Cunningham Family: Lost And Found Part 15

I spend the next few minutes figuring out my plan, so by the time we're walking through the supermarket doors, I already know what to say.

"I'm going to get some food," I tell him. "Maybe you should go get some more, uh, protection?" Ward insists on always buying the condoms. He says it's the guy's responsibility.

And he's not about to s.h.i.+rk his duty now. Amus.e.m.e.nt flickers in his eyes.

"We're running through those things pretty quickly, aren't we?" he says. "All right then. I'll grab some and come find you."

A pebble of guilt forms in my stomach as I watch him walk away. Sending him to get condoms while I secretly buy a pregnancy test feels pretty low, but I tell myself that if the test comes back negative, I'm going to want to make sure we take every precaution from here on out.

I only have a few minutes to grab a test and zip through the checkout line before Ward comes looking for me.

Back near my family's former estate, the stores kept pregnancy tests right at the checkout line next to the batteries and candy bars. I pray that this store does the same. I duck into the nearest empty checkout aisle and scan the racks.

There-right next to the energy shots. I almost collapse in relief. But as I'm reaching for the test, my eyes fall on the magazines displayed directly to the left. On the latest issue of Look! Magazine, which features a giant picture of Edward Carolson's face.

And a headline that makes my entire body go cold.

I grab the magazine. Flip it open. Turn desperately through the pages. My stomach twists, threatening to dislodge my breakfast.

I'm going to vomit. I'm going to throw up right here in the middle of the store. I'm going to- "Lou?"

Ward's voice snaps me back to awareness. The magazine is still in my hand, and my mind races as I fight down the bile in my throat.

He can't see this. Not like this.

I almost shove the magazine back on the rack. I want to throw it across the room. Get it as far away from me as possible. But Ward's almost next to me. He'll see it either way.

He's frowning by the time he stops in front of me. "What's going on?"

Even as he says it, his eyes slide past me to the magazine rack. I know the split second he reads the headline, because his face suddenly goes white.

"Ward," I say softly, but he doesn't appear to hear me.

His eyes twitch slightly, his pupils darting back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He's rereading the headline again and again and again.

I touch his arm, but I know there's nothing I can do. No way for me to soften the words that continue to hold his gaze.

Edward Carolson: Dead at 58.

CHAPTER NINE.

I've never seen Ward like this. Not at Huntington Manor. Not even when I was punched. He's perfectly still.

And then all of a sudden his hand darts out. He grabs the magazine off of the rack. Tears through the pages.

They didn't even bother to come up with a different t.i.tle for the accompanying article. They just repeat the same, cold phrase across the top of the page.

Edward Carolson: Dead at 58.

I know that headline. I saw something similar on dozens of publications when my father died. On a hundred websites. It's always the same: blunt and sensational at the same time. Like the people who appear in these magazines are fictional characters, and every event of their life is just one more scene in that ma.s.sive soap opera. Like they don't leave behind real people who have to see reminders of their loved ones wherever they turn.

Ward's hands are shaking. He's still holding the magazine open, but the pages are fluttering. I don't think he can even read the article.

I'm still holding the issue I picked up. My stomach lurches, but I force myself to flip open the magazine and find the article. My eyes drift over the words.

Apparently it was a heart attack. None of the "anonymous sources" mentioned in the text seem to know more than that, but they all seem to be more than willing to offer up their theories. Some suggest health issues caused by stress.

I can't read this garbage. I close the magazine and toss it back on the rack.

"Ward," I murmur, stepping close to him and placing a hand on his chest. "Ward, look at me."

He looks down at me, even though the rest of him remains rigid. "This... this is just a rumor, right? They made this up to sell magazines."

Maybe. But probably not. Most magazines don't print death announcements unless they're pretty d.a.m.ned sure.

My silence is answer enough for him. He throws the magazine at the floor. Then he's grabbing at the racks, tearing down the magazines. Throwing every single one aside.

"Hey!" an employee says, running up to us. "What do you think you're doing?"

Ward looks like he's about to deck the guy in the nose. But when his eyes fall on me, his face falls slightly.

