling the bar. He’ll know when it’s time.”

  “Okay,” she says quietly. “So another reason I wanted to call was your Dad and I were wondering if you were going to come home this year, you know for…”

  “I don’t know, Mom,” I cut her off. “I’m finally settled at work, and I just don’t know if I can get away.”

  “Just for the weekend,” she says.

  “I’ll think about it, okay? Hey, I have to get going. I have to pick up dry cleaning before it closes and run to the grocery store, okay? I love you, Mom. I’ll call you soon.”

  “Love you too, Reagan.”

  I disconnect the call much like I disconnect the pain, the memories—the feelings. Every September fourth, I spend the day in front of that headstone, reliving that pain. I’ve never missed September fourth before, and I don’t intend to this year, either.

  Pulling myself up from the couch, I walk down the hall to the master suite. I stand in the oversized walk-in closet and strip off my blue dress and change into a pair of dark grey yoga pants and a black tank top. My body stills in the closet for a moment as I will myself not to look on the top shelf—but it happens every time. My eyes find it. There sits the box that holds my broken heart. My stomach churns with sadness.

  Pulling it down from the shelf, I walk out to the bed and sit down, my fingers wrapped tightly in place, holding onto the box as if my life depended on it—and in a sense, it does. Setting the box on my lap, I rest my hands over the top of it, loosening my grip. My pulse races, and I feel the sting of tears behind my eyes as I run my fingers over the square edge of the box. My throat is dry, making it hard to swallow as I try to force down the lump in my throat. Don’t open the box. Don’t open the box. My fingers find the edge of the box and gently lift the lid, carefully setting it to the side.

  I pull out the five pictures I have and set the box down on the comforter. My hands shake violently as my eyes slowly absorb every detail in those pictures again, as if it’s the first time I’ve seen them. I study every minute detail as the tears finally take over and spill from the corners of my eyes and I can no longer see. My body slides off the edge of the bed and I find myself on my hands and knees, sobbing. I haven’t cried like this in a long time and for that, I feel guilty. Knowing I’ve made great progress in moving forward, I realize that I’ve learned to cope, but you never really heal.

  With my face buried in my hands, I let the tears flow. I let my frustrations out and hit the floor with my hands. Momentarily, the physical pain of hitting the floor takes away the emotional pain that after fifteen years still rips through me. Sitting on the floor, with my face still buried in my hands, I allow myself to hurt today, to cry—to feel.

  Pulling myself together, I wipe the tears and work to compose my breathing. Rising from the ground, I walk to the bathroom and stand before the sink. Pulling my hair back into a long ponytail, I rinse my face with cool water—allowing the water to wash away the few tears that still run from my eyes.

  “Get it together, Reagan,” I whisper to myself, drying my face with the hand towel. Deciding to force myself to run those few errands I just lied to my mom about, I bury the pain again as best I can, or save it for another day.

  “Be gentle with yourself,” I hear my mom whispering to me. She always told me not to be so hard on myself. I smile when I think of her comforting words when I need them most.

  Passing through the bedroom on my way to the kitchen, I see the little box still sitting open on my bed, and the photos are spread across the comforter. Grabbing my wallet and keys off the counter I mentally make a list of the errands I need to run. Two hours and three stores later, I finally toss the last of my grocery items into the cart. Grocery shopping is the one task I despise more than anything.

  As I toss my reusable shopping bags onto the belt, I empty the cart of my week’s worth of groceries. The hair on my neck rises, and my skin tingles with familiarity. I don’t need to hear his voice to know that he’s standing right behind me; you can say it’s a sixth sense. That feeling that you just know someone is there, whether you can see, hear, smell, or feel them. He’s here. I turn around slowly to confirm what I already know.

  Gorgeous blue eyes meet mine, and a smile that melts me instantly awaits me. “I was wondering if you were ever going to turn around,” he says, leaning into me.

  “Are you following me, Mr. Christianson?”

