Kept Read online

  “That’s perfect. I hate that movie.”

  Garrett sent Dillan a confused look.

  “She hates it, Gare. So it’s perfect.”

  Tracy slung the bag’s strap onto her shoulder. “Exactly. You guys enjoy your guy night. I’m going to try to go next door.”

  Interesting plan Tracy had. Hopefully she came out unscathed. “Knock an SOS on the wall if you get into trouble.”

  She flicked his earlobe as she passed.

  Dillan grabbed it. “Ow.”

  “I thought we’d use the whippoorwill call.”

  He exaggerated rubbing his ear. “Is she that loud?”

  Garrett raised an eyebrow. “Scary thought. Go get ’er, tiger.”

  “I will. Pray for me, guys.”

  Right. God, keep Tracy safe. Make Miska be nice to the poor girl.

  The door shut behind them. Garrett leaned forward, eyes on the game. “You want to watch Rocky?”

  “Not especially. What else is on?”

  Garrett flipped through the listings. “Pride and Prejudice. Les Mis—”

  “Rocky sounds awesome.”

  Chapter Eight

  Miska peeked at Tracy sitting in the dark beside her, gaze glued to the TV screen where Downton Abbey’s Matthew Crawley surveyed his future estate. Tracy’s arrival with a plea of escape from what the guys were watching had been a surprise. But she’d had no reason to say no. Adrienne had never shown up to drink their sorrows away, and the last thing Miska wanted was to sit alone and relive her argument with Mark.

  If she and Adrienne weren’t going to get drunk together, watching Downton Abbey was a good second choice.

  And Tracy was all right, after all.

  Someone pounded at her door.

  Tracy jumped. “Wow, that scared me.”

  Miska paused the show. “I’ll see who that is. You want popcorn?”

  “Sounds great.”

  She padded down the hall in her bare feet. “There’s a box in the cabinet above the microwave.”

  Miska released the deadbolt and opened the door.

  Adrienne teetered in the hallway. “Misky.” She grabbed the doorframe. “What’s up?”

  “Not you for much longer. What’d you drink?” Miska pulled the door wide open to give Adrienne room to maneuver.

  “Just shots, I think.” Adrienne trailed one hand along the hallway. “Why’s your place so dark?”

  “We’re watching TV.”

  “We?” She lowered her voice. “Is Mark still here?”

  Tracy popped her head into view. “Hi, Adrienne. Good to see you again.”

  Adrienne stared at Tracy. “You’re—aren’t you Garrett’s little fiancée?”

  Miska tensed. A wasted Adrienne was unpredictable. “Tracy brought Downton Abbey over. Have a seat. We’re making popcorn.”

  A kernel popped as if to verify her words. Adrienne seated herself at the island. “So how was your love fest with Mark?”

  Tracy peered into the microwave.

  “Fine.” If she pretended he left five minutes earlier than he had. “What happened to tonight? I thought you were coming over.”

  “Oh, that.” Adrienne waved a hand. It fell and smacked the granite. “Got stuck dealing with an author issue, then got talking with someone new in the office, and we went out for drinks. Didn’t mean to blow you off. You ended up with company anyway.” She flashed Tracy a useless fake smile.

  Tracy asked Adrienne about her work. Miska took over popcorn duty as they talked.

  “So what are Garrett and his brother up to?” Adrienne asked.

  “They’re watching Rocky, I think.”

  “Ah, Rocky.” Adrienne laid her hand over her heart. “My fave.”

  Smiling, Miska pulled the popcorn from the microwave. “Yo, Adrienne, want popcorn?”

  “No, I’m gonna head out. Need to sleep off those shots. You girls enjoy your show.”

  Miska handed Tracy the popcorn and followed her sister down the hallway. “You need a cab?”

  “I’ll get one. See you.”

  Miska watched her walk away. What was going on in Adrienne’s life that she hadn’t waited to drink with her? She closed the door and returned to the kitchen. One girl had to be as good as another. “You want something to drink?”

  “I’ll take pop if you’ve got it.”

