Knowing she must’ve had another one of her bad dreams, I couldn’t help but feel guilty that I hadn’t been there for her when she needed me. In hopes of making it up to her, I decided I would make pancakes for breakfast—it might lift both our spirits for the day.
I carefully moved Cat’s elbow from my throat before rolling her over on her side, taking a moment to make sure I hadn’t woken her. I eased back the covers, slipped out of bed, and rushed to the bathroom to freshen up a bit. After brushing my teeth, throwing on some sweats, and pulling my hair into a ponytail, I tiptoed into the kitchen and got busy making our breakfast.
I’d just gotten out the pancake mix and eggs when Cat appeared in the doorway with a pouty look on her face. “I had a bad dream last night.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” I walked over and lifted her into my arms, hugging her tightly while carrying her to the counter. “What kind of bad dream?”
She gave me a half-hearted shrug, then mumbled, “I can’t remember.”
I knew that wasn’t true. She always remembered her bad dreams, mainly because they were always the same—just like mine, they were always about that night. Cat and I had been through countless hours of therapy, but they had done little to erase the memories of what happened that night.
“Would you like to go see Ms. Katie again?”
Cat was just over two years old when her father was sent to prison. I’d hoped that she was too young to remember what had happened, but I learned early on, that wasn’t the case.
A year later, she started having night terrors and became very clingy with me. She didn’t want to leave my side and would have meltdowns about going to daycare. Things went south from there, so I took Cat to a family counselor, and after two years of getting nowhere, they suggested I take her to see Katie.
Katie was an art therapist who was absolutely wonderful with her. She and Cat would spend an hour a week talking and drawing, and I could see a real difference. She seemed happier, more open, and the nightmares became less and less frequent.
But lately, things hadn’t been going so well, and I had no idea why. “Maybe try talking to her about these dreams you’ve been having?”
“Uh-uh.” She shook her head, then quickly changed the subject by asking, “Do you like warm milk?”
“Warm milk?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I’m not really a fan. Why?”
“Thatch made me some, but I didn’t like it.”
“Thatch made you some?” I repeated, sounding more surprised than I intended. “When did he do that?”
She shrugged. “When I had my bad dream.”
“Last night?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You met Thatch?”
“Mm-hmm.” Like what she’d just told me was no big deal at all, she reached over and grabbed one of her juice boxes. “I liked him.”
“You did?”
“Mm-hmm.” Cat nodded her little head. “He was nice, and he didn’t like warm milk either.”
I giggled as I asked, “Then, why’d he make it for you?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged once again. “Said it’d make the bad dreams go away.”
“What else did he say?”
“Hmm ... That he was your friend.” Her eyes lit up as she smiled. “He told me about his tattoos.”
“Oh, he did?”
“Yeah, they’re cool. I liked the Army one.”
My mind was reeling.
There was so little I truly knew about Thatcher.
I’d met several of his brothers when they came to the nursing home to see McClanahan. I’d also seen them when they came by to see Delilah. We worked at the same nursing home and worked the same morning shift, and over the past couple of years, we’d gotten close enough for her to share a few stories with me about the guys. I’d even been to a small club party with her.
But no one, not even Delilah, knew I’d been seeing Thatch.
We’d kept it a secret.
We’d kept everything a secret, so I was a little shocked to hear that he’d opened up to Catherine about his tattoos. He’d never once told me anything about them or anything personal about himself.
But in all honesty, I hadn’t exactly been open and forthright with him.
I’d never told him that my ex-husband was in prison.
I’d never mentioned any of my scars or how I’d gotten them.
I thought it was better to keep it simple—especially if we were doing this whole no-strings-attached thing. I could just enjoy the moment with him, forget about the past, and when we were done, I could step back into reality feeling a little lighter—a little more capable of facing life’s bullshit.
But now, I’d put all that in jeopardy. Thatcher and I were no longer in this secret little bubble where no one knew we were even remotely involved.
That was my fault.
I should’ve gotten up and made sure Cat was asleep.