Broken Love Story Read online

  Natasha Madison

  Copyright © 2018 Natasha Madison. E-Book and Print Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons or living or dead, events or locals are entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/ Use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Design: Melissa Gill with MGBookCovers & Designs

  Book formatting: CP Smith

  Editing done by Jenny Sims Editing for Indies

  Proofing Julie Deaton Author Services by Julie Deatonhttps://www.facebook.com/jdproofs/

  Created with Vellum

  Michael, may you find someone who loves all of you.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue One

  Epilogue Two

  Love Series

  Also by Natasha Madison

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Blake

  “Twenty minutes, guys,” I say, flipping the flapjacks that I’m making. I’m on my fourth shift of six at the firehouse station, and my duty this week is cooking. I fucking hate it, especially the lunch duty.

  However, since we got a call early, we missed breakfast, so I’m doing the easiest thing. Half the guys sit at the wooden table drinking coffee while the other half either lounge on the couch or sit outside in the nice sunny weather.

  “Did you guys hear that Squad 47 got a DOA?” asks Ricky, the firehouse chief, coming into the room.

  “Tough,” one of the guys says. “Never a good fucking day when you have a DOA,” Colin says, turning the page to the newspaper he’s reading. I nod my head in agreement.

  I look at Wyatt. “Is the bacon almost done?” I ask him. “This is the last flapjack.”

  “Be done in a second,” he says, pushing away from the splattering grease of the bacon. I place the flapjacks on the counter next to the eggs that Simon scrambled. Wyatt turns and places the sausage and bread next to the eggs, then turns to grab the bacon.

  “Ring it,” he says, talking about the bell we always ring when a meal is ready. Going over, I press the little doorbell button. The line has already formed by the time I turn around a couple of seconds later. By the time everyone is sitting down, almost nothing is left. We are a group of eight firemen and four paramedic techs.

  “One more twenty-four-hour shift and I get to sleep in my own bed,” Colin says, and we all nod.

  The food is eaten and the plates are piled in the sink for the clean-up crew, which is my second least liked job in the house. As I step out of the kitchen, my phone rings, showing me that my cousin, Crystal, who is an emergency room nurse, is calling.

  “Hey,” I answer.

  “There was an accident.” I’m expecting her chipper and happy voice, but instead, she speaks monotone, and I know, I feel it in my fuckin’ gut, that something is wrong. I hold my breath, waiting for it, but nothing, fucking nothing could prepare me for the name she throws out. “Eric.” My sister Hailey’s husband. My legs almost give out as I hold the wall, Colin and Wyatt both looking at me. My hand covers the phone. “My brother-in-law,” I say as they both look at me with their mouths open for two seconds, then nod that they have this. I grab my keys off my locker shelf, running out of the building.

  “Where is he?” I ask right away. Getting into my truck, I screech my tires as I peel out.

  “He was DOA,” she finally says, the defeat in her voice apparent. “There was nothing.” My emergency training pops up, and I start issuing orders.

  “Call Hailey and tell her I’m on my way. I’m four minutes out.” I hang up the phone and then call my parents.

  My father answers on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “Dad, it’s me. I need you to get Mom and meet me at the emergency room,” I say, zigzagging in and out of traffic to get to my sister’s house.

  “Bad?” It’s the only question he asks.

  “Yes,” I tell him. “It’s Eric,” I finally say, my voice cracking.

  “I’ll leave now.” He hangs up, and I call Colin next.

  “Brother,” he answers right away.

  “The DOA this morning,” I say as I turn on Hailey’s street, “was Eric.”

  “Fuck,” he hisses out. “I got you covered. We already called Logan, and he’s on his way.”

  “Thank you,” I say, disconnecting as I pull up to Hailey’s house.

  I don’t know how much Crystal has told Hailey, so I get out, jog to the front step, and open the door. I spot my sister on the phone as she turns around to face me. Her life is about to change, and she might not ever be the same person again. A piece of her is gone, a piece that might never mend.

