The Blooms That Broke Us (Tennessee Love Stories)

by Ashley Dill

Chris was right; he’d done everything for me and Kacey. We would be lost without him. But in exchange for his provision, I’d unknowingly sold my soul.

My ribbons and accolades didn’t keep me company. Certainly didn’t keep me warm at night. I went home to an empty house, an empty bed. No sounds but the AC clicking off and on and the ice tray emptying occasionally. I stifled a sigh at the thought. I’d outdone Jules in every way except the only way that mattered.

“Don’t be embarrassed.” She pressed her lips together, blinking tears back. “I’ve been there.”

I assured them they’d given me hope—more than I’d had in a long, long time.

found myself chuckling and agreeing wholeheartedly, too. A three-hour social call to older folks definitely made her an angel, and the blonde hair falling down her back made her look like an angel. Should I fish? The two of them bickered about half a minute before she turned back to me and Chaves. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.” I decided to fish.

Officer Barkley was hands-down the finest male specimen I’d ever seen. And he was into me. He dropped the boyfriend comment like a complete novice. It was the cutest thing.

His eyes scanned the restaurant and landed on me. He smiled then lifted his hand in a little wave. Almost turned me into a puddle on the floor.

He ordered an ice tea and said he’d wait to eat with me.

When we were for real saying goodnight, he asked if I kissed on first dates. I said no. He softly chuckled. “As much as I hate to hear it, it’s a good answer.” As I drove away, I kicked myself. Tonight was so much more than a first date.

John stood, introduced himself, and explained the role he played in the meeting. I didn’t hear. Didn’t care. If I didn’t focus on quietly breathing, I’d pass out.

Rage boiled in my veins until I couldn’t draw a full breath. “Miranda.” I tried to keep my tone even keel, but it rumbled with anger. “Who did that to you?”

I’d intervened in plenty of domestic violence situations. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to spot a victim. Miranda had the classic signs.

My throat worked conflicting jobs. Let the words out, keep the sobs in.

I could almost hear him thinking. Jack was going into defender mode. It was one of the reasons I fell in love with the man. But apparently he preferred defending the public—perfect strangers—to doing his actual duties.

She forgot it; left it draped over the back of the couch once her and Kacey retired to their suite. Because I’m an idiot, I did something stupid I’d never be able to come back from. Something that launched the moments flashing through my brain into full body experiences that filled me with craving. A craving for my old best friend. For everything we used to be. For everything we shared. I smelled it. Knowing full well the fabric would smell like her. Did it ever.

As tired and run-down as she looked, she was stunning. Miranda had always been knock-out gorgeous, a ten in my book. Still was. It was impossible to be around her again and not notice. A thrill ran through my midsection, making every cell in my body buzz with awareness of her. This was not good. Miranda and I were done. Over. We’d closed the door, which made my imaginings all the more frustrating and inappropriate.

“I’m assuming marriage is out of the question for you, but maybe it's a way we can help each other…and I want to help you.” Even as I said it, my brain screamed why. She left me. She walked away. She broke off the marriage I wanted. But standing here, watching her, made the anger I’d felt feel like a million miles away.

“I’ve already seen it. You don’t have to hide.” Her voice was raspy, a scrape of swelling emotion. “It’s humiliating, Jack.” “I know.” And I want to kill him.

I’d been telling myself I didn’t care about her. That we chose our paths and moved on. But locking gazes with my ex-wife couldn’t be anything but eye-opening. I might be able to keep lying to everyone else, but lying to myself would be difficult from here on out.

Only a lamp, the fire, and a candle on the mantel cast light around the room. It almost looked…romantic? What the heck? “Uh, what’s going on here?” Jack spun around. “Oh, hey, yeah—” He ran his hands over his head before they landed restlessly on his hips. Was he…nervous? What is happening right now?

When I located my sweatshirt draped over the back of the couch, I put it on. A familiar aroma flooded my senses, and I froze with the sweatshirt halfway over my head. My pulse charged into overdrive as I grappled with the chill bumps rippling across my skin.

“You’re not going to tell me how much I owe you for the car?” “Per our agreement, you owe me cleaning out the attic.” “I did not agree to anything! I can’t let you pay for my car.” “Too late. I already did. If you back out of attic-duty, I’m going to be ticked.”

the stupid razor had cut much deeper than my skin. My heart was bleeding and crying, too.

Past midnight, I crept down the stairs with wet cheeks and swollen eyes, foolishly determined to test the limits of my torture by taking that sweatshirt to bed with me. When I tried to fetch it from the back of the couch, it was gone.

The look in his eyes was reminiscent of the one he had on our actual wedding day. Promising and serious. Flamed with desire and radiating a level of tenderness most women only dream of. I’d always loved that about him. Tough around everyone else but tender for me alone.

His thumbs traced my knuckles. The pitch of his voice was low, throaty. “Miranda, I give you my heart. I promise from this day forward you shall not walk alone. May my heart be your shelter, and my arms be your home.”

