CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
DEAN
NOTHING IS RIGHT WITHOUT LIV HERE. Claire brings pizza home for dinner, then makes chocolate chip cupcakes with the kids—and while she is keeping things more normal and even enjoyable than I ever could right now, I can’t help resenting the fact that she is here—young, healthy, laughing with my children—while Liv is lying in a hospital bed battling both cancer and a goddamned infection.
“Can I have a bowl of chocolate chips?” Nicholas asks, as Claire breaks open the bag and Bella dumps a cup of flour into a bowl.
“You can have chocolate chips inside the cupcakes when they’re done,” Claire says, unfazed by the growing mess on the counter.
“Chocolate chippies,” Bella shouts.
“Dean, do you want to join us?” Claire asks, gesturing to the frosting. “We could use some help decorating after they’re baked.”
Though part of me feels like I should, any attempt I make at lightheartedness will be hollow. I decline, instead going to the basement to finish a load of laundry.
I have an unexpected wish that Archer was in town. Not only did I appreciate him waiting with me during Liv’s surgery, but our kickboxing classes and work on the tree house have given me something good to focus on.
Plus Archer has such a great relationship with the kids. The air seems to change for the better when he’s around. It’s both humbling and a little strange to think of my brother that way.
Bella comes to get me when the cupcakes are done, and then we spend an hour having milk and cupcakes while playing Hi Ho Cherry-O.
Claire gets Bella ready for bed while I corral Nicholas by grabbing him in a bear hug and hauling him into his room. After a few minutes of laughing and struggling to escape, he maneuvers to wrap his arms and legs around me.
I tighten my hold on him. Love—hard, fast, painful—floods my chest. I think for the millionth time how desperately I want to keep him and Bella safe, that I would do anything, anything, to protect them.
As always, that intense wish is followed by the cold knowledge that I can’t. There is nothing I can do to fully guarantee their safety in the world.
Nothing.
“Will Mom be home tomorrow?” Nicholas asks.
“I hope so. She wants to come home as much as we want her to.”
“I hate that she’s sick.”
“Me too.” I lower him onto his Superman-patterned sheets and pull the covers up. “But she’s on the road to getting better. That’s what all the doctors and medicine are helping her do. Get better.”
That doesn’t seem to comfort him much. I sit beside him on the bed and rub his hair.
“Get a good night’s sleep,” I say. “Tomorrow we can make some decorations to put up when Mom comes home. Maybe we can even get some balloons.”
“The floating kind?” A spark of interest appears on his face.
“Yeah, the floating kind.”
“Can we get a whole big bunch?”
“As many as you want.”
“And streamers like we had for my birthday?”
“Streamers too. And you can make Welcome Home signs to put up all over the house.”
He looks at the ceiling. I can almost see the thoughts tumbling through his mind.
“Dad?”
“Right here.”
“Is Mom going to die?”
Pain seizes my chest so hard that for a second I can’t breathe. I rest my hands on either side of Nicholas’s head, leaning closer to look into his eyes that are so much like his mother’s.
“Some people do die from cancer,” I admit, willing him to believe what I say next. “But your mother has a kind that is treatable, and we’re doing everything we can to make sure she gets well and that she’s with us for a very long time. There’s a lot we still don’t know, but I promise we’ll tell you when we find out. No matter what, we both love you very much and will always take care of you and your sister. We’ll always be a family, and we’ll always be together.”
“If Mom dies, we won’t be.”
“She’s going to get better, Nicholas. Things are just different right now.”
“I don’t want anything to be different.”
“Neither do I,” I say. “But life changes all the time, sometimes in really good ways, and sometimes not so good. And we’re so lucky to be the family that we are because we can handle anything together. Anything.”
Nicholas looks at me skeptically. “What if a bunch of asteroids starts falling on us?”
“I’ll grab the biggest baseball bat in the world and knock them back into space.”
“What if a whole big flock of evil, fire-breathing dragons surrounds our house?”
“You and I will turn the fire extinguisher on them.”
“What if there’s a zombie apocalypse?”
“We’ll send Bella out to scare them all away.”
Nicholas chuckles. “What if Darth Vader and Lex Luthor and the Joker and Magneto and Voldemort attack us?”
“Your mother will invite them in for tea and cookies, and next thing you know, they’ll all be good guys.”
That brings a smile out of him. “Mom does make great cookies.”
“Yes, she does. And she’ll make some again for you soon. Any kind you want.”
Nicholas’s smile widens. The cloud around my heart lifts. I press my lips against his forehead.
“That’s how much we love each other,” I say. “And that’s what you need to focus on. If you get scared, you come and tell me. We’ll figure out how to deal with it together, okay?”
“Okay.” The worried expression on his face eases as he snuggles under the covers. “G’night, Dad.”
“Night, buddy. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
I wait for him to shift around and get comfortable before I turn off the light and go downstairs, taking the baby monitor with me so I can hear him or Bella if they call.