  She’d been thinking Bailey’s. Or Bacardi. “A&W okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Glass or can?”

  “Can’s fine.”

  The woman was too easy to please. Miska grabbed cans from the fridge. She handed Tracy one and curled up on her end of the couch. A dry night. Oh, well. She popped the top and drained a good third of the can.

  “You and Adrienne seem close.”

  Cold seeped into her fingers. “We are. She looked out for me in high school. Then I did an internship at her publisher, and we’ve been good friends since.”

  “You don’t seem much alike, though.”

  “Our families were different. Her mom’s spent most of her life high on something. So Adrienne went without a lot. A hard life, you know?”

  Tracy nodded.

  “My mom, on the other hand, worked hard, made a lot, gave us everything she could. She was an amazing woman. She was our glue.” She swirled the root beer. Vodka was calling her now.

  “You said was. She’s passed?”

  “Four years ago. She was twenty-six when I was born, and I was twenty-six when she died. I’ve always wondered if she had any idea when I was born that she’d just hit middle age.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Makes me wonder, you know? Like maybe middle age was back in high school and the end’s just around the corner. Or maybe I’m twenty years away from middle age.”

  “Those are some heavy thoughts.”

  Thoughts she no longer wanted to think about. “What about your family?”

  Tracy studied the popcorn bowl. “My family’s closer to yours, except my parents are together. My older brothers are the best. They’ve always spoiled me. You know how brothers are.”

  All too well.

  “We’re even closer now.” Tracy gave a nervous laugh. “My family became Christians while I was in college. I was the first. I had this friend in high school who invited me to youth group—”

  Dillan flashed in her mind. “Youth group—what is that? Dillan’s mentioned it.”

  “Oh.” A startled look crossed Tracy’s face. “It’s a weekly church meeting for teenagers. We’d play games, eat junk food, study the Bible. It was life changing.”

  “So that’s what he does every week? Plays games, eats junk food, studies the Bible? That broken arm will ruin any games.”

  Tracy laughed. “I doubt it’ll make a difference. Dillan’s not much of an athlete.”

  “Really? But he’s a runner—” Who wiped out while running. “I see your point.”

  “You should see him with the kids, though. He’s so good. I hope he’s still youth pastor when our kids are old enough.” She sighed as if the idea made her infinitely happy. “Anyway, I started going to youth group with my friend and learned how God loved me and made a way to pay for my sins so I could go to heaven.”

  Ah, there was the God stuff. It obviously worked for Tracy, which was great. “Can I ask a question?”

  “Ask away. I’m an open book.”

  “Dillan let it slip that you’re not living with Garrett until you’re married.”

  “It’s no secret. Sure, we’re waiting until our wedding night for sex.”

  Their wedding night? “Why?”

  “Because God says to wait until we’re married. His plan is for one woman and one man to be married until death separates them. Doing it any other way brings pain. That’s all it is. I want to have a great marriage with Garrett, and part of that means doing it God’s way. Waiting.”

  “But you guys are engaged. You’re getting married—when?”

  “Late September when it’s nice
and cool.”

  “And you’re still waiting? To have sex?” The words squeaked out, but Miska didn’t care. Garrett and Tracy were already committed to each other. They loved each other. Why wait? “How do you know if you’re even compatible? I mean, what if you get married and find out—” She grimaced and shook her head.

  Tracy laughed. “I’m not worried. I adore Garrett. He’s funny, he’s handsome, he takes care of me. It’s hard to wait, as it is. I’m not worried about—” She waved a hand in the air. “Yeah. Not happening.”

  “So Garrett’s waited too? You’ve both waited all this time?”

  Tracy’s smile vanished.

  Oh no. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “No, it’s okay. Garrett and I—we both have our pasts. Mine’s just a lot longer ago than his. He hasn’t waited. I haven’t waited. I can’t tell you how much I wish I had.”

  “Would you really want to come to him as a clueless virgin when he wasn’t?”

  Her nod was solemn. “I would love that.”

  It didn’t make sense, and yet it did. The concepts struggled in her mind, one part of her justifying her needs, the other reminding her of guys who’d manipulated her.