"We need to leave," he says. He doesn't even sound like himself.

"Okay. Let's go." I take his arm as we move toward the door. Every muscle in his body is tense.

He pulls away from me when we step outside.

"We need to find a computer," he says, striding ahead of me toward the motel.

"A computer?"

"Internet. We need internet."

He's already in the car and cranking the gas by the time I get there.

"Where are we going?" I ask as I slide into my seat.

"Wherever there's a computer."

That muscle is twitching in his cheek, and I'm about to beg him to pull over when I see the sign for one of those big-box electronics stores up ahead. They have computers, right?

"There," I tell him, pointing.

A minute later, I'm trying to keep up with him as he marches across the parking lot.

The store's busy. But we manage to find an open floor model in the computer department. Ward pulls up the internet. It's only a limited connection, but he's able to find a news site.

And sure enough, when he scrolls through the headlines of the week, there it is: "Edward Carolson, owner of Huntington Manor, found dead."

Ward's fists clench, and he raises them, ready to bring them down on the keyboard. But his gaze s.h.i.+fts to me, and the violence slowly seeps out of his eyes. He lowers his hands, letting his breath hiss out from between his teeth.

"Let's go back to the motel," I urge.

I manage to get him out to the car, but when he pulls out his keys, I grab them from his hand.

"Lou-"

"I'm driving. No arguments."

He doesn't say a word the entire way back to the motel. I don't like it. I reach over and touch his thigh, and he clasps his hand over mine.

He seems to have relaxed slightly by the time we get back, though he still doesn't say anything as we make our way back up to the room. The moment the door falls shut behind us, he grabs me and pulls me against him.

I let out a sound of surprise as he crushes his mouth against mine. His arms close around me, and his fingers dig into my back. His tongue drives between my lips.

I don't have the chance to ask him what he's doing. He backs me toward the bed. I'm wearing my tank top and jeans today, but he's not about to let any clothes get in the way. By the time the backs of my thighs. .h.i.t the mattress, he already has my zipper undone and he's pus.h.i.+ng my pants down my legs. I fall down on the bed, my jeans around my knees and Ward on top of me.

"Wait-" I manage between his attacks on my mouth. I catch his cheeks between my hands, and he freezes, his face just above mine. His chest heaves, and his arms pin me firmly to the mattress. His gaze is sharp and full of emotion, but it seems to go right through me.

I tighten my grip on his face. "Ward, are you sure about this?"

"Please," he says, his voice tight. "I need this." His eyes snap into focus, and the pain I see there nearly breaks me. I know that pain. I've spent almost two years trying to deal with that pain.

And I can't fault him for needing this. Even if I know that ultimately, it will do little to help. Right now, he desires the comfort and the distraction of physical pleasure, and I won't refuse him.

I pull his face down to mine.

"All right," I whisper, my voice cracking. "All right."

I kiss him gently, and he falls apart. He presses down against me, his mouth taking control of mine, and I give myself to his pa.s.sion. I help him wrest off my tank top. I kick my jeans the rest of the way off my legs.

Together, we get him out of his pants, but he doesn't stop to bother with his s.h.i.+rt. He holds me down while he slides on a condom with his other hand. And then he doesn't give me any warning. He spreads my legs and drives into me.

If I thought he was insatiable these last few days when we were locked up in this room together... well, that was nothing. Today, it's like he's possessed, and each time he has me, it only seems to make him want me more.

He takes me on my back, and then he flips me over and has me on my hands and knees. He has me on the floor, driving into me over and over again until I have carpet burn all over my bare back. And just when I think I'm about to fall to pieces, he drags me in his lap and thrusts into me until I collapse from exhaustion.

Not once the whole night does he let me take charge, or even climb on top of him. He just takes what he needs, and I give him everything I have.

He can't seem to stop kissing me. He doesn't look me in the eyes at all, not tonight. Tonight, he can't seem to keep his lips away from my mouth, my throat, my b.r.e.a.s.t.s-almost like he believes he can draw the comfort he needs out of my skin with his lips and tongue.

