Between Breaths (The Seattle Sound Series Book 2) Page 3

  While I wondered if I’d misjudged his feelings for me, I was sure my feelings for him were deader than roadkill.

  None of me remained in the condo. Not my Kindle on the coffee table, which always annoyed him. Not the crisp, apple-green teapot and cups next to the ostentatious six-burner cooktop. My trench coat no longer sat on the hook near the door.

  He, like the luxurious space, was neat; not a single one of his short, dark hairs out of place. Clean-shaven. Large hands folded over the chest of his expensive wool-blend suit coat. Blue dress shirt and tie done up tight—even at home. I used to undo that tie, muss his professional persona. I closed my eyes, willing away the memory.

  “I’ve missed you,” he said.

  “I couldn’t tell. Nothing I own is still here.”

  “Because you asked me to pack up your items. Which I did.”

  “Thank you.”

  “If this is about your being fired from that paper, you can use the time to get more involved in charities, plan our wedding.” He touched my cheek. “I don’t think less of you for losing your job, Briar.”

  I stiffened. “I was fired because I wouldn’t rat out my sister. And that’s not why I left you.”

  Ken waved his hand, dismissing the situation he deemed immaterial. My career gone with a flick of his hand.

  “You left so suddenly. More than a week went by with no explanation. We could’ve talked about what you think happened, Briar.”

  My back snapped to full attention, but I borrowed Lia’s method of coping and met his gaze with mine. Steady and calm, I waited for him to try to make our breakup my fault. “You mean how you tried to bribe my pharmacist to get me off the pill without my consent? That’s not something we talk about after the fact.”

  “I made a mistake.” His eyes were contrite. He stepped forward, tried to wrap me in his arms.

  “Yes, you did.” I stepped back, putting the low chrome-and-glass coffee table between us.

  “You weren’t listening. I’ve been ready to settle into family life.”

  I tucked my hands into my pockets. He didn’t need to see how badly they were shaking.

  “You weren’t excited about my proposal, and I felt rejected.”

  “I was thinking about it,” I bit out.

  “Rosie told me she counseled you to reconsider, and I worried you would. I mean, my own aunt was telling you I wasn’t the right man for you. That’s more than a blow to the ego.”

  “She never said that. She asked if I’d be happy as Mrs. Dr. Ken. And I’m not sure I could have been.”

  He moved forward again, but I stepped to the other side of the table. “You read people, open doors,” he said. “Together, we can own this city.”

  I rocked back on my heels, eyes fixed on the small mole on his left cheek. Ken’s narrow frame was inches taller than mine but no broader. He stepped closer, his pale eyes fixed on mine. Gray, but so different from Lia’s. Colder, like steel.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?” he asked.

  “There’s really not much left to say.” I spun around. Coming here wasn’t a mistake, per se, but Ken was delusional if he expected me to forgive and forget.

  “That’s it? We were together for years, Briar. I asked you to marry me.”

  “The answer’s no, in case you were still wondering.” I opened the door.

  “We were good together, both in bed and in our careers.”

  My neck heated with the anger I’d been trying to suppress since Jess had called me. “You tried to manipulate my body, Ken. My future.”

  Ken’s mouth flattened. “You want financial security. I offer you more money than you can spend. And entry to the top of the medical community. You can write those health articles that are so popular.”

  “I also want my partner to respect me. If you could take the choice of whether or not to have a child from me, I’ve never been your equal. You see my work as—” I waved my hand, but the thought was no longer there.

  “I respect your mind. You just aren’t always reasonable. You’re approaching thirty-five. There’s a reason you shouldn’t have children after that point. Fewer pregnancies go to term and fewer babies are healthy. You’re running out of time, Briar.”

  “This is my time to choose to do with as I will. And I don’t want a child now.”

  “Because you’re too busy?” I tried hard not to flinch but Ken smiled. Like a shark, he circled closer. “Or, no, you expected to find true love. Like in your sister’s books. That’s antiquated. As long as the sex is good and the conversation mutually satisfying, who gives a shit about something as ridiculous as love?”