Claire is in the kitchen, washing the mixing bowls and cleaning the counters. She glances at me over her shoulder.
“They get to sleep okay?” she asks.
“More or less.” I head to the door leading to the spiral staircase. “I’m going to get some bills paid. You need anything?”
“No, I’m good.”
I go up to my tower office, sit at the desk, and turn on the computer. As it boots up, I check in on Liv. The nurse says she’s sleeping, but that her last blood counts were better. I hope to God that means she can come home tomorrow.
I log into a few different accounts and pay bills, then stop just short of searching for information about infections during chemo. My eyes are heavy and itchy with fatigue.
I look at the framed photos on my desk—pictures of Nicholas and Bella, of Liv with them in front of the Duomo in Florence, and one of Liv alone that I’d taken during our honeymoon. She’s seated at an outdoor café on the Rue Danton.
Unlike the photo in my office on campus, Liv isn’t smiling at the camera in this photo. She’s looking out onto the street, her profile etched against the window behind her, a scarf wound around her throat. Her hair loose and messy. Just the way I like it.
Ah, my Liv.
I push away from the desk, strip off my T-shirt, and go to lie down on the sofa. I can’t stand the thought of sleeping—or lying awake—in bed without Liv there. Without the peaches-and-cream scent of her, the press of her body, the sound of her breathing.
How many times has she woken when I’ve gotten into bed? How many times has she reached over to slide her hand over my chest, down beneath the waistband of my pajama pants? How many times have I turned to her in the middle of the night, waking her with the pressure of my hand on her hip, watching her eyelashes flutter open and her mouth curve with a smile?
How many times have we fallen together, crashing into each other, our mouths meeting in a hot, hungry kiss that fired us with lust?
Countless times. Countless.
I drag a hand down my face, feeling my body tense as erotic thoughts push into my mind—Liv riding me, her beautiful breasts bouncing and her skin flushed pink. Her perfect ass in front of me, her legs open wide as she takes the thrust of my cock. The little moans and gasps streaming from her throat, the tightening of her pussy as she comes.
My dick twitches. I slide my hand down to rub it. Aside from jerking off a few times for pure release, I haven’t given sex much thought in recent months.
I’ve noticed it, though—the proliferation of ads with half-naked couples embracing, the busty models plastered over the windows of the lingerie shop at the mall, the free condom distribution on campus. I’ve noticed the pretty girls at the coffee-houses as they shed their coats to reveal fitted sweaters and low-cut shirts that display their cleavage, their long legs clad in wool tights beneath their short skirts.
Yeah, I notice. Not because I want them, but because I don’t. I want my warm, gorgeous wife back with her soft body that fits so goddamned perfectly against mine. I want to scrape my rough cheek against her pale skin and hear her laugh. I want to run my hands over her hips, caress her breasts, squeeze her round ass.
I want her.
So, apparently, does my cock.
With a muffled groan, I rub my growing erection harder. Somehow it feels disingenuous to jerk off while Liv is in the hospital. I force my hand away from my groin and close my eyes. Breathe.
Tomorrow she’ll be home. And sometime this summer, she’ll be healthy. She’ll gain back the weight she’s lost. Her hair will grow back. She’ll wear her wedding ring again. Her voice, her presence, will fill the Butterfly House.
Exactly the way it should be.
“Oh my God, Dean…”
She’s naked on the bed, all voluptuous and sexy with her arms above her head and her knees raised to open herself for me. Her moan combined with the look in her eyes—shocked, dazed, aroused—floods me with heat. I slide my dick into her sweet, warm pussy, like a key fitting into a well-oiled lock.
“Oh, yes,” Liv gasps, bringing her hands to her breasts and twisting her stiff nipples. “Fuck me deep… Jesus, Dean, I can feel you pulsing inside me…”
I press my hands to her knees to open her wider. Already I want to start driving into her as hard and fast as I can, claiming her, owning her. I want her to clench her pussy around me and beg for more. I want her to…
“Dean?”
My eyes snap open. I’m breathing hard. I might be sweating.
“Oh, sorry. Didn’t know you were…”
The female voice trails off. It takes me a second to realize Claire is standing a few feet away, the office door open behind her. Her gaze darts over my face, down my bare chest, and then lingers on my obvious hard-on.
Shit.
I grab my discarded T-shirt and drop it over my groin. Claire blushes, taking a few steps backward.
“Sorry, I… uh, didn’t know you were sleeping,” she says, gesturing vaguely behind her. “I knocked but you didn’t hear me, obviously. I’m… I’ll just go back downstairs.”
She turns and hurries away. I drag my hands over my face and groan. Now our young nanny thinks her employer is a pervert. I take a few breaths and wait for my dick to calm down.
I pull my shirt back on and go to the kitchen, where Claire is intently scrubbing the counter. I smother a wave of embarrassment as I wonder how the hell to tackle this one.