  Jared, the first. The junior who’d pressured her to prove she loved him—when she was fourteen. Then Gordon. Thad. Guys who’d gotten her drunk enough to not think straight.

  She’d been careful after that, waiting until she knew she loved them. But she ran through five more names, men—boys—who’d said they loved her, then got bored.

  “How do you know it’ll last? It always seems like it will, but you were just on the mountaintop, you know? Mountaintops fall into valleys.”

  “That’s where doing it God’s way comes in. Feelings never last. Life takes over. Marriage has to be based on commitment, on decision, on vows to neglect all others and remain true to that one person. No matter what happens.”

  “What about when that person isn’t faithful to you? What happens when you find out things you didn’t know about them?”

  “Divorce can’t be an option.”

  Oh, really? “If divorce weren’t an option, I wouldn’t be here. People should be allowed to do what makes them happy. If a marriage isn’t working, it’s wrong to make someone stay in it. Mark’s wife hasn’t been faithful to him. Why should he pay for that?”

  Tracy said nothing.

  “I think it’s cool that God works for you, but I see too many holes. There’s too much—too much—” What was the word? Her breath came faster. Everything Tracy said felt so wrong. “There’s too much bondage. Why should people remain faithful to someone who’s not faithful to them?”

  “But wouldn’t it make a great story? Imagine being the unfaithful person and finding that the person you hurt, the person you rejected, still loved you. Still remained true to you.”

  “They’re an idiot. That’s an awful story.”

  “But imagine being loved like that, Miska. Isn’t that the kind of love we long for in a man? A love that remains, no matter what?”

  Chapter Nine

  A love that remains.

  The phrase flitted through Miska’s head all night, woke her gently with the sun. It was different. Unique. Something of substance.

  What if the one man a woman longed for was in her past? And what if all that time he’d waited as she went from one man to another?

  Wow, that could make an amazing story.

  Love That Remains. She wrote it on a piece of paper, added some notes, and slipped it into her idea file.

  The phrase bounced along in her head as she ran through Grant Park and down the lakefront running path. Boats bobbed on the harbor’s choppy waters. The wind whipped through hair she’d forgotten to put up, flinging curly wisps into her face, but she smiled anyway at each person she passed. Today was a beautiful day, a wonderfully cold, gray, overcast day.

  Her book idea had come.

  Beside Buckingham Fountain, her phone chimed.

  A text.

  She read it as she jogged. Sorry about yesterday. Forgive me?

  It was a beautiful, gorgeous, perfect day.

  *****

  What a rotten, rotten, rotten day.

  Dillan tossed the can opener onto the counter and glared at the can of tuna that rolled to a stop in the hallway. Twice it had slipped from between his upper arm and his chest and made him chase it. He should be glad he hadn’t gotten it open or his splint would smell like tuna.

  He flopped onto the couch. His wrist ached, and his stomach growled. He had to eat something so he could take pain meds, but there was nothing in the place that didn’t require two hands to make.

  The only two hands available were next door. Miska.

  His stomach growled again, his insides prodding him. All right, already. He’d ask her.

  He took the can and opener next door and knocked.

  When she opened the door, her natural beauty hit him. Her glossy, black hair—straight today—draped over her shoulders. Her makeup was minimal, much lighter than yesterday, and she wore looser jeans and a flowy, silky white shirt. She smiled, her teeth brilliant against her skin and lips. “Hi, Dillan. What’s up?”

  “Hey, Miska.” Had a woman ever appealed like she did? Yesterday was nothing compared to her innocent look today. She even smelled good— He sniffed. No, that was whatever she was cooking. Smelled… Mexicany.

  “Oh, you brought me tuna. You shouldn’t have. Really.”

  He held out the can and opener, forcing a chuckle over his stomach’s gurgle. “This is for me. But I can get you a can.”

  “I hate tuna. It stinks.”

  “Tastes good.”

  “How can that be? Taste is linked to our nose. If it smells bad, it shouldn’t taste good.”

  Did she hear his stomach? “Something to think about.”