  I turned back and gave him a thorough once-over. “Me.” Admitting that out loud was unexpectedly cathartic. I’d spent years being dishonest with myself, pretending I was fine with my current circumstances. I strode down the hall. “Bye, Ken. I’ll let you know if anything’s missing from the boxes.”

  “Rosie called.”

  Dammit. She was the one person we shared, the woman I’d almost married him for.

  “She’s looking for you. Said she hasn’t seen you in weeks. What kind of ‘daughter of the heart’ does that, Briar?”

  He used Rosie’s term for me mockingly. I shouldn’t have come here. I’d expected . . . more than I got from him. Less coldness, more actual emotion. But I should have known better: I’d met his parents. My family might not be close, but Ken’s was the epitome of dysfunctional. They sure as hell didn’t laugh or hug or do anything that makes someone human.

  “She’s being moved into hospice tomorrow.”

  My world tilted, and I grabbed the back of the chair to stay upright. She’d said she wasn’t feeling well when we went to lunch weeks ago. Told me not to worry. I hadn’t, too caught up in my own drama, then Lia’s. But I hadn’t known the cancer was back, much less the severity of Rosie’s prognosis.

  “Where?”

  “Come back, sit down,” Ken smiled. “We can discuss her treatment. I’ll do it, pro bono.”

  His mother’s sister, and he used her as he used everyone. We both knew he’d continue to manipulate me, seeing me as a possession more than a person. One he’d tire of eventually. Rosie told me, more than a year ago, that Ken’s childhood was emotionally stunted. He’d been sent off to various boarding schools, camps, anything to keep him from spending time with his parents. Now he wanted me to create a child he could do that to. I shuddered, wrapping my arms around my waist. I’d let my need for financial security, for material success, supersede everything I cared about.

  “Where, Ken?”

  “Let’s discuss this—”

  I walked toward the elevator. My breath hitched as I realized how much time I’d missed with Rosie. Hospice. She wouldn’t have many good days left. My apartment search could wait. Rosie was more important.

  “Where?” I snapped back over my shoulder.

  “Bevins-Kline.”

  The elevator opened and I walked in, pulling out my phone.

  “We should discuss her treatment,” Ken called. “I’m her best option.”

  She was already on her way to hospice. She hadn’t called to talk to Ken herself, something she would have done if she’d wanted to. My knuckles tightened as the metal handrail dug into the skin on my palm.

  “Neither Rosie nor I want you there,” I whispered as the door slid closed.

  Chapter 5

  Hayden

  The building was more depressing from the outside than I’d anticipated. The red brick, though well maintained, appeared tired. The blue shimmer of the water behind the building reminded me of the Great Beyond in those cheesy, low-budget movies I’d watched on Sunday mornings, waiting for my dad to putter through his morning routine.

  The soil itself must have sucked in some of the emotions of the thousands of people sent here to die, because even the trees and flowers were brown and droopy in an otherwise verdant city.

  Crikey. I was supposed to walk in there. On purpose. A place that was nothi
ng less than the yawning maw of hellish, unfinished dreams. A fitting final place for the mother who’d chosen to disengage any inkling of maternal responsibility.

  Forget that I’d flown more than fifteen hours to get here. I pulled my key fob back out of my pocket and began to turn back. Harry was right. I should never have left my band. I definitely shouldn’t have come here expecting answers. Her years of silence spoke volumes.

  As I hesitated, a woman strode toward the doors. Her shoulder-length hair was the exact color of a mink I’d seen in a traveling zoo as a child. That mink’s fur was soft, rich, warm. Like my mum’s hair when she carried me home after our rambles. For years, I’d thought my mum’s hair was more beautiful than anything I’d seen before.

  And when I’d seen that mink’s fur at the zoo, the color reiterated how much I’d missed her. I’d spent an hour petting the soft, warm pelt, much to my dad’s bewildered acceptance. A good man, my father.