“I came up to tell you I made coffee,” Claire says, pointing to the coffeepot. “And to see if you want some. There are also those butterfly cookies someone left for you.”
“No, thanks.” I scratch the back of my neck. “Look, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
Claire blinks. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable. You never have.”
“Oh. Okay. Good.”
I feel like I should say more, but what? An explanation will only make things worse. “So I was having a hot dream about my wife…”
I go back toward the staircase.
“Dean?”
Claire sounds closer. I turn to find her standing behind me.
“I figured I’d stay another night, if you want me to,” she says.
“Thanks, but that’s not necessary. I can handle it.”
“It’s really not a problem.”
The air crackles with something strange. Something I don’t like.
“Is the porch light on?” I move past Claire to the foyer. “Be careful walking out to your car. I noticed a couple of the flagstones are loose.”
I stop to turn on the switch for the outside lights. Then I feel Claire’s hand on my back.
My blood goes cold.
“I’m really sorry for everything you’re going through,” she says.
“Uh, thanks.” I step forward to get away from her, but the wall blocks my escape.
“I don’t think many people realize that caregivers have it rough too,” she continues, and then her breasts nudge against my arm. “I just want you to know I’m here however you need me to be.”
I’ve read enough books and articles. I know after a breast cancer diagnosis, some asshole men commit infidelity and/or walk out on their wives. I don’t know how often it happens, or who besides the lowest, most pathetic scum could conduct that level of betrayal, but it happens.
Until this second, though, I haven’t consciously realized that other women are also guilty of the affairs. I especially haven’t considered they might even instigate them.
“If you ever need someone to talk to or anything else, Dean,” Claire continues. “Just let me know.”
Her hand slides under my shirt, and the touch of her fingers on my skin jolts me away from her. Rage boils through me.
I turn, barely restraining myself from shoving her away. She blinks and takes a step back.
“Get out.” My voice shakes with anger. “Get the fuck out of my house right now.”
All the color drains from her face.
“Dean, I was just—”
“Get out!”
The order fires out of me like a curse. Claire takes a step backward.
“I… I need to get my stuff,” she stammers.
“Then do it and get the fuck out.”
She turns and hurries up the stairs. Not wanting her to go near my kids, I follow her. Anger and disgust burn like acid inside me. I stop in the doorway of the guest bedroom.
“What the hell kind of person are you?” I snap, my fists clenching.
She stares at me, stricken. Her eyes fill with tears. “I was… I just wanted to take care of you.”
“I don’t need you to fucking take care of me.”
“Yes, you do,” she cries, wiping her cheeks. “You… you’re so sad all the time, Dean, and everyone is paying all this attention to Liv, and no one is doing anything for you. But obviously you have needs. I just wanted to make you feel better.”
“Everyone is paying attention to my wife because she has cancer, for God’s sake.”
“I know! But you don’t.”
“Damn right I don’t. And nothing you say or do will ever make me feel better.”
Claire picks up her bag, choking back a sob. I step aside and point to the stairs. She goes past me to the foyer and takes her coat from the closet.
“I’m sorry.” She sniffles, pulling a tissue out of her coat pocket and wiping her nose. “I mean, I’m not a home wrecker or anything. I love your kids, and I really like Liv, and I… okay, I guess I have a little crush on you, but I wasn’t trying to steal you or anything. I just wanted to… I really wanted to take care of you.”
More tears spill down her cheeks. Some of my anger fades, but only because I’ve been angry for months now on Liv’s behalf—and Claire’s misguided schoolgirl crush isn’t worth more of it.
I sigh and drag a hand over my face. “Look, you’ve been great with the kids and we appreciate all you’ve done, but you need to go.”
She nods, her face reddening with humiliation. “Could you… uh, could you not tell Liv about this?”
“I have to.”
Claire’s chin trembles. “She’ll hate me.”
“She’ll be disappointed in you,” I correct, reaching past her to open the front door. “She won’t hate you.”
“I’m so sorry, Dean.”
“All right, Claire.” Exhaustion hits me. “Get home safely. I’ll put your last paycheck in the mail tomorrow.”
She hurries past me, wiping away another spill of tears. I close the door behind her and go upstairs, worried that the commotion might have woken the kids. Thankfully both of them are still sound asleep. I pull their covers up and return to the kitchen.
I take out my phone and text Liv, even though I know she’s sleeping.
DEAN: I love you like eggs love bacon.
I press the send button. My lingering anger fades at the thought that the message will be waiting for her when she wakes. Then a return message pings onto the screen.
LIV: I can’t wait for you to have me over-easy.
DEAN: You’d better not be yolk-ing.
LIV: Well, it’s been a while since I got laid.
DEAN: Now I’m getting hard-boiled.
LIV: You crack me up.
DEAN: You’re eggs-quisite.
LIV: You’re eggs-traordinary.
DEAN: I love you, beauty.
LIV: I love you, professor.