I cling to him and kiss him and let him do whatever he wishes with my body. I thread my fingers through his hair and wrap my legs around him and do everything in my power to show him that I want him close to me, that I'm willing to give him everything.

When at last he's worn himself out, we fall back on the sheets in a sweaty heap. All of my muscles are trembling, and I let my whole body go limp. Ward must be equally exhausted. For the first time since we saw that magazine in the supermarket, he looks relaxed. His breathing is deep and steady.

There are no words for twisted situation like this. There's only pain and grief and that horrible knot of emptiness that never seems to leave your belly. It's been almost two years for me, and I can still feel it.

I tilt my head to look at him. He's on his back, and his eyes are closed. His hair is pushed up on the side.

I reach over and brush it back. He doesn't even stir. His chest rises slowly and falls again. He's asleep. Good. He'll have some peace for a little while.

I let my fingers trail softly across his lips and down his throat. I run them through the scattering of red-brown hair across his chest. I skim them over the hard muscles of his abdomen. His skin is hot and smooth and still damp. His body is so perfect that it almost hurts.

And I might be carrying his child.

He doesn't deserve this, I think. He doesn't deserve to suffer this way. He lost his mother only a few short years ago. He just found his biological father, and even if he wasn't ready to have a close relations.h.i.+p with the man, he should have had that chance. And he shouldn't have had to experience this news through the pages of a gossip magazine. I know how heartbreaking that can be.

My eyes start to burn, and I pull my hand back. I can feel my chest tightening, my heart beginning to speed up.

It shouldn't have been like this. If Ward hadn't come away with me, he might have had the opportunity to build a relations.h.i.+p with his father. He might have known Carolson, if only for a little while. He might have- My stomach lurches, and I sit up, clapping my hand over my mouth as I leap from the bed. I run into the bathroom and fold myself over the toilet, but though my insides are heaving, nothing comes up.

I kneel there gasping over the toilet until I have no energy left. There are tears on my face, and though I tell myself that it's just my eyes watering from all the dry-heaving, I know better. The moment I admit the truth to myself-that I'm not okay-I lose it. I start to sob.

It shouldn't have been like this. My stomach is cramping. My body hums with pain. But it's my heart that's sick, my heart that can't bear to see Ward in such agony.

In one strike, the universe has clobbered the man I love and reminded me in the most crus.h.i.+ng way possible of the blow it dealt me not even two years ago.

Because no matter what I do, images of my own father keep flooding my mind: my father working in his study. My father in my family's old theater, forcing me and my brother to watch yet another spy movie marathon. My father pulling me onto his knee, promising me a special bottle of wine for my wedding.

I didn't deserve to lose my father, either. I might be self-centered and reckless and hopeless, but I didn't deserve this.

I miss him. I miss him so much. It's been so easy to push the memories of him aside while I've been out here on the road. To forget all of my grief in the face of adventure and discovery and the thrill of escape.

Stupid me, pretending we could run forever.

I lower myself all the way to the floor and pull my knees up to my chest. I want my father. I need him. I need him to hold me and promise me that I'll be okay. That I'm strong enough to get through this. He'd lecture me about my behavior at the estate, I'm sure, but at the end of it all, he'd make it clear that he still loved me. Just like he always did.

But honestly, he wouldn't even need to say a word. If he was just here, just here, just here...

My throat is closing. I want to go home. I want to go home.

But I don't have a home anymore. I have a dozen motel rooms. A towel on the beach. The pa.s.senger's seat in Ward's car. It's bearable, of course, because Ward is with me-his presence is probably the only thing keeping me together-but if today's news has taught me anything, it's that this has to end.

My sobs have turned into hiccups. I bite down on my lip and rock back and forth on the floor, trying to calm myself. But the tears won't stop. Maybe it's childish to cry, but I don't care. I feel like a lost little girl right now.

And then the bathroom door opens.

Ward stands there, still naked, his eyes still glazed and sleepy. They sharpen when he sees me on the floor.

I try to tell him to go back to bed. He has his own confusing emotions to deal with. His own grief to suffer. This isn't supposed to be about me. Not tonight.

But the words won't come.