Page 1 of Make Me Trust Again (Bluebonnet Creek #3)

ROSE

November

I turn to Kyle and ask, signing at the same time. “You want a snack? I made cupcakes.”

I watch as my son’s blue eyes light up at the mention of his favorite dessert. He loves everything chocolate, but nothing quite like chocolate cupcakes with chocolate chips inside.

The front door closes, just as he starts to sign. I raise my brow and give him a pointed look that has him rolling his eyes. If he is already so sassy at six years old, I don’t even want to imagine what awaits me once he is a teenager.

“Yes, please,” he squeaks out as his hands move, and his voice comes out high-pitched.

Kyle was born deaf. His diagnosis was completely unexpected.

There I was, practically a kid myself, trying to recover after hours of grueling pain and with my emotions all over the place, only for my world to turn upside down when my doctor told me that my son didn’t pass the hearing test during his newborn screening.

I was terrified.

Completely and utterly terrified.

The doctors told me that it didn’t have to mean anything and that we would repeat the test later.

But how could I not be worried? I had this tiny baby depending on me, a baby that I was already completely in love with, and now he could be sick?

Was it me? Did I do something wrong? Was I responsible in some way?

Different emotions were swirling inside me for days and weeks afterward, until the doctors finally confirmed Kyle couldn’t hear, and after many more tests, we finally knew why—cochlear aplasia.

I listened to the doctors explain it to us. Kyle was born without a cochlea, the part of the inner ear that is responsible for hearing, and the cochlear nerve, which transmits auditory signals to the brain. The absence of it meant my son would never be able to hear.

The doctors tried to reassure us, but their words were a blur as I clutched my son, bundled in my arms, with a patch of dark hair mussed on top of his head, and those big, dark blue eyes, a boy who held my whole heart in his tiny hands.

I knew there wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for him, so I started learning everything I could about the deaf community.

I talked to doctors and specialists and started learning American Sign Language.

John appears in the doorway. His face twists with distaste at the sound of our son’s voice, and I’m glad that Kyle’s back is turned to him, so he can’t see it, because I know it would break his heart. It breaks a little bit of mine every time I see that sneer on his face.

“Why are you not signing?”

“We are,” I grind out, trying to keep my cool. “But he’s also practicing his speaking.”

Kyle notices that I’m talking to somebody, so he turns around, and I can see a tentative smile flash on his face.

I hate not including him in the conversation, but I don’t want to be the one to point out his father’s annoyance, not that he can’t see it or understand, since he is getting better at reading lips.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Why even try?” John scoffs and shakes his head, completely tuning Kyle out. “He doesn’t sound normal. He never will.”

I press my lips into a tight line. I hate it when he belittles him like this.

Yes, Kyle’s voice is different. He is still learning how to control it properly, something that is extremely hard because he can’t hear, he would never be able to hear, but our speech therapist assured me that it was possible.

It would take a lot of work, a lot of practice, a lot of patience , but deaf people can learn how to speak.

Their tone is different, almost like their own accent, but I love it.

Hearing my son speak, hearing his voice, made it that much more special to me.

Not to my husband.

“Because he needs to learn how to speak, John,” I bite out, unable to hold back my annoyance.

“Unfortunately, this world isn’t built to accommodate people like Kyle, so I’m sure as hell going to do everything in my power to help our son succeed.

We were lucky to get Miss Parker as Kyle’s teacher, and that she was willing to learn some sign language, because getting a student aide in Bluebonnet is impossible.

But she won’t be there forever, and he needs to be able to communicate with other people on his own. ”

“They would need to understand him in order to communicate.” The sound of the phone ringing draws his attention.

He slides his hand into his pocket and pulls it out, a smile spreading on his lips when he sees the name on the screen.

He answers it immediately and turns around, dismissing me without a backward glance as he walks out of the room.

“Hey, Shane. How you doing, man? Do you have any news for me? I’ve been working really hard on myself to stay in top-notch shape. ”

His agent.

I should have figured.

Shaking my head, I glance at Kyle, who’s watching his father with a sad expression on his face.

That familiar anger at John’s behavior boils inside me, but I push it down and focus on what matters—our son.

I place my hand on his shoulder, drawing his attention. “Cupcake?”

Kyle just shakes his head as John’s loud voice comes from the living room. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

Another shake of his head. Can I go to my room?

No, he couldn’t hear John’s ugly words, but he sure could understand him.

“Go ahead.” I nod. I point out my thumb and index finger, so they form an L, while extending my pinky. “I love you.”

The corner of Kyle’s mouth lifts up in a small smile as he returns the gesture. “I love you, too, Mom.”

My gaze follows him up the stairs, just as there is more yelling . I wait until Kyle is out of view before I go after John.

He’s standing in the living room, chugging directly from the bottle of whiskey, a distant expression on his face. Whatever his agent told him couldn’t be good.

