“Mommy!” Easton races into the living room in his oversized slippers with semi-dry hair. He’s so excited he barely let me blow-dry it. “I want Uncle Dillon to read me a story and put me to bed.”
Viv’s eyes fill up, but she composes herself fast, tentatively smiling at her son. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”
Easton jumps into my arms, and I hold him close as he wraps his little arms and legs around me.
A tear slips out of the corner of Viv’s eye, and I hate she’s upset. I can guess why, and I wish I could comfort her, but she’d never let me.
I wonder if she ever will.
25
Dillon
“Are you comfy?” I ask, sliding under the covers beside my son in his bed.
“Yep.” He grins up at me, and his obvious happiness at my presence does wonders for my self-esteem.
“Do you have a book you’re reading, or you want me to tell you a story?” I wrap my arm around his shoulders as he snuggles into me.
“Mommy is reading me The Enormous Crocodile by Roald Dahl. You can read me that.” He sits up against the headrest. “But first I need to tell my daddy about my day.” Easton takes the framed photo of Reeve off his bedside locker, propping it on his lap. “Mommy says Daddy and Lainey are together in heaven and they hear me when I speak to them, so I talk to them every night before bed,” he explains. Then he proceeds to mention everything that happened at camp and how we spent our afternoon.
I listen with a tight pain stretched across my chest, keeping my arm around my son as he tells Reeve all about his day. Staring at my brother’s photo as Easton talks is a sobering experience. Ash says I need to process my feelings instead of burying them deep inside, and I know she’s right. But I’m a chickenshit because I keep putting it off. Listening to Easton telling his daddy about his day opens the wound in my heart that little bit wider, and I know I’m going to have to face up to it, sooner rather than later.
“Night, Daddy.” Easton leans in, kissing Reeve’s picture. “I miss you.” The saddest expression appears on his face as he reverently places the frame back on his locker. Grabbing a pink teddy, shaped like a bunny, he cuddles it, whispering, “Night, Lainey.”
Aw, hell. A messy ball of emotion clogs the back of my throat, and I wish I could take my son’s pain away. Wiping the moisture from my cheeks, I hug him closer. “Ready for your story, buddy?”
“I’m ready.” His voice is smaller, quieter, and I wonder exactly what is going through his mind. He snuggles into my side, and I could quite happily never get out of this bed.
“Let’s lie back down,” I suggest, grabbing the book from the top of his locker, and we both snuggle under the covers. He turns a little in my arms so he’s facing me. His big blue eyes are so innocent and trusting as he looks at me. My heart swells with love for him. I may have only known the truth for eleven weeks and I have only been involved in his life this past month, but my feelings kicked in immediately. I loved Easton from the instant I met him. It’s hard not to. He’s the most adorable little boy. Sweet, smart, caring with a fun sense of humor and a good heart, just like his mum.
He is everything I could ever wish for in a son, and there is still so much to discover.
I read some of the book, and it doesn’t take him long to fall asleep against my shoulder. I stare at him for ages, noting every inch of his beautiful face, committing it to memory. He looks so young and innocent, and I silently rage at a world that would hurt him so much. Losing his father this young will always be a shadow on his soul. He might not understand until he is older, but it will leave its mark. He lost his sister too, but it isn’t the same. Losing Reeve will always hurt him, even if he has me in his life.
As conflicted as I am about my twin, I can’t deny the role he played in my son’s life or how grateful I am to Reeve for the way he loved him. Easton adores his daddy, and I would never take that away from him.
With military precision, I inch out of the bed slowly so I don’t wake him. My heart is both heavy and light, my head swimming with thoughts as I step out of his bedroom, slowly easing the door over. I don’t know if Viv shuts it all the way over or not, so I leave it open a little.
Turning around, I find Viv sitting on the carpeted floor, with her back to the wall, silently crying. Tears cascade down her cheeks as she stares up at me. She looks so small, so lost, so broken, and there’s a desperate pleading in her eyes that pains me to see. It’s as if she’s silently begging me to take her pain away even while another part of her is determined to push me away and never let me back in. I can tell from her blotchy skin that she’s been out here for a while.
Without speaking, I bend down and scoop her up, cradling her against my chest. Her arms wind around my neck without hesitation, and she leans into me, quietly sobbing as I head downstairs.
She doesn’t say anything as I step into her comfortable living room, and I don’t push her. It’s pretty obvious why she’s upset. I scan the room as I walk toward the plush sofas positioned in front of the open fireplace.
I much prefer this space to the more formal living room they use for guests. There are family photos in both rooms, but the framed pictures on the mantelpiece and covering one entire wall in this room are the true history of their time as a family. Unlike the more formal portraits in the other room.
It hurts seeing them, but I’m glad Vivien and Easton had love in their lives. There is no way anyone looking at these pictures could ignore how much Reeve Lancaster loved his family.
When I was with Viv in Ireland, she would tell me some things about him, and he sounded like a possessive control freak. It made me wonder whether he truly loved her or if it was what she represented. Being around this house this past month has made me realize, once and for all, I was wrong. He did love her. Maybe in the same way I do. It’s clear she was anything but a trophy wife.
The instant I sit down on the sofa, Viv crawls off my lap, scurrying to the corner and tucking herself in, as far away from me as possible. Hurt crawls up my throat, but I push it aside, focusing on her, like Ash suggested. “Are you okay?”
She shrugs, rubbing at her eyes. “Depends on your definition of okay.”
“I’m not trying to replace him,” I reassure her because I know I’m the trigger. “And I don’t like upsetting you. I hate seeing you crying.”
“It’s not your fault, and you haven’t done anything wrong. Easton already adores you, and I’m happy about that. I am.” It sounds like she’s trying to convince herself as much as me. “It’s just hard seeing you doing things Reeve did.”
I nod, understanding what she means. I wonder if it will always be this hard. Will I always feel like I’m in his shadow? Will my presence in their lives always remind Viv of Reeve?
“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask, handing her the box of tissues from the small end table.
“White wine,” she rasps.
“Do you mind if I grab a beer?”
She frowns. “I thought you didn’t drink anymore?”
I run a hand through my hair, loving that it’s getting longer again. I feel more like myself. “Contrary to popular belief, I’m not an alcoholic. My stint in rehab was more about clearing my head and processing some shit than drying out.” I stand. “Why don’t I get the drinks, and we can talk?”