More Than Enough (More Than Series, Book 5) (27 page)

I tear my gaze away from the tap and look back at him. “We knew it was going to happen…”

“We just didn’t prepare for it,” he finishes for me.

“So what do we do?”

“I have to pack.”

“Right now?”

He nods. “I leave first thing.”

Standing between his
legs, I place a towel around his neck to catch the hairs as I take the clippers from him, my fingers shaking from my overwhelming emotions.

His hands find my legs, bare underneath one of his flannel shirts. He rests his head against my stomach. “I didn’t think…” he murmurs, his words dying in the air.

“You didn’t think what, baby?” I run my hands through the back of his hair; hair so much longer and thicker than it was five months ago.

“It didn’t hurt like this the first time I left.”

I smile through the force of the tears begging to be released. “It’ll be okay. I’ll be here when you get back.”

He wraps his arms around my waist squeezing tight and I take the opportunity to breathe through the pain and wipe the tears from my cheeks—tears I’ve held on to since he told me he was leaving. That this was it. This was the last night in our new home until… we don’t even know when.

I sniff back another sob and fake a strength we both know doesn’t exist. “You ready, Lance Corporal?”

He pulls away, lifting his glassy eyes to mine. His smile matches mine, and he nods once.

We’re both lying to each other,
for
each other. Because in this moment it’s impossible to feel anything other than heartache and despair.

My hands shake from the force of my contained sobs when I pull his head forward, placing the clippers on the back of his neck and slowly guiding it up his head. I pray the sound of it will drown out my quiet cries. My tears fall, blurring my vision, but he just holds me tighter, his shaky breaths warm on my stomach. I shave his head, row by row, the ache in my chest all-consuming. His shoulders shake, his own cries muffled by his shirt that I’m wearing and when I’m done, we need a moment to recover. Still hiding our emotions, still faking our strength. I wipe my eyes on my shoulder. He wipes his on my stomach. We take another moment. And then many more. Until all the moments of silence consume us and we’re crying, openly, but unwilling to witness it. I grasp his head, keeping him to me. He grasps my legs, holding me to him. “I don’t want to leave you, Riley.”

And just like that, I find the strength I’d been searching for.

Because he said “
I don’t want to leave you.
”

He didn’t say “
I don’t want to be apart.
”

He didn’t say “
I don’t want to go
.”

He doesn’t want to leave
me
.

I take his face in my hands and tilt his head back, containing my sob when I see his eyes filled with tears, his face red from holding back his emotions. I run my hands through his clipped hair, just like it was when I met him.

“We should have talked about it,” he says. “I should’ve thought about
you
.”

I fell in like in my kitchen, surrounded by twenty wishes.

I fell in love in his garage, once when I kissed him, and then again when he wrote love on my arm.

I fell in forever right now, when a man I love put my happiness first and made me finally believe that
I Am Worthy
.

Through tears, through heartache, and through love, I find courage in my self-worth. “I’ll be okay,” I tell him honestly. “And there never has to be an either/or with us, Dylan. You can live your purpose. And I’ll create my legacy. We can still have each other. We can have it all.”

Dylan

W
e pack and
go to bed soon after.

We don’t sleep, though. I think it’d be impossible to find the calm needed to actually do that. We hold each other close and we talk. A lot. About everything.

We talk about our past, about how we met, and about our future. Because if we didn’t make plans for our future, it would feel like a goodbye.

And neither of us want or are ready for that.

We declare our love for each other, over and over, and show each other that love, over and over, beneath the flannel sheets of the same bed I once lay in, watching her cry and promising myself that I didn’t want to know what caused those tears.

It was a lie.

Even back then, I wanted her.

But I didn’t just want her. I wanted to give her a reason to stop crying.

And as I lay here now watching her sit up on her elbow, her gaze focused on the finger she’s using to trace the outline of a scar—a scar created from a bullet that brought me to her, I finally release the heartache that’s consumed me since I told her I had to leave. And when she looks up, her gaze locked on mine, and she whispers another I love you, I wonder to myself… what was The Turning Point? From me standing in my garage and writing love on her arm to this…

Who would’ve thought that finding my calm and creating my happiness would hurt so much?

*     *     *

Everyone’s already at
the bus station when we show up. Dad, Eric, Holly and all my friends. We walk up to them, our hands joined. She releases me so I can say my goodbyes, first to the girls, then to the guys, then to Holly, and finally to Dad and Eric.

The words we speak are generic.

The feelings are not.

She waits at the end of the line, her head lowered and her hands clasped together.

I square my shoulders. “Hudson.”

She looks up, tears already forming in her eyes.

“I’m going to miss you the most,” I tell her.

She smiles and pushes on my shoulder. “You better,” she says quietly. “And you better stay safe, Lance Corporal.” Her voice wavers, betraying her light-hearted words.

“I will, baby.” I wrap my arms around her waist and bring her into me. “I have something valuable waiting for me.”

She sniffs back her tears and raises her chin. “I’m not going to cry over you, Banks.”

I chuckle. “I don’t expect you to.”

We fake it, because there’s only so many times we can say goodbye without actually saying the words.

She leans up, pressing her lips to mine. Softly at first, then both our emotions take over, our holds get tighter, our kiss gets deeper, and our love grows stronger.

We release each other only when the last-call announcement for my bus sounds over the speakers. “I’m not going to cry,” she repeats, more to herself than to me.

