“Yes. At the same time Kayne’s mom was working to gain back custody from the state, Kayne was living with two of the most abhorrent foster parents in Motor City. It doesn’t say this in the file, but I believe what happened was when the social worker showed up unannounced to deliver the news, she caught the couple abusing Kayne. It says she ‘found him locked in a small broom closet, dirty and naked and smelling like urine.’”
“Oh, god.” My stomach turns. Animals.
“I believe, since it doesn’t say much after that account, the social worker didn’t want to traumatize Kayne further. So when she removed him from the home, she didn’t tell him about his mother.”
“Okay, well, she should have told him eventually, no?”
“Yes, I’m sure, but researching further, I came across the elderly woman’s death certificate. In an unforeseen twist of fate, she apparently died of a heart attack three days after she removed Kayne from the household.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I could not make this stuff up.”
“So your theory?”
“She never got a chance to tell Kayne that his mother didn’t up and abandon him, and his next caseworker was unaware he didn’t know or didn’t bother to tell him. Either way, the information slipped through the cracks.”
“That’s almost too impossible to believe.”
“Crazier things have happened. A woman once gave the man who kidnapped her, lied to her, and forced her to submit a second chance, and now she’s having his baby.”
I squint petulantly at Jett. We are not talking about me and my questionable decisions.
“We need to tell him. We need to just bite the bullet, tell him, and hope we survive the wrath of Kayne.” I pace the room.
“Hold that thought.” Jett pulls his phone out from his back pocket and glances at the screen. “That wrath may come sooner than you think,” he informs me before he answers it. “Hey, man. Yeah,” he looks directly at me, “she’s here.”
Oh, shit.
“Okay . . . see you in a few.” He hangs up. “You’re done blowing in the wind.”
“Apparently. You just gave me up.”
“We have like seven seconds before he gets here.”
“Should we take cover?”
The doorbell rings.
Too late.
“At least he’s using his manners and didn’t break down the door,” Jett points out.
“He probably just doesn’t want to pay for another home repair.”
“Ellie!” Kayne’s voice blasts through the house.
“Up here!” Jett yells back.
Moments later, Kayne appears in the doorway. He’s wearing loose jeans and a fitted blue t-shirt. His hair is a mess—my guess from trying to pull it out—and there’s a hollow look in his eyes.
“Let’s go.” He tries to grab my arm, but I step back.
“No.” I see the devastation on his face, but we have to do this. We have to address the albatross in Kayne’s life.
“Ellie, now.” His tone becomes stricter, desperate almost.
“We need to talk.” I hold my ground.
“No, we don’t.”
“Yes. We do.” I’m adamant.
“Maybe you should listen to her,” Jett interjects.
“Maybe you should mind your own fucking business. She’s my wife—”
“Yes, I know,” Jett cuts him off sharply. “You love to remind everyone of that. Maybe you should remind yourself why you married her. Wait. I’ll do it for you. Because she has your best interests at heart and only wants what’s best for you. For you and your child.”
Kayne immediately clams up. I know he wants to argue with Jett, wants to tell him to fuck off and drag me out of the house, but he’s exercising his restraint. He may be excitable, but he’s not stupid.
“Sit.” I gesture with my head to the couch. “Jett has something he needs to tell you.”
“I’d rather stand.”
“For fuck’s sake! Can you not be difficult for one minute today!?” I erupt and the baby kicks me. “Oh!” I double over.
“Ellie?” Kayne grabs me. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine, but you’re pissing the baby off. Now can you please just sit?” I grimace. “I think he has your front kick.” I rub my sore stomach.
“Fine,” Kayne grumbles, dragging me to the couch with him. “But if I sit, you sit.”
“Fine,” I spit back. Such a loving couple, aren’t we?
“What do you have to tell me?” He directs his question at Jett, tension emanating from his pores. He may be trying to play it cool, but he is a bundle of nerves.
