Boys Don't Cry
A/N: I have to start this note with a HUGE thanks to Michelle05 for shaing her little trick of the trade with me! I have been working on this story for two weeks now, and I've written 10 chapters. I've been dying not to be able to post it, and now that I know the secret, I'll try my best to keep it updated fairly regularly.
To be honest, I think this story is turning into my favorite work to date. And that's saying something! Thanks to my beta for all of her encouragement and guidance in regards to this story. You have been a lifesaver, girl! And with that, I remind you that your reviews are appreciated. Enjoy!
Have you ever heard that old adage, 'Be careful what you wish for because you just might get it'? Well, I can testify to the validity of that statement. For the last few months, I've thought nothing about that very thing.
When Jason, my husband of twelve years, decided to leave me for one of his executive assistants, I wished like hell that the pain would go away. When it didn't subside, I began praying for anything that would take my mind off of my own misery. I started thinking that there had to be something else to focus on, something that I could throw myself into that would help mask the ache in my heart where my husband used to be.
And that's when the man upstairs decided to grant my wish. By striking one of my closest friends with a terminal form of lung cancer. Stepping in to help with her two young daughters seemed natural for me, though I couldn't help making sure God knew that this wasn't what I had in mind when I asked for a distraction. The girls were precious, and the time spent at their family's ranch was doing some good for me. For awhile, we thought things might actually work out, the doctors were confident that the chance for remission was high and that everything would return to normal within a year.
Kara Calaway was one of the coolest chicks I've ever met. Up until the day she died, she had a biting, sarcastic sense of humor and a "take-no-prisoners" attitude toward life. She was tough as nails, and not even cancer could break her spirit. I guess being married to a 6'10" brick wall of a professional wrestler contributed to that disposition, but I have a feeling Kara was like that before she ever met Mark. In fact, if I was a betting woman, I would put money on the fact that he married her because of her tendency to look him directly in the eyes and call his bull shit. I'd seen her do it, even from her bed when she had grown too weak to stand.
She was the first person I met in Houston when Jason's job relocated us here. I had been sitting on the front porch, eating a popsicle and enjoying my new home, when she and the girls, along with three large dogs, walked in front of the house. Kara didn't think twice about stopping and introducing herself and her daughters, telling me that she just lived up the road, and that I should let her know if I needed anything. A week later, she invited me to take her morning walks with her daughters. We had been friends ever since - nearly five years.
Dammit, I would take the pain of Jason's betrayal a thousand times over if it would bring Kara back. I would gladly bare the brunt of his adultery if it would return that woman to her husband and her kids. I have no job, no children, and no real legacy. I would gladly trade my health for hers, if possible. The world needs Kara. I need her.
Even now, a month later, I know that he needs her. Pulling my car to a stop in his driveway, I cut the lights and cast my eyes to the man in the spotlight of the moon, gripping the railing of the porch as he turns his face to the heavens.
His career has weathered Mark Calaway, causing him to look every bit his 42 years. At least, on a bad day. And the past six months have brought more than their fair share of bad days. He might have been an imposing figure in the ring, but he was a devoted husband when he was home. I'd only met with him on a few occassions before Kara's diagnosis, but after that? The love that they shared was so evident that it was sometimes impossible to sit in the same room with the couple without feeling vouyeristic.
Stepping out of the car, I grip a warm casserole dish in my hands and slam the door of my car with my hip. "Hey there, Big Guy," I greet as happily as I can. It's only been a month since the funeral. Still, smiling and laughter seem to have been forgotten in this house.
"Hey, Dahlia," Mark raises his hand and nods, though he doesn't move from his place, leaning his weight against the wooden porch rail as he crosses his arms over his chest.
Though I've seen his gentle side enough times to know better, I still shiver at the sheer size of the man as I climb onto the porch. I'm not tiny - not by any stretch of the imagination. - but my 5'10" frame is dwarfed next to him. "You look like you could maybe use a Cheese Steak Casserole." I show him the pan, as though he wouldn't know where I was hiding the meal.
With a slight nod over his shoulder, he returns his gaze to the yard. "You can put it on the counter with the other food I won't be able to eat."
"Oh, no," I argue, drawing an amused look of surprise from the big man. "I don't cook," I reminded him. "For anyone. Ever." It's not that I can't - I just don't like to. "You're gonna fuckin' eat this. Got it?"
Raising his eyebrow, Mark chuckled slightly and nodded his head. "Alright. Fine."
I let myself into the sprawling foyer and through the living room. Dolls and coloring books litter the floor, blankets and laundry strewn around the furniture. Mark sighs heavily as he follows me to the kitchen. I know what he's thinking. It never looked like this when Kara was alive. She would have thrown a fit and a half if she had seen the house in this degree of disarray.
But I say nothing as I enter the enormous kitchen. The first time I had been invited into the house, I commented that my entire first apartment would fit inside this one room. Kara had told me that she had to have a big kitchen to cater to her husband's big appetite. Of course, the spread of untouched dishes on the counters isn't really testifying to the big man's ability to put the food away.
"So, are the girls in bed?" I ask as I set the oven to reheat the dish I've brought him.
He's been home for nearly a month. For a guy so used to living on the road, I'm sure it's been harder than usual for him. Not only is he dealing with massive grief, but he's gotta be suffering from some serious cabin fever. The heavy sigh that he emits in response to my question only confirms what I've been assuming for weeks.
