“Oh, did you think I meant Elin?” he laughs. “I was actually talking about Becca, but Elin isn’t bad either.” He tosses me a wink.
“I just about ended you, McCurry,” I chuckle, sitting back in my chair. “You were this close to dying tonight.”
Cord laughs and stretches his legs. “Yeah, well, what are you going to do when you do see her with someone else? Have you thought about that?”
Yeah, I’ve thought about it, and it makes me want to end up in prison for a very, very long time. Instead of answering, I just watch my wife from the safety of the darkness.
The light of the fire highlights her delicate cheekbones and the fullness of her soft lips. Her hair brushes against her shoulders as it hangs straight, not curled or fixed up like she usually does. She’s thinner than I remember, and I miss her curves and hate knowing that they’re missing because of me.
“Have you talked to her at all?” Cord asks.
I start to respond but press my lips together instead. Whatever I say is going to make me sound like a pussy.
“Do you remember when my birth mother came looking for me a few years ago?” he presses. “Fuck, that was hard, Ty. I grew up hating even the idea of her. I was never the kid that wanted to know her. I was the boy in foster home after foster home, wondering why my own mother didn’t love me enough to keep me. Wondering why I had to live with the alcoholic in a rage downstairs or the foster mom that had me only for the check, not to actually feed me or take care of me. I mean, if my birth mom couldn’t love me, didn’t want me, no one would.”
He looks into the night, away from everyone, and I watch as a flurry of memories skirt across his face.
“You know, one night I remember lying in a bed with no blanket or pillow, and it was cold as hell,” he says to himself more than to me. “It must’ve been December or so because I remember seeing Christmas lights out the window. My stomach ached,” he cringes, “and I mean ached. I hadn’t eaten more than a half a sandwich in a couple of days and a handful of iced animal cookies I snuck out of the cabinet in the middle of the night.” His voice breaks and he pulls away from me, turns so I can’t see his face anymore. “I remember lying there and praying that my mother and father, wherever they were, were hungry and cold and miserable. I prayed they died.”
I watch his shoulders tense, his jaw clench, and I feel absolutely terrible for him. “Man, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.”
He faces me. “I hated my parents more than I ever thought one person could hate another. Their choices ruined my life. And then my mom showed up out of nowhere.”
“I remember that. She came into Thoroughbreds, right?”
“Yeah. And she asked me who I was, and I told her, and she started crying,” he says, the corner of his lips twitching. “I called her every name under the sun. I mean, I really ripped into her. But after I settled down some and the shock wore off, we went out to the lake and sat by the water and talked. It was . . . it was okay.”
He quiets, stares across the night. “She made me all of these promises, swore she wanted to be a part of my life. Not that I believed her, but she said them anyway. Then she disappeared again.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. I wonder how often he thinks about that and how it feels to be all alone. Because he is. Without Jiggs and I and Elin and Lindsay, Cord is by himself.
He turns to me, his eyes boring into mine. His gaze tells me this isn’t just a life story—he has a point. And if I thought hard enough about it, I’m fairly certain I could figure it out. But who wants to do that?
“You get what I’m saying, Ty?”
I take a drink and look for Elin.
“You need to attempt to fix this,” he insists. “Your choices might have fucked shit up—her choices too—but you need to make good ones now to repair the damage.”
Ignoring him, I take another swig.
“She may not forgive you for leaving her. She might not want any part of you.”
Swinging around, I shoot him a glare. He shrugs.
“She might not,” he repeats. “But I’m fairly certain her reaction right now is just an emotional overload. She’s trying to figure this all out, and you’re the one that caused the pain, so she’s lashing out at you.”
“Thanks,” I grimace.
“Well, you’re the one that left.”
“Shut up, McCurry.”
“Truth hurts, but I’m telling it to you anyway.” He leans forward. “Don’t you respect everything you’ve been through enough to at least go and talk to her?”