Chapter 27: Ava - Reckless Love

For some reason, my whole family decided they needed to be in the room when the doctor showed up today to talk about Landon and me going home. The only person I asked to have in the room was Stephen, but he’s too far away, at the back of the room by the door. Although he’s behind everyone, he’s so tall that I can still see him easily. A lighthouse in the darkness.

“Okay,” I say, raising my voice when all my siblings start talking over each other. “We’re going home this afternoon. Can we all just chill out?”

“You’ll need care, Ava,” Sawyer says.

“Stop talking about a schedule. I don’t want any of you to be our caretakers,” I say. “I’ll hire people. Otherwise, we’ll all end up hating each other.”

“That house is huge,” Nathaniel says, “and all the bedrooms are at least one flight of stairs up. It’s unreasonable for you to be there without a lot of help.”

“I have an accessible apartment you could use,” Stephen says. “My parents have moved into the care home. If you and Landon want a smaller space while you recover, it’s yours.”

“Absolutely not,” my mother says from her perch by the window. “How would that look? You’re married.” She points at Stephen without look at him. “And not to him.”

“Everyone knows that, Mother,” I say, but instead of providing a clear answer, I meet Stephen’s gaze over the heads of my siblings. There’s a calm certainty radiating off him that convinces me his offer is genuine. “Are Landon and I still in danger?”

“Uncertain,” Stephen says. “Doubtful, but possible.”

“Your house is secure?” Maren asks. “Because we have apartments at the palace. Constant security there.”

Stephen shrugs and doesn’t contradict Maren, letting me decide my fate. He wouldn’t have suggested his parents’ apartment if he didn’t think he could keep us safe. Last night already sealed my decision. He and I have rounded a corner, and I don’t want to turn back. There’s nowhere else I want to be except close to him.

“Not the palace,” I say, focusing on Maren. “I think Stephen’s idea is good. The smaller accessible apartment for a couple of weeks while Landon and I recover is exactly what we need.”

“Raul will be livid,” my mother mutters. “This arrangement is unacceptable. You’re taking a grenade to your marriage.”

I glance over at Landon, who has noise-cancelling headphones on, and it’s pretty clear he’s not paying attention—deep in the dinosaur book Stephen brought for him today—despite all the people in the room who are running high on emotion.

“Now is not the time, Mother,” Nathaniel says.

His acknowledgment that our mother exists might be a first since he stopped speaking to her, years ago, when he discovered how heavily she meddled in his life when he was a teenager.

“It is if she’s about to make a grave mistake,” my mother counters. “Her husband is fighting for his life in Boston, and she’s playing house with an ex-police officer? That’s not how a Tucker behaves.”

“I can speak to how a Tucker behaves if you’d like,” Stephen says, and his tone is casual, but when his gaze connects with my mother, the warning practically sets fire to the room.

My mother bristles, but she doesn’t say a word, only crosses her arms and refocuses on me.

“I’ve made my decision,” I say.

“All right,” Gage says. “Let’s let Ava and Landon get some rest before they have to pack up. Do you want me and Ember to go to your house and get a bag for you and Landon? We can deliver it to Stephen’s house.”

“Thanks, Gage. That would be very helpful.” I glare at my mother after I say it.

Instead of leaving the room, my mother comes closer to the bed.

“Don’t,” I say, holding up my hand. “Whatever you’re about to say, just don’t.”

“Oh, we’re back to this, are we? I’ve outlived my usefulness? My advice is no longer any good?”

“I finally made some decisions without you,” I agree. “Just like old times.”

“What will people think?” she asks again.

“I’m going to file for divorce,” I say with more conviction than I feel. Raul’s threats are real and so clear in the background of my statement that it makes me want to cry. But I’m done living a lie. I’m done pretending I can save a marriage that was based on finances, an accidental pregnancy, and other people’s desire to keep up appearances.

When did I ever care what people thought of me? I didn’t. Or I didn’t used to. And I’m done caring now.

“He could die,” she says.

“Answer me honestly,” I say, meeting her gaze. “If the situation was reversed, do you think he’d do this to me if it benefitted him? If he’d be better off by fucking me over, would he do it?” I already know the truth, and I don’t need her to admit it. That’s who I married. A carbon copy of my mother.

“To be clear, I’m not helping you get out of your marriage to the man who bankrolled your company, who fathered your child. You would be a fool to leave him.”

In the background, Stephen stiffens, but he doesn’t move from where he’s planted himself. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his hand flex.