Tipping his beer bottle to his lips, he shakes his head. "Finally," he answers. "Maggie's havin' a rough day," he admits.
Maggie is Mark's oldester daughter. She's five - and a rambunctious five, at that. Even before her mother died, she was a handful, but she's not a bad kid. She's actually pretty bright, and quite funny. Her outspoken nature comes directly from her mother, but Kara always said her stubborn streak was more Mark's influence. The fact that she's been giving him a hard time is not a surprise.
"It's gonna take some time for them to adjust, I would imagine," I say, grabbing a few tupperware containers from the cabinet. Someone needs to get this food off the counter before it all ruins.
Mark's eyes follow me around the kitchen. I wonder if it bothers him that I'm so comfortable in his home. He knows that I spent most of the last five months here, taking care of everything that his wife just didn't have the energy to do herself. He knows that this is like my second home. But he's territorial. He's protective. And he's prone to mood swings, especially in the aftermath of the last month.
But he doesn't blow his cool. Reclining in his chair, his shoulders sag. He's visibly exhausted, no doubt from all of the decisions he's been forced to make recently. Not to mention the fact that Maggie, and her two-year-old sister, Annie, are a huge distraction for someone who isn't used to dealing with them. He may be their father, but he hasn't exactly been around for much of their lives. I can't even begin to imagine how difficult it must be for him to care for them now.
"Guess they're still gettin' used to me." With a huff, he shakes his head. "Seems like they should know me by now."
I want to ask him why they should. Since their births, he's barely been around at all. But it's not my place to remind him of something I'm sure he struggles with every day. "You gotta give yourself a break, man," I tell him, placing a few containers in the refrigerator and loading the glass dishes into the dishwasher. Withdrawing my casserole dish from the oven, I heap a plate for him and deliver it to the table. "You can't do it all, Superman," I wink.
He nods and takes a tentative bite of the dinner I've presented. He may pretend to be invincible, but he's hungry, and quickly devours all that I've offered. "You got any more of this?" he asks, and I drop the glass baking dish on the table. For the first time since I arrived, he smiles. "Thanks."
I busy myself with the rest of the dishes, speaking over my shoulder as I label the plastic bowls for his convenience. "So when do you go back out on the road?" I ask.
Between hefty bites, Mark swallows and gulps at his beer. It's as though he hasn't eaten in weeks. In all honesty, I'm not sure he has. "Soon as I figure out what to do with the girls," he admits.
"You can't just take them with you?" I ask, knowing full well that it's a horrible idea. When he rolls his eyes, I just shrug. "Well, you could always hire a nanny."
Shaking his head, Mark stands from the table and crosses to the refrigerator. With another beer secure in his beefy hand, he stalks back to his seat and resumes his meal. "I thought about that," he admits finally. "But Kara didn't want the girls raised by a stranger." The mere mention of his wife's name seems difficult for him, but he's still stuffing food into his mouth, so it could just be cheese catching in his throat. "I been thinkin' about askin' my mom to watch 'em," he admits, and then sighs. "But I'm not sure she could keep up with 'em anymore. She's not exactly as young as she used to be."
His mother is a delightful woman, but he's right. She's well into her seventies, and strapping her with two rambunctious little girls is probably not the best idea. "What about your sister-in-law? Or Kara's brother?"
Mark huffs at that suggestion. "Her brother would turn them into pole dancers," he scoffs. "My brother's gettin' ready to move. I'd rather have someone close by. Their lives have changed so much already," he states, his focus trained on the table as he chews slowly. "I just wanna keep things as normal as possible for them."
I'm not sure where the idea comes from, or why I'm possessed to say it out loud. But after starting the dishwasher, I lean against the sink and cross my arms over my chest. "So this might be totally out of line, but what if I did it?" His head turns slowly, as if intrigued by the offer. "I'm not exactly tied down right now," I remind him. "The girls are already familiar with me. If you're comfortable with it, I could stay here with them while you're out of town. Or they could stay at my place. It's right up the street."
He nods and takes a final bite, pushing the dish away from his place as he folds his hands on the table. "It makes sense," he agrees. "I mean, you spent a lot of time here before." He stops, as though he can't bring himself to finish the sentence. Standing, he runs his hands over his jeans and flips his long, dark ponytail over his shoulder. "Let me do some research on what a nanny makes," he starts.
But I wave my hand. "You don't have to pay me," I assure him. He clears his throat, as if he's about to tell me how preposterous that statement was. "The spousal support that I'm getting from Jason is more than generous," I admit.
"I can't let you do it for free," Mark begins to argue.
Before I proposed the idea, I knew that he was going to insist. "Then take the money that you would pay me and put it into a college fund for your daughters. Or a vacation fund. Do something special for your girls, Mark. I don't need your money. I don't want it," I tell him. "Kara was the only real friend that I had in Texas, and I want to do this for her." With a smile, I reach out to touch his arm. "And for you."
With a slight blush, he nods and exhales a heavy sigh. "You have no idea how much of a relief that is," he says.
"It'll be good for me, too," I assure. "Gives me something to keep my mind off the divorce."
He looks as though he wants to ask me about that, but I'm glad that he doesn't. He's got enough sadness in his eyes. I don't want him expending any more energy on my issues. "It's a win-win, I guess."
Nodding, I motion to the kitchen door. "Go check on your girls," I encourage. "I'll finish cleaning up, and then we'll talk about the details."