  She waved him in. “I bet you love the smell of coffee and hate the taste.”

  “Guilty.”

  “You’ve got major taste bud issues.” At the stove she picked up a wooden spatula and stirred something in a pan. “I’d get that checked out.”

  “Costs money. I’ll live with my stinky tuna.”

  “Hope you enjoy living alone then.” She softened the words with a smile. “What do you need?”

  “I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I need to hire a new can opener and wondered if you’d be interested in the position.”

  She looked at the can, an eyebrow raised in painful contemplation. “That’s your lunch?”

  “Didn’t we have this conversation? I like tuna.”

  She took the can and opener and set them aside. “And I already told you it smells bad. We won’t be opening this in my house.”

  His stomach was about to eat him, he knew it. “Fine. Open it in my place.”

  “Do you know that the smell of tuna can linger on someone’s hands, even after they wash them? I can’t take that risk.”

  She wasn’t so pretty anymore. “Will you just open it already so I can leave and we can pretend this never happened?”

  “Wow. You’re grumpy when you’re hungry.”

  “I’m also grumpy when my arm hurts because my stomach’s empty which means I can’t take my pain killer.”

  “So irritable.” She turned back to the stove.

  He lifted his good hand from the counter, palm up. What was this?

  “Here.” She picked up the skillet, filled with some reddish, brownish, meatish stuff. “Follow me.”

  Follow her? He watched her walk around the island to the table behind him where a single plate and glass sat with a few other bowls. One held chopped green onions, another some leafy stuff. Parsley maybe? Another held lime quarters. Next to that sat a small container of Greek yogurt and a plate of taco shells.

  Miska set the skillet on a hot pad. She headed back to the kitchen but pointed at the chair in front of the plate. “Sit.”

  She was feeding him? “Miska—”

  “A can of tuna is a pathet
ic lunch.”

  “I have an apple. Pretty sure I can wash that myself.”

  “Don’t argue with me.”

  “And mayonnaise and bread. It was going to be a sandwich.”

  She returned with another plate and glass. “Do you see how much chicken is in that pan? There’s enough to feed both of us for a couple days.”

  He peered at the skillet. “That’s chicken?”

  “It’s chipotle chicken, one of my favorite meals. Humor me and let me feed you something decent.”

  He eyed her.

  She eyed him back. “I’m not opening that awful tuna. Eat here or starve.”

  “So you’re saying this tastes better than tuna?”

  She arched her eyebrows as she set four tacos on his plate. “I did not just hear that.”

  “Kidding. It’s nice of you to feed me, but I feel bad. You don’t need to.”

  “I know, but I enjoy cooking. And sharing what you cook is… nice.”

  “Well. Thank you.” Man, the words were hard to say. She seated herself, and he sat across from her. “What kind of tacos are these?”

  “Only the best tacos ever. I cook the chicken in a chipotle sauce, then shred it. You put green onions and cilantro on it with some Greek yogurt and squeeze lime over it. Delish.”

  Sounded good. And the smell of the chicken wafting up at him… He propped his shells against his lime quarter and followed her lead, dishing chicken into the shells and adding the toppings. He paused and closed his eyes. God, help me figure out what to do here. Kind of in over my head.

  “Are you praying?”

  He opened his eyes and winked at her, a finger over his mouth. “Don’t interrupt.” Stink. Help me not flirt with her, either.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Go ahead.”

  He lowered his head again. God, this isn’t good. She’s too pretty. I get distracted—

  “Aren’t you supposed to pray out loud?”

  He kept his head down but sent her an evil glare.

  She bit her lip, a smile escaping.

  “God, thank you for the food you’ve given us. Bless Miska for sharing with me. In Jesus’s name, amen.” He cleared his throat, eyes on his plate. “Why’d you cook so much? Did you know I was coming?” He took a bite of his taco, the paper-thin shell almost melting in his mouth. The flavors of smoky chipotle and cilantro, green onion and sour-cream-like yogurt blended with the lime juice. He groaned before he could catch himself. “Oh, man, is this good.”