The Debra Dilemma (The Lone Stars Book 4) (4 page)

Her empty Starbucks coffee cup caught his attention. The need to touch something that she’d touched was stupid, but he couldn’t help himself. He reached over and picked it up. Whatever was inside had gone cold. He sniffed at the slit in the white plastic top and smiled. Hot chocolate.

She’d always loved hot chocolate. He remembered her telling him about the European drinking chocolate that she’d had in France. It was always her favorite at least it had been before and it was strangely comforting to know that she still ordered it. Debra had described it as a cup full of chocolate ganache. At the time, he’d had no idea what ganache was. Since then, he’d taken countless women to Paris, but none of them had wanted to try the hot chocolate because it was way too many calories. He was willing to admit that the string bean model types who’d worn their hunger like a badge of honor had never held his attention for long. He’d hopped from girlfriend to girlfriend in the hopes that one of them would fill the hole left by Debra, but none of them did.

In the six glorious months he’d had with Debra, he’d been at peace with himself and the world around him. He’d liked the man she brought out in him. Around her, the nagging need to constantly prove himself was gone. He was just Warren and that was more than fine with her. Or it had been.

She’d been a star-eyed girl of twenty-two when he’d snuck into her life and screwed it up. All her plans to get her masters in counseling and then counsel underprivileged kids gone in the blink of an eye. He’d done that. That was on him.

Right now, he would trade every single dollar he had to take Debra to Paris and watch the look of delight on her face at the simple pleasure of hot chocolate.

He noticed the faint line of lipstick under the drinking slit. Instead of the garish reds or hot pinks she used to wear, here was a soft, pale pink. Her hair was different, too. Gone were the long, platinum blonde locks. Now her hair was cut short like a man’s and it was back to her natural reddish-blonde. Debra had always been ultra-feminine, and somehow the man’s haircut made her even more feminine. She’d been dressed differently, too. Just jeans and a pink sweater—nothing skin tight or low cut. This new Debra was hard and no nonsense. There was no trace of the innocent, whimsical girl.

He desperately wanted to get to know the new version.

His cell buzzed. He pulled it out to find a picture of Sweet Louise on his screen. He taped the accept button and put it to his ear.

“You don’t listen.” Sweet Louise wasn’t exactly yelling, but it was close. “Debra just left me a message saying that she’d run into you. What part of ‘leave her alone’ do you not understand?”

“I wanted to see her.” He couldn’t explain why to himself much less her. “She looks good.”

She looked better than good, she looked perfect. The grownup, calm Debra was so much more appealing than the tantrum-throwing girl he’d known.

“I get the feeling that you screwed her over in some way, and now you want to make amends?” Sweet Louise blew out a long sigh. “She’s finally getting her shit together. She doesn’t need your apology. This can only end badly for both of you. Stop hurting her.”

He’d never thought of it that way. He’d never wanted to hurt her, but he’d done just that. Wouldn’t explaining his side of the story help her to heal? “I can’t let this go. I have to make it right.”

Sweet Louise blew out another put-upon sigh. “I don’t get men. Y’all say that we’re the unreasonable ones, but then you go and do something so stupid and self-serving that it doesn’t make a damned bit of sense.”

“Huh?” All he wanted to do was make sure that Debra was okay. For some reason now, he couldn’t stand the thought of her out in the world and thinking badly of him. Sweet Louise was right, it was unreasonable. He didn’t really care that it was unreasonable, it was how he felt. And wasn’t she always telling him to get in touch with his emotions. He shook his head. What was it with women and mixed signals?

“If you want to make things right with her, the best way to do that is to leave her alone. Whatever passed between you is still hurtful. Bringing it up again even to apologize won’t give her closure, it will only reopen a deep wound.” Sweet Louise was getting exasperated.

“I disagree. How can my making amends be anything but productive.” He had to make things right between him and Debra.

“Oh, why do I even bother?” She was shaking her head, he could all but see it. “You go ahead and rip off that Band-Aid and watch her go back to the behavior that turned her into a person that she hated. When that happens, I’ll be there to pick up her, dust her off, and help her through it. But, Buddy, make no mistake, after I get her back on her two feet, I’m coming for you.”

