Page 33 of Whirlwind (Seattle Blades #4)

T yson changed after dinner. After Isla and Cillian announced their pregnancy, he grew quieter as everyone else celebrated. It’s hard not to overthink the reason for that.

Overall, the night was great. Despite briefly descending down the memory lane of my childhood, I had fun.

Us ladies danced together; eventually, the guys joined in.

Tyson doesn’t have much more rhythm than Cillian, but it didn’t matter.

I liked swaying in his arms, even though he was growing a bit distant.

After a couple of songs, Hugo got bored and goaded me and Letty into a dance-off.

It started with samba and quickly escalated to dances like The Running Man and The Tootsie Roll—which is impossible to do in this dress.

By the time the event ended, my face hurt from laughing.

Hugo’s a good dancer; I guess that shouldn’t be a surprise, considering how he moves in the net.

Letty is absolute shit at it, though, and his version of The Electric Slide was the most hilarious thing I’ve ever seen.

“Where did you learn to dance?” Tyson asks me on the drive home.

“Self-taught,” I say. “My grandmother loves any show that has dancing. We watched it all, and I mimicked what I could from an early age.” It’s one of the happy things from my childhood. She encouraged me to dance with abandon. It was the only time I let go of everything.

I would have loved to have taken lessons and learned different styles. Some things you can’t catch on to by imitation—like tap dancing, which I was obsessed with when I was seven. So much so that I glued pennies to my shoes and jumped around the kitchen like a maniac. My dad was irate.

“If you can’t respect the things I buy for you, then I’ll just stop buying you things,” he’d yelled.

Everything he bought me was secondhand, which I never minded.

But he stopped doing even that. I squeezed my feet into shoes that were too small, for well over a year, until my grandmother noticed the holes wearing through the toe.

From then on, she took me to the thrift stores at least once a year to get the basics I needed.

It was never much, but at least my feet didn’t hurt anymore.

“You had a good time tonight?”

“I did. Thank you for taking me,” I say, and again, he grows quiet. “Did you win what you wanted from the auction?”

I know he won something, but he hasn’t said what it was.

“I did.”

Okay, then. Good talk.

I rack my brain for any misstep I may have made tonight.

All I can come up with is that I was too morose when the women from the shelter were speaking.

But how could I not be? They spoke from the heart about their struggles with domestic abuse.

Only one of the three women had children, but I instantly related to those faceless babies.

So, yeah, it affected me. Had he hoped for me to be a plastic woman with a painted-on smile? That doesn’t seem like him.

“Did I do something wrong?” I finally ask.

“No, Isla. You didn’t do anything wrong, of course not,” he says, and all the air leaves my lungs.

That’s not my name, I inwardly scream. My chest tightens, right along with every muscle in my body. It’s hard to breathe or see as the blood rushes through my head. He’s talking, but I don’t hear it—I can’t over the thumping of my heart. The beat, beat, beat that steadily increases.

I’ve never felt more foolish. I knew his feelings for Isla, and I ignored my instinct, in favor of believing him. But I knew. Real love doesn’t just come and go. A night with his ex-girlfriend proved that.

I’m just the stupid girl whose name he couldn’t remember. Who doesn’t have hockey intuition or a face full of cute-as-hell freckles. The one that fell for his sweet charm and patience.

Oh my fuck, I had sex with a man who is still in love with one of my best friends.

“I’m so stupid,” I say. I hear his protest, but don’t listen. “Just take me home.”

“Will you talk to me?”

“I can’t,” I rasp out. Even if I wanted to—which I don’t—I can’t do it right now. All I can do is not break down here in the car, with him to witness it. I don’t want to work through this with him. I feel so alone, yet I can’t wait to get away from him.

“Okay, okay, I’ll get you home.” He tries to take my hand, but I move farther away, tucking them under my thighs.

“Kit.”

“No.”

“All right,” he says, and then, nothing more for the few minutes it takes to get to my house.

I can’t get out of the car fast enough. These damn shoes and this fabulous fucking dress make it hard to move quickly—which is okay, because even though I want to run away, I need to keep my head high.

Falling apart can wait until I’m safely ensconced within the walls of my home, with my puppy, who would never dare to fuck me over emotionally or otherwise.

He calls after me again as I walk up to my front door.

“Go home, Tyson.”

My hands shake as I type in my code. It takes me three tries, and I’m nearly to the point of tears from frustration. The first one doesn’t fall until I’m on the other side, my back to the door as I slide down it and let my anxiety attack take hold.

My sobs come with every gasping breath. I kick my shoes off and struggle to unzip my dress.

It’s too confining when it feels like I have a boulder sitting on my chest. Nightmare whines from his crate.

I need to let him outside, but I can’t do that in my underwear, and getting to my bedroom seems like a monumental task with my whole body shuddering with… what? Anger? Grief? Sorrow?

A mixture of it all and more, probably.

Focusing on my breathing, I inhale and exhale, counting to five with each one, until I start to settle the fuck down.

When I’m able, I run to my room to throw on some sweats and a hoodie.

“Come on, buddy,” I say, unlatching Nightmare’s crate. “I’m sorry that took me so long.”

Once out in the yard, I try not to look across the street, not wanting the reminder of who’s there and what he called me. Nightmare’s halfway through his nightly shit when I finally give in and peek.