  The brown-haired woman hitched her large bag onto her shoulder and wrapped a hand around her elbow, head bent down. She passed me without so much as a glance, feet tapping a no-nonsense rhythm that pulled her inexorably closer to the institution of death.

  I didn’t want her in there. I didn’t want my mink contaminated with illness, death, and despair. Two steps ahead, she crossed the threshold into the hospice before I worked up the nerve to open my mouth. I shivered as I strode through the glass partition, following just inches behind her.

  Holy hell. The building was worse inside. The smell of death lingered, astringent and too close.

  “Hi, there, Briar. Did you bring someone with you today? Welcome to Bevins-Kline Hospice Care Facility.”

  As I stepped forward, the girl behind the desk stared at me, mouth agape. I groaned.

  “You’re—”

  “Hayden Crewe,” I sighed, sidling closer to the desk. “I’m here to see my mum.”

  “Oh. My. God.” The girl breathed, her face pasty. “I. Love. You.” Her cheeks flushed an unnatural shade even darker than crimson. While I was glad for the return of color, her comment made me uncomfortable.

  “Er, well, thanks. What room is Miriam Hastings in?”

  The woman with the beautiful hair—Briar?—stood next to me at the desk. “Stop, Ginny. You’re embarrassing him.”

  Her voice reminded me of blues singers who’d moved beyond controlled lust and dipped lower into emotional pain. It ripped through my gut in the best possible way. I wanted to hear that voice calling my name as she writhed against me. I blinked back the image. I was in a bloody hospice center. So not the place for sexual fantasies.

  Her eyes were blue. The same shade as the native bluebell Dad used to plant in the back garden.

  “He’s in Jackaroo. He plays the piano and keyboard,” Ginny said, her voice rising with excitement.

  Briar waited for me to say something. I hadn’t caught enough of what Ginny had said, but I’d heard something about a piano. “Piano’s my favorite, but I also play the mandolin. Some guitar.” Could I sound any more pompous?

  “Miriam’s in the room next to my friend. We good to go, Ginny?” Briar took two visitor stickers, handing one to me.

  I cringed at the bright sheen in Ginny’s eyes. Briar leaned forward, placing her hands on the desk.

  “Don’t, Ginny,” Briar said, her voice lowered to just more than a whisper. “Don’t make this harder for him. Think about what’s happening in this building now, without the extra attention. You told me you needed this job for the summer. If you make that call, tell anyone, I’ll be sure to have you fired.”

  The girl leaned back, annoyed, but she dipped her head once in acquiescence. “Go on through. But would you sign this for me first, Hayden?”

  She batted her lashes at me and held up a sheaf of paper. I snagged her pen and scrawled my name on a confidential billing statement. Shaking my head, I followed Briar through another set of doors. “Thanks for that. I think.”

  Briar’s long, trim legs ate up the industrial-carpeted hallway. “You have as much right to grieve as the next person. I’m glad Miriam’s got you. I’ve spent most of the last couple days here, and I was worried she’d die alone.”

  I cringed, biting back a curse. “We aren’t close,” I said. My voice was defensive, the gate holding back all my anger buckling under the surging emotions as we got nearer our destinations.

  She stopped walking and turned toward me fully. Crikey, she was gorgeous. Thick, dark lashes framed those blue eyes. Pert nose set in the middle of her face, her rounded chin curved into an elegant jawline. Her pink lips were slightly too wide. Today, those soft lips weren’t painted, but the natural plumpness of the lower one wasn’t something I could ignore. I wanted to bite it until she moaned, then soothe the sting with my tongue.

  “Look . . . ”

  I was, thank you very much. I’d already stared at the rounded globes of her bum as we walked in. Her waist was cinched by a wide belt, and her blue top, too demure to show off her scant cleavage, was soft, feminine. Her chest tapered into the long, elegant line of her neck. Nice. She ran her hand through her hair and glanced up and down the hall. Her eyes darkened.

  “Miriam’s close to the end. Whatever you need to say, remember she won’t be here in less than a week.”