Jett takes a deep breath and leans on the edge of the desk directly across from us. With compassionate eyes, the eyes that are the most genuine on the planet, he recites almost verbatim what he told me only minutes ago. About Kayne’s mother, the social worker, and his ‘theory.’ Kayne remains silent the whole time . . . barely blinking, barely breathing. Once Jett finishes, you could hear a pin drop.
Kayne is intimidating to begin with, but menacingly-silent Kayne is downright scary.
“Kayne.” I lace my fingers with his and rub my thumb across the back of his hand. He doesn’t utter a word, not one, single word. After a few moments, he spontaneously stands up, hauling me with him with a death grip on my hand. He stalks over to Jett, who straightens, pushing out his chest, almost defensively. Kayne glowers as he reaches for the folder, never breaking eye contact with Jett. The tension in the room could suffocate a tyrannosaurus rex. Once he has it, he drags me away, quieter than a mime. Outside the house, he opens the door to his Jag and motions for me to get in.
“Can you drive right now?” I ask as he walks around the front end.
No answer. He just slips into the front seat and hands me the folder. He punches the ignition and takes off in the direction of our home. Peeling through the quiet neighborhood, we make it there in record time.
“Kayne.” I try to engage him, but he shuts me out, not even acknowledging my attempt. After we’re inside, he drags me upstairs to our bedroom. Taking the folder from my hand, he drops it on the dresser then proceeds to strip me of all my clothes. Every single article until I’m completely naked and he is still fully dressed.
“Lay down,” he orders, his tone downright daunting. Guardedly, I crawl onto the mattress and rest my head on the pillow. Kayne kicks off his shoes then follows right behind me. To say I’m not a little apprehensive would be a lie. I don’t think my husband would ever intentionally hurt me, but when his emotions become too much for him to handle, he tends to get rough. And with me being pregnant, I’m not sure how that will fair.
Kayne slides his hand over my naked body, feeling every microscopic inch of my skin, before he lies down next to me. Practically wrapping me up like a mummy with his limbs, he places his head on my bare chest and begins to cry. Hard, deep sobs that shake us both. I’m completely thrown, but at the same time, completely sympathetic and a little destroyed. He finally knows the truth and now has to deal with it.
“Shhh . . .” I kiss his head and run my fingers through his hair, encouraging him to purge all the feelings out.
“Shhh . . .”
I WAKE UP ALONE AND to the smell of breakfast. My stomach growls. Someone is hungry.
I slide out of bed, grab a cotton sundress from my closet to slip on, brush my teeth, and use the bathroom. Once downstairs, I find Kayne working away in front of the stove. Whatever he’s making smells delicious. I walk quietly up behind him, not to scare him, but because I’m not sure what frame of mind he’s in. Yesterday, he confronted his darkest demons; who knows how that’s affecting him today.
“Hey,” I say softly as I stand next to him.
“Morning.” He kisses me on the head while he continues beating—“Eggs? You’re making eggs?” Now that I’m close, I see a host of different ingredients spread out on the counter—pancake batter, butter, milk, chopped green peppers, and shredded cheddar cheese. I also notice his caseworker’s file laying open off to the side. I have no doubt that he’s been reading it. If I know him, dissecting it would be a better word. “You hate eggs. They remind you—”
“Not today,” he cuts me off. “Today, I love eggs. Today is a new day.” He scoops up the chopped peppers with his hands and drops them into the bowl then pours the half cup of shredded cheddar in afterward.
I feel like I’m in the twilight zone. “Today, I love eggs. Today is a new day.” What? For the past five years, just looking at a carton of eggs made Kayne shudder because it reminded him of Kim, the foster mother who tried to seduce him when he was seventeen. Making eggs was apparently their “thing.”
“How long have you been up?” I glance at the clock. It’s only seven forty-five in the morning.
“A while. I couldn’t sleep, so I worked out. We need a new punching bag, by the way. Then I went for a run with Jett around six. I showered, and now here I am.” He dumps the eggs into the heated frying pan and they sizzle.
“And how are you doing?” I ask delicately.
He pulls in a deep breath and then exhales, pushing the eggs around with a wooden spoon. “I think I’m okay.”