Tyson stands in the same spot where he does his morning yoga. He’s removed his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, and when he sees me looking, he places a hand over his heart. As if I hold a place there.

But it’s not me he keeps space for, is it?

Tears stream down my cheeks. I don’t hide them from him, even if I’m not sure he can see them from here.

It’s dark, but I don’t feel the cold. It can’t penetrate this sorrow—the feeling of never being good enough or worthy.

It would be unfair to blame all of that on Tyson, but I won’t make excuses for him, either.

Being predisposed to feelings of abandonment or neglect doesn’t give him a pass on treating me like I’m a second-string player in his life.

The kicker is that, when we connect—which is most of the time—it’s the highest high. Some of the best moments of my life happened with him, all in such a short span.

But I’m not sure where we go from here.

“Let’s go, Nightmare,” I call softly, looking away from Tyson.

My phone chimes a moment after we’re back inside.

Tyson:

I’m so sorry, Kit. I hope you’ll let me explain. On your timeline, of course.

How do you explain calling the woman you’re currently dating by your ex’s name? The short answer: you can’t. The long answer isn’t something I’m interested in right now.

Even though he sleeps in his crate, I bring Nightmare to bed with me. Like the best friend he is, he curls up with his nose in the crook of my neck and watches over me as I fretfully sleep.

I wake up with a headache and a cell phone that won’t stop ringing. I ignore it the first two times, burying my head under the comforter. Nightmare whimpers the third time it rings.

“I feel the same, buddy,” I murmur. It must be Tyson—who else would call this urgently, this early? The sun’s barely up. “Ugh, fine.”

When I grab my phone off my nightstand, my blood runs cold at the name on the screen. It’s not Tyson. It’s not anyone I’ve spoken to in a decade.

My father never calls. I don’t call him, either. Which means, this must be an emergency.

Grandma.

“Hello?”

“It’s about time you answered,” he says, making me instantly retreat into myself. It’s what always happens, and one of the many reasons I don’t talk to him.

“It’s four in the morning, here. I was asleep.”

“My mom died last night.”

“What?” I sit up, as if that will help me process the words.

“She didn’t want a funeral,” he says, ignoring my shock. “She’ll be interred with my dad. If you want to be there for that, you need to come home.”

His voice is cold, without emotion. Which, I guess, is better than anger or cruelty. He could at least pretend to be sad, but he’s never been good at hiding how he feels.

“I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

“Her house is yours, now. You can stay there. Text me when you get here; I’ll drop off the key.”

“Oh. I didn’t know she did that,” I say. When he doesn’t respond, I add, “I’ll let you know when I land.”

“All right,” he says, then ends the call.

I stare down at my phone, wondering what I’ve done to deserve the last twelve hours of my life. Then, I start making a mental list of everything I need to do—except, I can’t focus on any of it because the only family I had just died.

With watery eyes, I call the only person I can count on, right now.

“What’s wrong?” Willa asks immediately. She knows I wouldn’t call this early unless it was urgent.

“My dad just called to tell me my grandma died,” I say, surprised I’m not in tears. None of this feels real—maybe I’m still asleep.

“Shit, Kit. I’m so sorry. What do you need? Is Tyson with you?”

“No. We had…not a fight, but something happened.”

“What?”

I almost tell her. I will tell her. But right now, what Tyson did isn’t as important as going to Maine. That’s what I need help with, first—because I don’t know if I can go back there alone. I’m not sure I’d mentally survive it.

“I need to go to Maine. He’s going to inter her with my grandfather, and if I wait too long, he’ll do it without me there.”

“Okay, I’ll have Damian get us on a flight today. Will that work?”

“Thank you,” I say on a soft sob, loving that she doesn’t hesitate.

“Of course, babe. I’m not letting you do any of this alone, okay?”

“Okay. I’ll let work know I need time off. I guess she left me her house. I don’t know what condition it’s in, but we can stay there.”

“Did you know she was doing that?”

“No,” I answer. “I had no idea. Do you think Isla would keep Nightmare for me?”

“I’m sure she would, and Sadie would love that. I’ll call her and work out dropping him off on the way to the airport. You just pack what you need, okay?”

“I can do that. Thank you again, Willa.”

“We’ve got you,” she reassures. “Do you need anything else, right now?”

“No. I’ll shower and pack so I’m ready.”

“If you think of anything else, text me. We’ll be there soon. I love you.”

“Love you, too,” I say, ending the call.

By now, Nightmare is scratching at the door. Wrapping myself in a blanket, I take him to the yard, sit on the damp grass, and try to organize my thoughts while he takes care of business.

Even though we didn’t talk often, I can’t believe she’s gone. Or that I’ll never hear her voice again. It’s complicated—this tangle of emotions running through me. I’m sad, yet guilty for not being sadder. What does it say about me that I’m not breaking down, bawling my eyes out?

Or that I’m more afraid of going back to Maine and facing my father than I am about living a life without my grandmother.

I’ve spent years protecting myself, keeping my peace. Once, not long after I moved here, I tried to explain that to her. She was sad I wasn’t coming home for the holidays. But Maine isn’t safe for me. Going back is terrifying.

More than anything, I wish Tyson and I were in a place where I could have him with me. If last night hadn’t happened, he’d have been my first call—because he was my safe space.

And now, he’s just one more thing I’m scared to face.