Then, in one swift movement, he sweeps his hand over the credenza. Sucking in a sharp breath, I watch as all the things that were placed on top of it fall to the floor. The loud crashing sound makes me jump in surprise.

My grandmother’s vase.

Kyle’s pottery project, the one he made as my present for Mother’s Day.

Our wedding picture.

They shatter into a million tiny pieces when they hit the ground.

All gone.

What the ? —

John spins on his heels, his chest heaving as his eyes meet mine, the anger shining in his irises making me step back.

“Wh-what happened?”

“It’s over.”

Over?

“What are you talking about, John?”

“Football, Rose,” he yells, his cheeks burning red. “NFL. Playing in the pros. It’s all over. Shane just dropped me. Told me the team didn’t want me because I’m not good enough.” He scoffs and lifts the bottle to his mouth, taking a long pull.

Shit.

All John ever wanted was to play in the NFL. It was his life’s goal, the only thing he thought and talked about for as long as I could remember. Nothing else mattered as long as he got to play football professionally.

I step toward him, placing my hand on his arm. “I’m so sor?—”

“Don’t pretend like you fucking care,” he bites out and slaps my hand away.

I suck in a breath, my palm itching from the sting of his rejection.

“Of course I care. I know how much you wanted this.”

“You?” John scoffs. “How would you know anything about wanting something so desperately you give up everything to succeed, only to be told constantly you’re not good enough? You didn’t even finish college, for fuck’s sake.”

Bile rises in my throat, leaving a bitter taste on my tongue. My cheeks are flaming hot, like he slapped me. I almost wish he did. It couldn’t hurt more than his words do.

There was something that I wanted but couldn’t have.

Not that he saw it.

Because he didn’t see me.

He never looked long enough to see me.

Besides, it’s not like I chose this life for myself. I wanted to go to college, I did go to college, but things changed, priorities changed, and I do not, will not, regret giving it all up for the sake of my son. He is the light of my life.

“Just because I didn’t finish college doesn’t mean I don’t have wishes and dreams, John,” I whisper, but he’s not even listening to me.

John is looking straight ahead, drinking from that damn bottle, completely lost in his own thoughts.

It was like I was invisible. Always falling second to the big game. To his dreams and wants and wishes. Never good enough.

“I have nothing left.” He shakes his head and takes another long gulp.

He— What?

“Nothing left? You have everything, John. Everything! You have a steady job, you’re healthy, you have a home, and you have a family . You have a beautiful son who loves you. You have me.”

Just turn around and look at me, dammit.

“A beautiful son?” He laughs, his knuckles turning white as they grip the bottle. “My son is a freaking retard that can’t speak.”

“Don’t call him that,” I hiss, walking around him, so I’m facing him.

If he won’t look at me, I’ll force him to.

I jab my finger into his chest. Angry tears fill my eyelids.

I blink furiously, refusing to let them fall.

“You’re so narrow-minded that you can’t see how amazing he is.

He’s smart, funny, kind, and talented, and still, it’s not enough for you, because all you ever think about is your precious football.

We’re right here, but it’s like we’re invisible to you! ”

John’s fingers wrap around my wrist, and he twists my hand back, his grip so strong I know it’ll leave a bruise.

Pure rage burns in his eyes as he leans down, closing the distance between us. He’s so close, I can smell the alcohol on his breath as it tickles my skin.

“Some days I wonder if he’s even mine. He can’t hear, he can’t speak, he sure as hell can’t play football.

He’s a freaking waste of space.” He twists my hand harder, pulling me closer to him, our chests brushing.

“You had one job, Rose. One job, and you couldn’t even do that right.

It would have been better if we had gotten rid of him when we had the chance.

Then I wouldn’t be stuck with the two of you. ”

I stare at him, the man I loved, the man I married.

My throat bobs as I swallow. “Is that really what you think?”

“What do you think?”

As quickly as he grabbed me, he pushed me back.

I stumble and fall to the floor, stunned by his actions and words, by the hatred shining in his eyes as he glares at me.

His hand lifts in mid-air, something wild playing on his face as he watches me.

His other hand is holding onto the bottle, knuckles white from gripping it tightly.

His hand moves, and I lift my arms to cover my head, the reaction completely instinctual.

Time ticks down slowly, my heart beating wildly inside my chest, the sound echoing inside my eardrums, the only thing I can hear until there is a loud bang .

I peek between my fingers, only to find the room empty.

The car engine comes to life and is soon followed by screeching tires.

My hands are shaking as I let them fall, my wrists aching from John’s grip. Dark pink fingertips etched into my skin, a sure sign that come morning, there will be bruises.

I take in the room.

The mess.

The broken glass.

The cut wedding photo.

Pieces of my shattered marriage.

Words that can never be taken back.

How can we move on from this?

We can’t, not now, not ever.

It is over.

We are over.