A chill went through him. Not that he was scared of Sweet Louise. After all, she was the loving mother that he’d never had. It felt horrible to disappoint her, but Debra was more important than his feelings.

“Deal.” Only he would make sure that Debra didn’t get hurt. He’d never hurt her again.

“Good-bye.” Sweet Louise sounded tired, as if she’d fought as hard as she could and wasn’t giving in so much as giving him enough rope to hang himself.

“Thanks.” It didn’t sound like enough.

“Don’t worry. I won’t say I told you so…just know that it’s implied.” She hung up.

How could making amends be anything but good? Sometimes Sweet Louise was over emotional—well, he tried to convince himself of that. Truth was she’d never been anything but level-headed.

He sniffed the slit in the plastic top of the cup again. The scent of hot chocolate gave him courage. He might not be booking a trip for two to Paris anytime soon, but this was a start.

Now all he needed was a really good reason to bump into Debra again.

Debra woke up to banging on her front door. She rolled over and willed her sandpaper eyes to open, but they were still onboard with the whole sleep thing and couldn’t get behind the change in plans. Ambien was a glorious, mind-numbing substance and she felt herself slipping back into its hold.

The banging got louder and she sat up. This time her eyes shot open. Just who in the hell was beating her door down at—she glanced at the clock by her bed—eleven in the morning?

Crap!

Eleven. She threw back the covers and ran to the front door.

Crying herself to sleep around three this morning had taken its toll, and her swollen eyes were crusty. She wiped them vigorously with the palms of her hands, and then went up on her tippy-toes to peek out the peephole.

Sweet Louise stood there holding a Starbuck’s cup holder with two cups in it and a paper sack. Crapola. It was time for their weekly lunch date. It was like Sweet Louise was her parole officer and this was their weekly check-in. Last week she’d forgotten to cancel because it hadn’t registered that Saturday—today—was December fourteenth.

Debra opened the door and mentally kicked herself for not cancelling this lunch date. All she wanted to do was crawl back in bed and skip today. Everyone should be allowed a skip day once a year. Those damned ancient Romans with their Julian calendar. They’d thought they were so smart and had thought of everything—well they left out a skip day.

“You’ve been crying.” Sweet Louise’s shrewd eyes zeroed in on Debra’s.

Debra ran her fingers through what she was certain qualified for crazy bedhead. “I’m so sorry. I should have cancelled our lunch today, but I forgot. I’m not really good company right now…can we reschedule?”

She was so damned tired and not just from the Ambien; emotionally she was drained. She leaned on the door.

“Nope.” Sweet Louise stepped through the door and looked around. “I think you need a friend.”

What she needed was to crawl back in bed and stay there until tomorrow.

“Really, I’m good. How about tomorrow?” Debra glanced down at her dirty sleep shirt. Apparently she’d used the hem last night to mop some of her tears. It was a little crusty and rumpled.

“Too bad.” Sweet Louise shook her head. “I’m not leaving. You need a friend and I’m staying. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out together.”

It was both annoying and comforting. Debra had never had a female friend before, or for that matter, very many male friends.

“I brought hot chocolate and croissants.” Sweet Louise stepped inside and looked around. “You don’t have a Christmas tree or any decorations.”

“I hate Christmas.” Debra didn’t have it in her to sugar coat anything…not today. “Next to me, Scrooge looks all warm and fuzzy.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Christmas is a fantastic magical time of the year.” The older woman’s eyes zeroed in on the coffee table. “Looks like your cleaning lady ran away from home.”

Debra scanned the room. It was a mess. Pictures she’d taken from her photo album were strewn all over the coffee table and the clothes she’d worn yesterday were in a heap on the floor. A Whataburger bag was on the floor in front of her red leather sofa and the matching drink cup was on the coffee table.

“I’ve never seen your condo anything but spotless.” Sweet Louise dropped the sack and drink holder on the coffee table. “It must be bad.”

Her eyes locked on to a photo. She picked it up to get a better look. “You had a baby?”

Debra knew the photo that Sweet Louise was holding. It was of her in a hospital gown and sitting up in a hospital bed. A white blood pressure cuff circled her upper right arm. She was holding her baby boy, swaddled tightly in the aqua blue blanket that she’d knitted for him. In the picture he looked so peaceful. There was a cobalt blue knit cap on his head. He was tiny and sweet and if she hadn’t been in the picture and known the truth she would have thought this was the perfect new mother photo.