  “I was just going to ask you the same thing, Ms. Sinclair.” His voice is a bit raspy and it sends a shiver through me. “But I’m glad I ran into you. I’m making dinner for Lindsay and me. Maybe you should join us. You said you wanted to get to know her better, so here’s your chance.” Everything inside of me is screaming yes, but the sensible part of me knows I’ve seen him every day since we met. This is fast, even for being just friends.

  “I don’t know. I have to work tomorrow and get these groceries home and put away…”

  “Just think about it.” He taps the tip of my nose gently with his forefinger and steps back to begin unloading his cart onto the belt behind my items. I stand, deep in thought—fighting the internal battle of wills.

  “Okay, I’ll think about it,” I say quietly, stepping up to pay for my items. I watch him out of the corner of my eye and take in the sight of him in a pair of red basketball shorts and a tight black t-shirt that hugs every curve of his arms and chest. I can’t help but feel a little guilty looking at him like this. The young man bagging my groceries sets the last bag in my cart just as the cashier hands me my receipt.

  “Bye,” I mouth and give him a small wave. Pushing my cart away, I hear him clearly say, “See you tonight, Doc. Six-thirty.”

  “Six-thirty,” I confirm with a smile. “Maybe I’ll see you. If not—I’ll call you sometime.” The look on his face is priceless, but shit, that leaves me less than ninety minutes to get home, unpack, and get ready.

  Saying a quick prayer that I don’t get pulled over, I speed through the small residential streets on my way to Landon’s. I’m almost fifteen minutes late—which is not like me, but after shopping, and crying, I just needed to shower and change and it took me longer than expected. I’m mentally kicking myself for not putting the box away. The pictures are still scattered across my bed, but it was not something I wanted to deal with before heading over to Landon’s. I know I’m still fragile from this afternoon, and another breakdown was not what I needed.

  Pulling up to the modest-looking ranch-style house, I put my car in park and kill the engine. I sit for a moment and take in the neighborhood with perfectly manicured lawns and recently updated homes. I watch a father and son play catch with a baseball in their front yard a few houses down, while a young mom pushes a stroller and walks a dog down the street. This reminds me so much of the Midwest and where I grew up, and I instantly feel comfortable here.

  Grabbing my purse, I lock the door behind me and walk as quickly as I can to the front door, cursing myself once again for being late. Just as I’m about to push the doorbell, the front door opens and Lindsay greets me, holding two glasses of sangria.

  “‘Bout time you got here, come in.” She laughs, stepping aside so I can enter. “Hope you brought your swimsuit,” she says, shoving one of the glasses of sangria into my hands.

  “Uh, no.” I laugh. “Didn’t know I was supposed to bring one and not sure I would have anyway,” I say under my breath. Probably not the best idea to put Landon and me in close proximity to each other with very little clothing on, I think to myself.

  “You can wear one of mine,” she says nonchalantly as she walks past me. “Size ten, right?” she asks over her shoulder.

  “More like a twelve,” I say, rolling my eyes, but she just scored major points in my book for skewing me down in size.

  “Hey, Doc,” I hear from the other side of the room. Landon walks through the entrance from the kitchen, carr
ying a pair of grilling tongs and wearing nothing but a pair of swim trunks and a loose tank top.

  “Hey, Champ.”

  “Glad you could make it,” he says as he pulls me into a sideways hug.

  “Didn’t really have a choice, did I?” I say sarcastically.

  “You always have a choice, Doc. But I knew you’d come.” His voice is low and sexy and full of arrogance. Why does his voice get to me?

  “Pretty confident, aren’t you?”

  “I always get my way, Reagan. The sooner you remind yourself of that, the better off we’ll be.” He laughs and walks back toward the kitchen. “Go get one of Lindsay’s swimsuits. I heard you two talking. Meet me in the backyard.” Goddamn him, I think to myself. Tossing my purse on his leather couch, I walk down the hall to Lindsay’s room. The door is cracked open and she’s pulling swimsuits out of her dresser, laying them across the end of her bed.

  “Hey,” I say, pushing the door the rest of the way open.