“Caitlin’s a good divorce lawyer,” I say. “She helped Maren, and she’ll help me.”

“At least Maren traded up,” my mother says with a huff before she sweeps out of the room. Gage, who’s been standing at the door waiting for her, closes it behind her.

“I was this fucking close to stepping in,” Stephen says, showing the tiniest pinch between his fingers as he comes nearer to the bed. “But it sounded like, at least from our conversation last night, that maybe you needed to stand up to her on your own.”

Fuck, I missed him. I missed this. That he listens. That he understands. That he pays attention in ways that no one else does.

“I’m done feeling like a piece on a board I don’t control.”

“I had a similar thought the other night,” he admits, running his hand along my blanket-covered leg.

“That you didn’t want to be a chess piece controlled by others?”

He lets out a little chuckle. “Close. Just that the choices I’ve made up to this point haven’t brought me happiness. So I have to start taking different risks.”

“Am I a risk?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Mom?” Landon asks.

My attention snaps to him, breaking the bubble Stephen and I were in. Landon’s headphones are off, and he looks exhausted. The doctors said he’s likely to tire easily for a while as a result of the blood loss, the deep cuts, and his concussion.

“Do we get to go home?” he asks.

“We’re going to spend a couple of weeks with Stephen, at his apartment,” I say. “Lorraine and Walter moved out, so we get to stay in their place until we’re both feeling better.”

“What about Dad?” Landon asks. “Where will he live?”

“In Boston,” I say, and again, Stephen tenses beside me, “until he’s better.”

“When’s he coming home?”

“We don’t know,” I say. “Right now, he’s in a big sleep that should help him.”

“When will they wake him up?” Landon asks, head tilted in curiosity, and it strikes me that he’s not worried. Does that mean I’m a good mother, or Raul is a terrible father?

“Hopefully soon,” I say, and I can’t decide whether I want that to be true. When I glance up, Stephen’s expression is shuttered. A shot of anxiety streaks down my spine, settling low in my belly. He hasn’t closed himself off from me since I woke up, and the realization that he can do it again so easily is unnerving.

“But we get to live with you, Stephen?” Landon asks, and the joy in his voice draws Stephen’s attention and his smile.

“That’s right, buddy. I’m going to take care of you and your mom until you’re up to par again.”

“That’s okay with me,” Landon says, and he slides his headphones onto his head and turns back to his book.

“Are we okay?” I ask Stephen. Are we even a “we” to worry about?

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Nothing to worry about.” He smooths my hair, and the tenderness from last night is back. “I’m going to head home for a little while to make sure the place is in good shape for you to arrive.”

“You’re going to drive us to your house, right? You’ll be the one doing it?” I hear the frisson of fear in my voice.

“I’m not sure I’ll let anyone else drive the two of you for the rest of your lives.” Stephen squeezes my hand. “I’ll be back for both of you. I promise.”

* * *

“Gage and Ember already dropped suitcases at the house for you and Landon. I put them in the bedrooms in the apartment,” Stephen says as he wheels me out of the hospital, a nurse following him with Landon in a separate wheelchair.

The thought of getting into the back of the car, one so similar to the vehicle we crashed in, is making my stomach flip-flop. My fear is irrational. I have traveled many, many times in a vehicle driven by someone else with no issues. I trust Stephen more than anyone else in the world.

We get to the car, and Stephen opens the back door. When I’m on my feet, Stephen sweeps me into his arms and sets me in the car before doing up my buckle. His gaze lands on the pulse at the base of my neck. He runs his thumb along the flutter.

“You’re nervous.” It’s a statement.

“I know it makes no sense.”

“Makes a lot of sense, actually,” he says. “The car accident was a traumatic experience, and you remember at least some of it. Does Landon?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper. I’ve been afraid to ask.

“If we need to pull over or take a break on the way to the house, just let me know.”

“Okay,” I say, and I cup one side of his face while I kiss the other. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I crave the intimacy, the connection.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he says, voice gruff. Then he ducks out of the car, and his voice booms as he lifts Landon out of the wheelchair in exaggerated fashion and carries him around to the other door. He deposits him in the back seat and then does up his buckle before ruffling his air. “You ready?”

“This car’s a safe car, right?” Landon asks. “Not like the other one?”

“The safest,” Stephen says. “Because I’m the best at my job.”

Landon sets his jaw and nods as though shoring himself up. I reach across the space between us, and I take Landon’s hand.

Stephen gets into the driver’s seat, adjusts the mirror to see me, and then he pulls away from the curb.