“What happened to him?” Sweet Louise put her arm around Debra.

She opened her mouth to tell Sweet Louise, but the words got stuck in her throat. She glanced down at the picture Sweet Louise still held and wanted nothing more than to crawl back into that day and hold her sweet baby boy just one more time.

Debra could feel all of the blood draining from her face.

“Let’s get you to the sofa.” Sweet Louise walked her to the sofa and gently settled her back against the cushions.

Debra touched the picture. She took it and traced her son’s perfect, tiny blue lips.

“He died.” Debra’s voice was small and raspy. A sob burst out of her and then the tears started up again. “He’s dead in this picture. I know it’s morbid, but I wanted a picture of him. He had a neural tube defect that caused a five-centimeter hole in the top of his skull. He died during childbirth.”

With the cap on, he’d looked so normal. She’d carried him to term, loved him enough to make up for his missing father, and had lost him one minute after he’d been born. He was her angel baby.

“Sweet Jesus.” Sweet Louise pulled her into a hug. “Honey, I’m so sorry.”

Not since her Aunt June had held her and let her cry on her shoulder had Debra felt so connected to another human being.

“Would you like for me to take you to visit his grave?” Sweet Louise sniffed and based on her breathing, Debra could tell that the older lady was crying.

“He doesn’t have one.” There were so many things she felt guilty about, and that one was right up there with the certain knowledge that she should have been more careful during her pregnancy. Everyone had told her that it wasn’t her fault, but who else was to blame? She’d tried blaming Warren, but his part in the making of baby AJ had taken all of five minutes—her part had taken nine months. “I donated his body.”

Debra swallowed down the sobs. She needed to talk about AJ. She needed for someone else to know about him. “The nurse said that donating his body would save the lives of six babies. It seemed so cruel at the time, but I didn’t want another mother to go through what I was going through.”

She remembered it so clearly. Leaving the hospital with nothing but what she’d brought with her. Being wheeled down the hall—rolling by all of the other new moms who were cuddling their newborns—it had been hell. And then she’d had to face down AJ’s room. The crib and rocking chair and those tiny little diapers all folded and ready on the top shelf of the changing table. Night after night as she’d rocked herself in that empty room with the lights off, the outline of the baby furniture reminded her of tombstones in a graveyard. It was both peaceful and absolutely heartbreaking.

Sweet Louise held her even tighter. “You are a special lady to have the presence of mind to think of others at a time like that. I’m not sure I could have done that.” Sweet Louise rocked her back and forth. “In fact, I’m pretty sure I would have punched that nurse in the mouth for suggesting it.”

“Punching people in the throat is better. They can’t talk for a while. I’ve been taking Krav Maga. I get to punch people…it’s nice.” Debra giggled. It was inappropriate, but she couldn’t help it. She’d thought she was the only one who’d dreamed of punching someone.

“Throat.” Sweet Louise nodded her head. “Got it. That’ll come in handy if I ever do start punching people who piss me off. I have a list. Wanna see it?”

“No.” Debra giggled again. “Am I on it?”

Sweet Louise leaned back, slid her hand into the V of her red silk button up shirt, and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She grabbed a black sharpie off of the coffee table, unfolded the paper, marked something out, refolded it, and slipped it back into her bra.

“Not anymore.” Sweet Louise smiled and then pulled her in for a tight hug.

Debra broke down in cackling, hysterical laughter. “Thank God.”

Sweet Louise just rocked her and patted her. “What was your son’s name?”

A tiny bit of the gaping wound in her heart closed. No one had ever called him her son. At the hospital, he’d been Baby Boy Covington or The Deceased. And then after, no one had spoken of him at all.

She’d wanted to talk about him, remember him, use his name, but she had no family and so few friends that there was no one with whom to speak about her baby boy.

“August John or AJ.” Debra shook her head. “You know what’s odd? When a baby is stillborn or dies during birth they don’t ask for a name for the birth certificate—they need it for the death certificate. They don’t bother with a birth certificate. It has always bothered me that he has a death certificate but no birth certificate. I know it’s just a piece of paper, but I can’t stand that only his death was recorded and not his birth. To the rest of the world, it’s like he never existed.”