  “Hey, take your pick. I have a bunch of suits in different styles, cuts, and sizes,” she says as she places at least six or seven suits on the bed. “I’m going to change in the hall bathroom. Take some suits and go to Landon’s bathroom to try them on. He has a full length mirror in there so you can see which one you like on you.” She smiles at me as she walks away. “His room is across the hall,” she says, shutting the door to the hall bathroom.

  Setting my drink on Lindsay’s dresser, I pick through the suits on her bed, and there are only two that look remotely conservative enough for me, and I have anxiety about wearing either of them. I scoop them up and find my way across the hall to Landon’s room, pushing the door open. The lights are off, but soft daylight filters in through a skylight, illuminating the room enough to see without a light.

  I notice the masculine furniture and décor as I find the open door to the bathroom in the master suite. Closing the door behind me, I set both swimsuits on the counter as I pull off my khaki shorts and navy tank top along with my bra and panties. Folding them all into a pile, I set them off to the side on the long granite counter.

  Going with my gut and the swimsuit that looks like it has the most coverage, I step into a pair of black bikini bottoms. They’re snug, but they fit, and at least they don’t have the little ties on the sides that could come loose. They actually feel comfortable—which eases some of my anxiety. The solid black top is halter style, which I hope will help hold my boobs in place, as they’re not exactly small. Tying the straps behind my neck, I study myself in the mirror for a second and actually don’t feel completely uncomfortable.

  The swimsuit shows off all of my curves, and it’s a small miracle I fit into a size ten, but I’ll take that miracle and own it. Feeling confident and comfortable, I take the suit I didn’t try on and open the bathroom door leading to Landon’s bedroom.

  My feet sink into the plush carpet as I walk toward the door that leads to the hallway. Noticing that it’s closed—I stop, not remembering closing it when I came in. Reaching for the handle a firm arm catches me around the waist from behind, pulling me backwards.

  “You look amazing, Doc,” he breathes into my ear from behind, pressing his hard stomach against my back.

  Wiggling out of his grasp, I reach for the door handle again, only to have him pull me back to him again. “We can’t keep doing this, Landon,” I whisper, not wanting Lindsay to overhear us. I know she’s just across the hall.

  “Doing what?”

  I escape his grasp again and turn around to face him. “This,” I motion between us. “The touching, the kissing, the… the… the touching.”

  “You already said that.”

  “I know, dammit. You can’t keep touching me.”

  “What if I want to?”

  “Well, you can’t, okay? We’re friends, remember? Just leave it at that.”

  I know my voice sounds angry, because I am angry. I’m angry because deep down, I want to be more than friends, I want him—and I want him to want me, more than once.

  “Okay, Doc.” He opens the door and leaves me standing in his room. Just like that, he’s gone—and I suddenly realize how disposable I am to him. My hands begin shaking, and I can feel the hurt simmering inside. Walking to Lindsay’s room, I set the swimsuit I haven’t used on the bed and grab my drink from her dresser.

  “Three deep breaths,” I tell myself quietly. It’s my calming mantra, something I’ve always done to help me calm down. Tipping back the large glass, I damn near finish the entire glass of sangria. Walking to the kitchen, I see the red wine and fruit soaking in the glass pitcher and I pour myself another glass. I can see Lindsay and Landon talking through the kitchen window, both of them smiling. Landon wraps his arm around her neck and pulls her into a hug. I love how protective he is of his sister, and it warms my heart to know he’s not a complete asshole.

  Opening the French door that leads to the back patio, I step onto the paved patio. Lindsay turns to see me and walks over. “Let’s float.” She drags me by the arm toward the pool. “I bought new rafts this weekend.”

  “The sun isn’t even out,” I say as she continues dragging me toward the pool.

  “We don’t need sun to float and talk.” She makes a valid point. “Plus, we only have a couple of weeks of warm weather left to do this. Before we know it, we’ll be out here hovered around that damn gas fire pit he built last year.” She points to the large circular fire pit built out of stone—it’s gorgeous.

