I should’ve locked the door or let him go on home like he usually did.
I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking—otherwise, I wouldn’t have let my seven-year-old daughter walk into my room while I was in bed with a man she’d never even met before. Guilt washed over me at the thought, and I immediately went back to work on her pancakes. “So, did he say or do anything else?”
“No ... Just took me to your room and put me in your bed.”
“He did?”
She nodded.
“Well, that was sweet of him.”
“Mm-hmm.” I was busy pouring the pancake batter onto the skillet when Cat asked, “Can he come to dinner?”
“What?”
I whipped around with surprise. In a single breath, a million thoughts rushed through my mind. For years, Catherine had been terrified of men and refused to even consider being in the same room with one she didn’t know, but here we stood, imagining Thatcher sitting at the table having spaghetti and meatballs with us, laughing and talking about our day like we were some kind of family.
The thought was absolutely asinine.
Thatcher made it clear that he wasn’t looking for a relationship. He was upfront from the start and told me not to expect too much from him, and that his club meant everything to him—everything, and his brothers came before all else. He also alluded to the fact that he’d been burned once before and never intended for that to happen again.
Even if that wasn’t the case, I’d decided a long time ago that I’d never get involved with another man—not even one as amazing as Thatcher, who made me feel things I never dreamed I could feel.
I took a moment to collect myself, then turned my focus back to Cat as I continued, “Umm, no. Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said so.” I scooped her up and lowered her to the floor. “Now go to your room and change out of your PJs while I finish up these pancakes.”
“Okay.”
With that, she scurried off, leaving me alone to finish up our breakfast. I tried to swallow the knot that was growing in the base of my throat, but the damn thing simply wouldn’t budge. I inhaled a few deep breaths and prayed it would be enough to keep me from having a complete breakdown.
But just as I thought I was starting to wrangle in my emotions, I felt a tear trickle down my cheek.
Damn.
Just like that, I could hear Trevor’s voice in my head, so full of hate and rage as he told me I was worthless, that marrying me was the worst mistake of his life and how he wished I was dead. Without even realizing it, I was clutching the sink as I fought back the onslaught of tears.
It always amazed me how quickly the anguish and all-consuming regret could come rushing back with absolutely no rhyme or reason. It was just one of the many wonderful side effects of PTSD.
I wanted to think I didn’t have PTSD. I wanted to believe that I was strong enough to get past that night without any residual side effects, and for the most part, I managed fairly well. I could face the day like anyone else, but I didn’t like surprises; I hated the dark, and I wasn’t a big fan of being confined or held down—but then again, those were issues I still might’ve had even without PTSD.
The nightmares and flashbacks were different. Those were definitely brought on from that night, and I hated them.
I hated them with every fiber of my being.
I was doing my best to try and breathe through the moment when I heard Cat say, “Momma, you’re burning the pancakes.”
“Oh no!”
I quickly turned to the stove and grabbed the skillet, pulling it from the burner. I didn’t bother trying to flip the pancakes. I could tell by the billowing smoke they weren’t salvageable, so I raked them into the sink and turned on the water, letting them seep into the garbage disposal. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I’ll have some more ready in a minute.”
“It’s okay, Momma. I’m not that hungry.”
Feeling even more guilty, I quickly started making another batch, and thankfully, this time, I didn’t screw it up. There was more than enough for both of us with plenty of leftovers, so I gathered a few and put them on a plate for Henry—our beloved neighbor.
As soon as Cat collected her things and rushed outside to get on the school bus, I put on my shoes and coat, then headed over to see Henry. I knocked on his door, and a few minutes later, I heard him shout, “Come on in!”
I opened the door and found him sitting in the living room with a blanket draped across his legs—the same place I found him most mornings. On my way to the kitchen, I lifted the plate of food and said, “I brought pancakes.”