“Don’t cry,” I tell her honestly. “I couldn’t leave you if you did.”

She raises her chin and sucks in a breath, showing me the strength I know she carries. “I’ll be home before you know it, Ry.” Again, the words are generic. The feelings are far from it.

Her features soften, her act put aside. “I love you so much, Dylan.”

“Wait for me, okay?” I whisper, my weakness shown in words only she can hear.

“Dylan…”

“Promise me”

“Semper Fidelis. Always.”

Another announcement.

Another non-goodbye.

I pick up my bag. “I have to go.”

She nods as Jake stands beside her, throwing an arm over her shoulders.

I give everyone a casual salute before looking back at Riley. Then I cup her face, my thumb skimming across her lips when I force her to look at me. “I never told you.”

“Told me what?”

“That I’m glad you’re
here
, Riley. Not just
here
with me, but
here
in this world.” Then I nod once at Jake—an unspoken understanding, before turning quickly and walking away.

It’s not until I’m on the bus and the engine’s started and the brakes are off that I finally look back at them: At Dad and Eric standing side by side, at my friends in a line, all holding hands. At Holly, standing to the side of Riley. And Riley—crying in Jake’s arms, her head on his chest and his hand rubbing her back, letting her know what I always knew—that he’ll take care of her.

They all will.

If I wasn’t sure of it, there’s no way I’d be leaving her.

Riley

It’s the first
time in a really long time that I’ve thought about drinking, but there’s a big difference between thinking about it and wanting to. I don’t want to. I won’t. Because Dylan was right. Whatever I’m looking for, I’m not going to find in the bottom of a bottle. I’m going to find it in him.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Mom tells me, hugging me tight. “I have a client waiting for me. Will you be okay?”

“We’ll take care of her, Ms. Hudson.” Jake answers for me.

I look up at him, a little confused.

She’s holding out a glass jar, a single folded up piece of paper inside it. “Dylan wanted me to give you this.”

I release another round of tears as I take it from her, feeling the eyes and presence of everyone around me.

“What is it?” I ask.

She smiles, warm and comforting. “It’s his heart, baby.”

The jar sits
on my lap as I drive carefully, my anxiety building with each passing second. I pull into the garage next to his truck, now covered to keep it safe from dust. He said I could drive it, but the thought of being in it without him didn’t sit right with me. I get out of my car and go straight to his workbench—the second thing we brought over from his dad’s house along with all his tools. With the jar gripped tightly in one hand, I run the other over his tools, smelling the grease that comes to mind whenever I think about him. I wait for my heart to settle—a million thoughts racing through my head. When I feel like I can actually read his words without my heart shattering to pieces, I place the jar gently on the bench and stare at it. And that’s all I do. Minutes pass. I don’t move. I barely breathe. It’s his voice in my mind “
Come on, Hudson!
” that gives me the courage.

I unscrew the lid and as carefully as possible, I take out the letter.

Dear Ms. Hudson,

I’m sure you already know who I am. Or, at least, you think you do. Maybe in some aspects, you’re right. I am the boy next door. I am a Marine.

And I am hopelessly in love with your daughter.

You don’t know that last part yet.

Neither does she.

I’m hoping one day she’ll give me a chance to show her.

And I’m hoping even more that I can do that with your blessing.

So, I thought I’d write you this letter, introduce myself properly so you can get to know me—Dylan Banks—not the boy next door. Not the Marine. But the boy who loves your daughter.

I never knew my mom. She died during childbirth. Sucks, I know, but I’m not telling you that to gain your sympathy. I’m telling you because my dad raised both me and my brother on his own… he was both parents for us… and he did a damn fine job of it.

He taught us to be honorable men, to love and respect everyone equally, and he showed us, more than taught us, to love fiercely. My dad, though quiet, has always had a voice when it came to putting us first.

He left the military as soon as my mother passed and became the strength we all needed to move on from her death. Then took a job at a factory pressing metal so that he could support and raise us the best way possible.

I’m getting off track.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that my dad loves us something fierce and he’s always done what’s best for us. Which, I know now, is something you’d understand.

See, for the past few weeks, I’ve woken up every day and Riley’s been the first thing on my mind. She’s the last thing I think about when I go to sleep, and she’s pretty much all I think about while I’m awake.

Swear, Ms. Hudson, I’m not a creep. I just really like her.

She’s smart and witty and funny and a complete pain in the ass—which, I guess, just adds to her charm. And she’s pretty. Real pretty. And she’s so strong. The fact that she hasn’t had anything to drink the past few days (not sure if you knew that or not) just shows how strong she is. I’m sure you know all those things about her, though you may not have witnessed it since the accident, I just thought I’d remind you.

Riley told me about her dad (jerk, right?) and it kind of made me angry—that there was some guy out there who’d had a hand in creating such a perfect girl and he didn’t even know her. I felt bad for him—that he was missing out on all things Riley. Then I thought about Riley and how she missed out on having a father in her life. But then I realized, she didn’t miss out.

She had you.

To be completely honest, Ms. Hudson—and please don’t take offense to what I say next—I didn’t like you. Not at all. I didn’t understand why a mother would let her daughter drink her days away and do nothing to stop it. It wasn’t until you practically kicked my ass and called me out while I stood on your doorstep desperate to see Riley that it finally registered—you’re just like my dad: You do what’s best for your kids, and you love them something fierce.