  I glance at Landon, who is leaning against the large outside island. His eyes bore holes through me as he stands with his arms crossed over his chest, holding a bottle of beer. I stare back at him and neither of us makes any effort to look away.

  “Here,” Lindsay says as she hands me a raft and steps into the pool on the oversized step. I follow her into the water and get settled onto my back on the raft.

  “I’m really glad you came over.” She pulls my raft toward hers and holds onto it so I don’t float away.

  “Thanks for having me.” I glance at Landon again and he’s still leaning against the wall and opening another beer. He smirks at me and I finally look away.

  “So Landon tells me you’re a doctor?”

  “I am. Just moved here and am working in private practice. I’m an OB/GYN.”

  “So you deliver babies?”

  I laugh at this, because everyone thinks all I do is catch babies all day long. In fact, I go days without delivering a baby.

  “Not every day, but yes, some days, I deliver babies.”

  “You don’t look old enough to be a doctor, and I mean that in the nicest way possible.” She laughs.

  “Thank you, I guess. I was blessed with good genes, and I’m probably a lot older than you think I am.” I wink at her.

  “Hey, Landon,” Lindsay yells out. “Can you bring us our drinks?” He picks up the two glasses of sangria that we had set on the tiled island and walks to the edge of the pool, handing us each our drink. I drink in the sight of him—the way the setting sun casts an amber haze on his already bronzed skin and how his blue eyes seem even brighter in the dusk. Lindsay and Landon share the exact same eyes—there is no mistaking them for brother and sister.

  “Thanks,” I mumble as Landon hands me my glass of sangria. His hand brushes mine as I wait for a response, but he turns and walks away, assuming his position back by the island, pretending not to listen to us, although I know he can hear every word.

  “Everything okay with you two?” Lindsay asks me quietly.

  “I have no idea. I don’t even know what we are,” I admit.

  “Look, he’s complex, Reagan, and complicated, and difficult. He’s my brother—I know this. Give him a chance,” she whispers.

  “He’s explained everything to me, Lindsay. He’s not looking for a relationship, and I’m not looking for a quick fuck.” I pause, and carefully choose my words. “I like him, a lot. I really do—but I’m thirty-one years old. I’m past friends with benefits and one-night stands.”
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  “Is that what he said he was looking for?” She raises her eyebrows with a look of concern. Landon still leans against the tiled island, but our hushed conversation has him narrowing his eyes at us.

  “Well, not really. He basically just said that he doesn’t do relationships and he doesn’t sleep with the same woman twice. That’s not me, Lindsay. I can’t do that, I can’t be that.”

  “And you shouldn’t have to be,” she says, rolling over on her raft. “Look, my brother doesn’t buy women flowers, or take them out for dinner, or invite them over to hang out with me. He likes you, Reagan, but he doesn’t know how to show you.” She raises her head and we both look at Landon. He stands there, with a beer in his hand, watching us, but again, never makes a move to join us.

  “Reagan, there is so much I want to tell you, but it’s not my story to tell.” Lindsay sighs and looks at Landon before looking back to me. “Just give him a chance, Reagan. There is a lot about him that you don’t know—but again, it’s for him to tell you, not me.”

  “How do you give someone a chance when they won’t take it?” I watch him as he watches me in return. It’s a peaceful, yet strained silence. He shows no emotion as I try to see through his exterior, see the innermost parts of him that he’s unwilling to show me on his own.

  We float in silence for a few minutes while I take in the little bits and pieces I’ve just learned, Landon is a complex puzzle—and I hold in my hand only a small handful of the pieces that I need to put him back together. My fear is that I’ll never have all the pieces I need.

  Finishing my second sangria, I float over to the steps in the pool. Sliding off the raft, I take the steps out of the pool to be greeted by Landon, who takes the glass from my hand.

  “Enjoying your time with Lindsay?” he asks as he unfolds a towel and wraps it around me. Even though it’s late summer and still warm outside, the light breeze makes the evening air chilly when you get out of the water. Landon rubs his hands over the towel, up and down my arms to warm me up.