Fight For Me: A Ransom Family Novel Read online

  Before I make it more than a few steps, a woman moves into my path. She reminds me of my grandmother, a little. Same soft white hair. Same energetic bearing. My grandparents stayed active right up until the day my grandpa’s cancer finally confined him to bed. Before that, you wouldn’t have known they were in their seventies just by looking at them. This woman gives off the same impression.

  Her eyes search my face, a soft smile on her lips. “I haven’t seen you since you were a boy.”

  I search my memory, trying to place her, but nothing comes. “I’m sorry, I—”

  She waves her hand. “Oh, I wouldn’t expect you to remember. I played bridge with Bruce and Alice at the rec center in Huntington when you were little.”

  “I definitely remember their card nights.” Most times they came home arguing. My grandmother always insisted that my grandfather cheated. I think she just liked teasing him.

  I swallow past the lump in my throat and the woman’s expression settles into understanding. “My name is Mary Thompson. My husband and I moved down to Arizona after he retired.”

  “You came all the way from Arizona?” I ask, the lump in my throat growing.

  She gives me a sad smile. “When my George died a few years back, Alice didn’t hesitate to get on a plane to come to the service. We kept in touch after I moved. Always by letter, mind you, even after email became a thing. She said letter writing was a lost art.”

  “She always said that to me, too,” I say, voice husky.

  Her eyes search my face. “I feel like I know you. Most of her letters were about you.”

  “Yeah?”

  She nods, then pulls an envelope from her oversized purse. “I wanted to give you these. She’s been sending them for years. I didn’t have grandkids of my own, you see. So it always felt so nice, the way she included me in your life.”

  I frown, wondering what she means. She hands the envelope to me. “I hung onto these all this time because I figured someday you might like them.” Her eyes bore into mine. “She loved you very much, Wyatt. You were the light in her life after she lost your father.”

  She’s not the first person at the funeral or wake to mention my father—not Cash, but my biological father, Doug Warner. Alice and Bruce’s son. The man my mom married when she was just eighteen. The man who went away to war before I was born and never made it home. Several mourners thought it was necessary to tell me how happy my grandparents must be, to finally be reunited with him. I wanted to punch every one of them. But not Mary—there’s no assumption in her words, no false platitudes that only make me feel worse. She’s simply letting me know what she remembers about my grandmother—that I made her happy even after such a devastating loss.

  I finger the envelope. I almost don’t want to open it, but Mary doesn’t change the subject or move away. She’s standing there patiently, waiting for me. On a deep inhale, I open the envelope and a pile of newspaper clippings fall out into my hand.

  There must be three or four dozen, from papers all over the country. Little snippets from when my symphony came to town. Larger articles about my solo concerts. Reviews of my performances. A photo copy of my Julliard graduation program, my name highlighted in the middle of a long list.

  “They go way back,” she murmurs. “Clippings from your high school paper about the soccer team and the jazz band. There’s even a picture the local paper in Huntington ran when you placed in the science fair in second grade.”

  For a long moment, I can’t speak, my fingers running over the worn pieces of paper, barely able to take in what they say. “She sent you these?” I finally whisper, and Mary laughs.

  “I’m sure I’m not the only one. She always ordered multiple copies whenever your name showed up anywhere. She was probably bragging to every person she ever met. I wouldn’t be surprised if the mailman and the guy who changed her oil got all the same clippings.”

  All of a sudden, it’s too much. That numbness that I’ve been wearing like a suit of armor has a huge crack, right down the center, and I’m afraid if it gets any bigger, I’ll bleed out. I won’t be able to breathe. It already feels hard to breathe. The sad, somber room suddenly feels too loud, too stuffy. I need to get out of here.

  Somehow, I manage to meet her gaze. “Thank you for this,” I say, in a voice I don’t recognize.

  A world of understanding is in her sad eyes. “You’re very welcome, Wyatt.”

  I don’t say anything else, don’t even try to come up with excuses. I just clutch that envelope and all those clippings to my chest and stumble through the crowded room, not even sure where I’m going. I end up in an empty hallway, a red exit sign blinking like a beacon down at the end. I burst through the door into the damp, fresh air, taking huge, shuddering gulps, trying to get myself under control.

  I’m standing at the back of the funeral home, next to the parking lot. There’s a small patch of grass with a wrought iron bench. A couple trees provide some cover from the typically grey, misty weather of Washington state. The area was probably set up for situations just like this—a quiet, private spot for mourners who need a moment to themselves.

  But I’m not sure a moment is going to be long enough.

  She sent her friends clippings. For years. Long after I stopped living with her and moved in with Cash and my mom. She didn’t just follow my career, she shared it with people I didn’t even know.

  You were the light in her life.

  I feel like I’m going to throw up. Everything I’ve been trying to keep in for the past five days is building up, the pressure pushing at my ribs, threatening to burst out. I’m afraid of what will happen when it does. I’m afraid to let myself get close to the avalanche of pain I know is bearing down on me.