His large gentle hand came up to tilt my chin upward, and I instinctively rose on tiptoes, grabbing the lapels of his coat for balance. To my surprise, he didn’t go for my lips. His thumb guided my face a hair to the side, and he kissed my cheek at the corner of my mouth. Just my cheek. My breath tumbled out of my lungs as I dropped down. A cheek peck. I could live with that. But disappointment shot through me. For a delicious moment, I thought I’d get to taste his lips again.

The sweatshirt swallowed her. We’d been playing this fun game where she’d wear it during the day then leave it on the couch. I took it to bed with me every night and placed it back on the couch before she rose in the mornings. Well, I was playing that game.

I ground my teeth together before speaking. “You’re out of line, Jules. There’s a lot you don’t know, and I don’t appreciate you making my wife cry.”

“No, Miranda.” I held up a hand to stop her. “You don’t have to cook meals or do anything for me.” “Oh.” Her gaze followed her son through the yard. “What if I want to? Might be fun to cook a little. It’s been so long.” “You don’t cook much anymore?” “Um, no. Chris liked eating out.” Everything I heard about that idiot made me hate him more. “Make yourself at home in the kitchen then. I won’t be the one to stop you.”

“Any particular meals sound good to you?” “Not really. Whatever you want.” I took a deep breath. I wanted the old Miranda. The one who would’ve launched into a description of a four course meal she saw on Food Network. The one who would’ve browsed the dairy cooler for fifteen minutes trying to decide on a new, disgusting creamer for her coffee. The one who would’ve waltzed into the kitchen, insisting we play the tasting game. The one who would’ve lit a candle at every meal because the glow made things look special. I hoped that Miranda was still there. Somewhere.

I might not be able to reverse time. But this was my chance. And I planned to take full advantage. It was the closest thing to a do-over I would ever get.

After a minute or two, Miranda stood. She wasn’t looking at us, but fidgeted with the edge of her sweatshirt, the emotion in her voice apparent. “I need to make him some food. Come on Kacey, let’s go in.” I hoped I hadn’t done anything wrong. Kacey whimpered and laid his head against my knee. That was something. A smile tugged at my lips. “I don’t mind staying out here with him for a few more minutes.”

“Come on, Jack. You’ve dated some amazing women the past few years but haven’t made any commitments. You aren’t scared of commitment; you’re just in love with Miranda.”

The goddess in front of me was still my wife.

She tried to look strong, hold her chin high, but I saw. She was one poke away from crumbling. One touch away from falling into my arms. Why she was insisting on a divorce would remain a mystery to me. I waved her on. “After you.”

I hadn’t touched my wife in months. To say I missed her would be the understatement of a lifetime. Yearning was more like it. Not just physically. She was the perfect companion in every way. Separation was a constant wound.

We collided. Eager mouths, starving bodies, and bleeding hearts.

I had to admit she was right. We had talked and I apologized for the stuff she said I did. But I didn’t see. I did not see how those things broke us. How those hurts snowballed into this moment.

I wanted Miranda totally. It could only be all or nothing. So it was nothing.

On my way up the stairs, I noticed my sweatshirt was gone. I left it in the same spot every night. And each morning, I slipped it on, even if I wasn’t cold. The renewed Jack smell on it was enough to get me out of bed each morning. He could lie till he was blue in the face. But I knew the truth. He was taking it to bed with him each night. Doing exactly what I was doing each morning.

I doubted he had creamer, but I peeked in the fridge anyway. Front and center sat a Cinnabon creamer. A flavor so ridiculous and extra. He must’ve put that on the grocery order. Why were tears coming to my eyes?

A beat of awkward silence fell between us. I laughed, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m oversharing. Sorry.” “There’s no such thing here. Always overshare with me.”

She owned me. Heart, mind, body, and soul.

But we tried. Again and again we tried. And every time we lost a baby, I lost a piece of my wife, too.

There were endless things to love about her. She could turn the most anxious expression into a blooming smile when Kacey called for her. She could go from chewing her finger nails to singing the “Itsy Bitsy Spider” in two seconds flat. Her commitment to him was—straight up hot, to be honest. Maybe one of the most selfless displays I ever witnessed.

Like a true glutton for torture, I watched her try it on over her pink fitted tank top. The young guy selling them was watching too, which made me want to tear his face off.

She frowned, not moving to take it. “What’s this for?” “I have a hunch.” “Which is…” “That it’s anxiety keeping you from eating. You hold your stomach like it hurts. So, I thought maybe a little nudge toward relaxation would help you eat more than three bites at a time.” She blinked, staring at the cup. I swirled it in my hand. “Do you not like merlot anymore or something?” “I do—it’s just been a long time.” “Sip slow then.” She took the glass, examining it. “So—you think this will help me eat?” I lifted a shoulder. “It’s worth a shot.”

“Jack.” She pressed her lips together. “You’re being too nice to me.” “Good. It’s about time someone was nice to you.”

Pride and possessiveness unfurled in me. My plan worked. She ate the whole time. Every crumb. Then she curled into a tiny ball and fell fast asleep.