  With that, she turned and entered a room behind her. She greeted a woman named Rosie, her voice hushed but upbeat. I slid my hands into my pockets, rocking back on my heels as I sought my mum’s name. Next door, she’d said. There, written on a dry-erase board: Miriam.

  In all the years I’d played through the moment we met again, I’d been the injured one and she’d begged for my forgiveness—forgiveness I wasn’t sure I could give. What kind of woman walked away from her only child? But she was the one hurting now. Briar’s words echoed through my head as I braced myself to enter the room.

  The door was open. Good. My steps were hesitant as I approached the hospital bed. She turned her head on a pillow, making me feel like an arse for not stepping into her line of vision. Her skin was pale, nearly translucent. Tubes and wires were connected to most of her body, making her look more like a bad sci-fi movie experiment than a person.

  Her brown eyes, they were alive, bright. I inhaled sharply, mirroring her breath. Fuck me, they were the exact same color and shape as mine. Much as I might want to, I couldn’t deny our relationship.

  “Hayden?”

  Her voice was tentative. Her eyes filled with tears.

  “G’day.”

  “Are you real, or one of my dreams?”

  “I’m real.”

  She tapped her finger against her lip, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I’d like to hope so. I’ve thought of you so many times over the years.”

  We stared at each other for another long moment. Her long, thick brown hair was now a cap of translucent gray. That I mourned; my best memories were lying my head on her hair.

  What to say? “Thank you for birthing me” sounded ridiculous. Anything else was much less polite. Especially bringing up the incident.

  “Will you sit with me?” she asked.

  I inched closer to the armchair next to the bed. The padding was thin, lumpy. As uncomfortable as a chair could be. A metaphor for my life. Shit-tastic, as my mates would say.

  “You look like George,” she said. “I have pictures he sent and others from the newspaper, of course, but you’re so much handsomer in person.”

  “Thanks, I guess.” I glanced up at the clock. A quarter hour gone. How was I going to sit through many more minutes if all we did was exchange platitudes and chitchat?

  She smiled a little. “Tell me about you. I want to know everything.”

  I cleared my throat, my gaze probably wide and wild as she talked to me. “Er, well, my band’s on tour. We canceled one show in Melbourne, but I’ll catch up with them in in a few days when we head to Japan. We’re coming to the States in September. After Europe.”

  Another long pause. I squirmed in my chair.

  �
�Do you like performing? Music?”

  I shrugged, unsure how to answer that, really. “Reckon I do.”

  “What’s your favorite song?”

  “Not sure,” I hedged. “When you write so many, there’s lots of choices.” Patently false, but I wasn’t ready to tell my mum that. I glanced up at the clock. Barely another five minutes scraped off the hour. At some point, I could walk back out, the obligatory meeting over.

  She memorized my every feature while I catalogued the lights on each of her machines.

  “I’ve never met anyone as passionate about music as your father,” she sighed. The breathing tube hissed, pushing new air into her failing lungs. “His timing was so confident. I loved that about him even as I envied his ability.”

  “He’s dead,” I said.

  Her eyes slid closed. Out of tiredness or to block my words? “We talk, you know. Now. He looks younger than I do.” She smirked. “He’s told me so much about you. He’s proud of the man you’ve become. So am I.”

  We sat there again, me unable to look at her, she unwilling to look away.

  “I miss the piano,” she whispered. “I miss music.”

  I glanced at the clock again. I could leave this horrible place soon, after I asked my questions and met with the director.

  “Why’d you do it?” I asked. I wasn’t quite sure what I was asking. Let me leave? Never call? Hurt me in the first place?

  She slid into sleep as I sat in the chair. I bent my head toward the edge of the bed. Her breathing remained even thanks to the steady hiss of the oxygen machine. I willed her to wake, to tell me something—anything—she remembered about my childhood. Jet lag and sadness pulled at the edges of my consciousness.

  “You okay?”

  I startled at the voice. The woman I’d walked in with earlier stood before me. Briar, the blue-eyed girl with the mink hair that I wanted to pet.