  Wait until you’re home, I tell myself, over and over, the words turning into a mantra in my head as I try to control my breathing. I can’t lose it here. I have to go back inside, have to accept the condolences of all the people who came to mourn her—to mourn both of them, really. It’s the last thing I can do to pay my respects to the grandparents who gave me so much—who loved me enough to not only raise me all those years but to also eventually let me go so I could live with my parents and have siblings and a huge, crazy family full of aunts and uncles and cousins and music and love.

  The last thing I can do for them. The last thing.

  I hear the click of the door behind me, but I’m pretty sure I feel her presence before the noise even registers. It’s been like this for the last two years. Two years and three months, to be exact. The way my body seems to be constantly aware of her every move when she’s close by, like something deep inside me is orienting itself to wherever she is when she moves through a space.

  It’s been like this since the day I came home for my brother’s birthday and realized, with the force of a fucking lightning bolt, that while I’d been off living my life, this girl I’d barely paid attention to in years had suddenly, somehow, turned into the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. This feeling is the reason I don’t come home anymore, even though I can’t admit that to anyone.

  She’s the one person that I can never have, but also the only person I can’t seem to shake. So it’s easier to stay away, even if that makes me the worst kind of coward.

  But there’s no staying away right now. I don’t have the strength—physical or emotional—to get up and walk away from her. Not today. Not with this weight pressing down on my chest.

  Alexandria Fraser sits down on the bench beside me and reaches over to take my hand.

  Wyatt

  My senses are inundated with her presence without even having to face her. The soft coconut fragrance that always seems to cling to her hair permeates the air. Alex smells like the beach and sunshine and everything bright. Our hands are the only thing touching, one pinpoint of connection between her skin and mine. She left several inches between us on the bench, but I still feel warmer with her body so near. It’s the closest I’ve allowed us to be in a long, long time.


  “I saw you leave,” Alex says, her husky voice making my eyes close involuntarily. How fucked up is it that I hear that voice in my dreams?

  “You were watching me.” It’s not a question. We’ve never had to talk about it for me to know that she’s always aware of me, too. Maybe even in the same way I’m aware of her. I haven’t asked her how it feels for her. I’m too afraid to know the answer.

  “I had a feeling you were going to need some space,” she murmurs. She laughs softly, the sound sending a chill down my neck. “And yes, I do realize that’s a contradiction—that I knew you wanted space and followed you anyhow.”

  I’ve never wanted space from Alex. I’ve forced myself to take it, over and over again. Forced myself to stay away. But even after all that effort, I know there’s no one else I would want sitting here next to me right now. I allow my fingers to tighten in hers and she returns the favor, squeezing my hand until I’m pretty sure she’s the only thing holding me up at all.

  “I should probably warn you,” she murmurs after a few minutes. “I overheard your dad talking to my dad and Reed about how to convince you to come home for your surgery.”

  “No need to warn me, they’ve already started the offensive.”

  She laughs softly, the sound drifting over my senses like the brush of silk. Alex has a great laugh. It’s usually loud and uproarious, the kind of laugh she puts her whole body into. There’s something about watching her like that, so confident and free, that always gets to me. But this gentle whisper of a laugh is nice too, maybe even nicer, since it’s for my ears only.

  “I gotta tell you,” she continues. “If I had to take a few months off to recover from a surgery, I’d much rather do it in the sunshine instead of…this.” She scrunches up her nose on the word this, like it tastes sour on her tongue, and gestures at the drizzle surrounding us.

  “Come on, the rain isn’t that bad.”

  “It’s not just the rain,” she argues. “It’s the grey. I don’t know how you stand it.”

  Our preferences in weather are actually pretty representative of our personalities. Alex was made for California blue skies, whereas the persistent rain suits me just fine.

  “I guess I’m a grey kind of guy.”

  I can feel her gaze on the side of my face and it takes all my effort to keep from looking over at her. “I don’t think that’s true.”

  She sounds so serious, so sincere, that it’s even more of a struggle not to look at her. “I think you’ve got lots of sunshine in you, Wyatt Warner,” she whispers, and suddenly it feels hard to breathe.

  “You think?” I manage though my throat has gone tight.

  She nods. “I really do.”

  I want to turn to her, want to soak in her features, but I know if I allow myself even a moment of drinking her in, I’ll end up doing something stupid. It wouldn’t be the first time when it comes to Alex.

  We sit in silence for a few minutes. I should tell her to go inside. It’s wet and cold out here and she’s not dressed for it. Her black dress has long sleeves but the material looks thin and she’s not wearing a jacket. But I can’t seem to make myself say the words.

  “I wish I would have known them,” she says suddenly.

  “My grandparents?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see her nod. “Will always talked about how amazing they were.”

  “They were. You would have liked them.” It’s ridiculous how easily I can picture Alex with my grandmother. And even more ridiculous how painful it is to know that’s never going to happen.

  “Will you tell me something about them?”

  “Like what?”

  She shrugs. “Whatever you want. A nice memory. Just tell me one thing about why all those people in there loved Bruce and Alice so much.”

  “Did your mom or dad ever tell you that my grandparents helped raise me?”