* * *

Landon, bless him, managed to fall asleep in the car. My anxiety was through the roof, and he fell asleep. Stephen carries him in and lays him on the couch when we arrive. As he’s getting Landon settled with a blanket, I explore.

It’s clear Stephen cleaned the place, stocked up on groceries, and, when I get to the bedroom, that he put fresh sheets on the two single beds that his parents once slept on.

When I run my hand along the pillowcase, the texture is familiar. Stephen arrives to lean against the doorframe, watching me.

“Are these Franza sheets?” Petra and Paul Franza branched out into home décor a couple of years ago, and I’ve become addicted to their sheet sets.

“That’s what you had at your house, and I remember how particular you used to be about your thread count,” he says.

“You bought Franza sheets just for us?” They aren’t cheap.

“Is that really so surprising, Ava?”

It is and it isn’t. This is the Stephen I spent eight years with—the one who’d do literally anything to please me. I was such an idiot not to appreciate that at the time. I could claim I had no one to compare him to, and that would be true. Brief affairs with other men that never went anywhere. Maybe I couldn’t acknowledge it back then, but some part of me knew what I had with him, couldn’t help seeking it out over and over. For whatever reason, I wasn’t ready for him like I should have been, like I wish I was.

“Couldn’t have you sleeping on my parents’ old castoffs.” He shrugs like his thoughtfulness and care is nothing.

But those traits are everything. He didn’t buy just any new sheets; he bought the ones he knew I preferred.

“I never, for one instant, deserved you,” I say, my voice thick.

“Jesus, Ava. You don’t measure love by who deserves what. Love’s not a tally sheet or a checks-and-balances accounting venture.”

“How in the world did you ever love me? Explain it to me like I’m five.”

“How did I ever love you?” He raises his eyebrows, surprise coating his expression. “I can’t imagine a world in which I didn’t love you, and even if I could, I wouldn’t want to live there. In those eight years, I can’t think of a single thing I’d change.”

“Not even the ending?” I challenge.

“Maybe the ending,” he concedes. “Maybe the ending.” He holds out his hand to me. “Come on, let me feed you some real food.”

“Real food?” I ask, letting my hand get engulfed in his. “Like what?”

“I bought those pot stickers you used to love. Figured I could cook those up for you.”

I sandwich his hand with my other one, clinging to him as we walk down the short hallway. Joy fills my chest. “Are you going to play chef?”

He spins me at the entrance to the kitchen and cages me to the wall with his body. His hands are on either side of me, and his biceps pop out of his T-shirt. Everything about his height and breadth makes me feel tiny, but I’ve never felt threatened. Cared for. Always just cared for. Desire surges, and I’m on the verge of panting.

If I could pant without wincing in pain.

“I would be your chef,” he says. “For a price.”

A slow smile spreads. God, we used to play this game all the time. “Are we going to barter, Officer Foster?”

“Fuck,” he mutters, his gaze falling to my lips. “I forgot how much I used to like hearing you call me that.”

“What do you want in exchange for these world-famous pot stickers, Officer Foster?” I give him a saucy smile. “Cause I’m willing to play dirty.”

His pot stickers were my favorite late-night snack at his old apartment whenever I turned up there drunk at stupid o’clock in the morning. He’d crawl out of bed to make them for me no matter what time I arrived. While he cooked, I’d tease him and taunt him, turning the foreplay up along with the heat of the pan. His recipe is one I’ve never been able to replicate despite asking our personal chef several times to try just once more. Those nights with Stephen, when I finished my snack, the sticky, delicious sauce went to places that would scandalize half of Bellerive.

Back then, sex with Stephen was all kinds of things, but it was never boring, never routine. Thrilling. Breathtaking. And most of all, orgasmic.

“As tempting as that is, no bartering tonight,” he says, kissing my temple and stepping away. “You’re recovering from surgery, and you’ve still got broken ribs. We can barter another day.” He gives my ass a light tap as he steps around me.

“You’re such a tease!” I complain as I follow him into the kitchen.

“Finally,” he says, throwing up his hands in mock victory, “it’s me for once.”

That makes me laugh, which causes my chest to ache with a reminder, and I wince.

“How’s that surgery feeling right about now?” he asks.

“Not great,” I admit, “but I’m alive, so I’ll take it.”

The smile slips off his face, and he nods. “You’re alive,” he agrees. “I’ll take that too. Free pot stickers for you. No additional payment needed.”

I settle into one of the kitchen chairs to watch him, and I realize I haven’t felt this light, this sure that I’ve somehow landed in the right place, in years.