  I don’t know why I say it. I should keep to something light, some happy nice memory, like she said. But I find myself not wanting to bullshit Alex. She asked for something real.

  Alex is quiet for a moment, like she has to think about it. “I don’t specifically remember hearing it from my parents,” she finally says. “But Will has definitely talked about it before.”

  Of course he has. Because my younger brother is the same age as Alex. She’s one of his best friends. He—along with the rest of my siblings—consider her family. To Will and Silas and everyone else, Alex is just another cousin to love, no different from the rest.

  And that’s just one of the many reasons I’m not allowed to feel the way I do about her.

  I’ve spent so long trying to justify it to myself, to find some way out of the guilt that consumes me whenever I think of her—which happens way too damn much, even from a thousand miles away. Alexandria Fraser is not my cousin. We’re not related by blood or by marriage. Her dad is my dad’s best friend—my step-dad’s best friend, to be technical.

  But I know that’s just an excuse. I consider the Ransomes my family and the Ransomes consider Alex their family. Having these feelings about her is completely inappropriate.

  Right?

  I’ve tried to convince myself it isn’t over and over again. But even when I manage to believe that, there’s an even bigger issue. Alex was twenty that day I came home and realized she was a completely different person from the kid I had overlooked for years. She’s not twenty anymore, but she’s still eleven years younger than me. Eleven. She’s barely started her adult life yet while I’m a jaded asshole who’s likely approaching the end of his music career. There’s no way her parents—or the rest of the family—would be okay with her dating a man my age. Especially not when that man is me.

  But even though I know all that—God do I know it, those facts have been haunting me for years—I still can’t make myself drop her hand. Just like I couldn’t stop myself from kissing her the night I realized home had become a dangerous place.

  I shake off thoughts of that night and our one perfect kiss because I cannot go down that road when she’s sitting so close. “What did Will tell you?” I ask instead.

  Her voice is steady, calm. “He said when your biological father died, your mom had a really rough time with it. She didn’t feel like she could take care of you. So she shared custody with Bruce and Alice and you lived with them until she was better.”

  That old defensiveness rises in my chest. “She was only nineteen,” I say, voice gruff. “Her parents were shit. Her mom kicked her out at sixteen The only people she had were my grandparents and my father.”

  Alex is quiet for a moment. “You always do that, you know,” she finally says.

  I turn to look at her for the first time and immediately know it was a mistake. I swear to God, she gets more beautiful every time I see her. Her honey gold hair is shorter than it was at Will and Eva’s engagement party—the last time we were in the same room together. Her soft waves just brush against the top of her shoulders, begging me to touch the ends. Chocolate brown eyes scan my face, eyes I’m pretty sure I could get lost in for days.

  Don’t go there, I order myself. Off limits.

  “I always do what?” I don’t miss how husky my voice sounds. Just from one damn look at her face.

  “Assume you need to defend everyone. I’ve heard you do it with your siblings a hundred times. I wasn’t criticizing your mom, Wyatt.”

  I let out a breath, knowing she’s right. “My mom has gotten a lot of shit from people over the years, about what happened.” I swallow hard, that tightness back in my throat. “The truth is, I was so fucking lucky.”

  “Because you had so many people who loved you.”

  Funny, that’s exactly what my mom always said. Whenever I was sad about not getting to stay at her apartment after our visits, she would remind me that I had all three of them to love me and take care of me.

  We’re quiet for a long moment, sitting there watching the light rain. “You asked for a memory.”

  “Only if you want to tell me
.”

  “I keep thinking about cinnamon rolls.”

  “Cinnamon rolls?”

  “My grandmother made the best cinnamon rolls. About once a week, for breakfast or an afternoon snack. I used to beg to help her but really I was just fascinated watching her. The way her hands moved in the dough.” I close my eyes, seeing her hands so clearly in my mind, covered in flour. “My grandpa always made the biggest deal out of them when he’d come in and smell the cinnamon. And even though they’d been married all those years, her cheeks would turn pink when he’d go on and on. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to smell cinnamon without thinking of the way they looked at each other.”

  “They were really in love.”

  “They were,” I say, pain radiating out from my chest. I wonder if it will ever not hurt to refer to them in the past tense. “They really were.”

  “I’m so sorry, Wyatt,” Alex says, her husky voice clear and close to my ear, so close I can feel her warm breath dance over my neck. “I’m so sorry they’re gone.”

  I’ve heard that so many times over the last few days. I never doubted the sincerity of the people who came up to me to pay their respects—I’m sure they really are sorry. Even so, Alex’s words hit me different, harder. There’s so much emotion in her voice—like she alone really understands how I’m feeling.

  Don’t be such an idiot, I tell myself. You barely know each other.

  “I’m sorry they’re gone, too,” I say simply and she squeezes my hand.

  Closing my eyes, I lean my head back against the top of the bench, exhaustion settling over me. I’ve been fighting this feeling for days as we made all the preparations and went through the various gatherings of mourners. For some reason, it feels easier to let up on that fight for just a few minutes, sitting here with her.