  I look in her eyes and see the tears already forming. I hold my hand out to her, and the hand holding the phone slowly lowers to her side. She looks at me in confusion, not sure what is going on, and I don’t know if I have the answers for her. I do what I need to do—I give her as much of my strength as she needs. I follow her out of the house and help her in the truck after she opens the door.

  Her eyes look at me, asking me a million things, but I know my eyes don’t give anything away. It’s the training—never let them see your sorrow, never let them see you broken. I’ve had ten years of practice and not just at the academy. I buckle her in, and the only thing I can muster up to say is, “It’s going to be okay.”

  She nods her head, then I step back and shut the door, jogging over to my side. As I drive, I look over at her watching a bird fly above, her eyes following its every movement.

  She watches the bird so intently she doesn’t even realize I’ve stopped the truck and I’m opening her door. Her eyes look at me, glazed over, almost as if she isn’t there. Almost as if her body is closing herself off from the sadness and horror she is about to witness. “You’re going to be okay,” I assure her as I raise my baseball cap to run my hands through my hair.

  “What’s going on?” She finally finds the words to ask. The question pleading for me to tell her it’s all a mistake, but I don’t answer. I grab her hand and walk inside the revolving door to the emergency room. We walk silently down the corridor, her hand squeezing mine now. She looks up at me, asking one more question. “Is it Mom? Dad?” I can’t answer her; my heart beating for her can’t give in to the answer. I’m afraid I won’t be strong enough for her. I’m afraid that my gr
ief from ten years ago is going to surface, and she doesn’t need that right now.

  Her eyes go back to the floor, and her question is answered when my parents step forward. My mother has tears running down her cheeks, and my father has his arm around her shoulders. They are standing next to the nurses’ station. She looks back at me in horror. “Is it Nanny?”

  I don’t answer because Crystal comes out from behind the nurses’ station in her everyday uniform of blue scrubs and Crocs, wearing a stethoscope around her neck.

  Hailey takes one glance at her face, and her feet stop in their tracks. I look back at her, trying to lead her to them, but she doesn’t move; nothing moves except her knees when they start to give out and the most horrendous cry of pain comes out of her. I don’t get to her in time before her knees hit the floor and she’s on all fours. The look she gives all of us lets us know she knows; she knows that somewhere in this busy hospital emergency room, her husband lies dead.

  Crystal rushes to her as she holds her in her arms, the tears soaking into her blue scrubs. I bend to pick her up, my body cocooning hers. I carry her to the white fucking room no family ever wants to step foot into. The room where the walls are stark white and not one picture hangs on them. Where four chairs line one side with a single chair facing it. The room where you go, and in five seconds or less, they tell you that your loved one who you prayed for, who you tried to make promises for is gone. That nothing you could have done or said would have changed the outcome.

  Crystal gets up, and I go to her, pulling her to my side. “What the fuck happened?”

  “It was a head-on collision,” she says in a low voice, hoping that no one really hears us. “He was DOA.” I close my eyes, the pounding forming behind my eyes is almost too much to bear.

  “Where is he?” Hailey’s soft voice finally says. My father turns to her, trying to tell her something, but she snaps, “I need to see him.” I know from her tone that it isn’t a request, it’s a demand. She needs to see him with her own eyes; she needs to see that this isn’t just a dream. She needs to sit by his side and hold his cold hand for her to know he isn’t coming back. She needs to sit there beside his body that will slowly start changing color while she asks the only question she can ask, “Why?” I look down at my feet as the memories from ten years ago try to enter my mind, but I block them. This isn’t the time. I look up and hear Crystal try to tell her that whatever picture she has of Eric, she doesn’t want one of him lying on that bed.

  I look past her and see two officers approaching. Frank and Landon come in, and I see it right away, the brown fucking bag. I groan inwardly as I think about the fireman on the scene who collected the things and handed it to them. The last of whatever remains of the victim. I don’t have to listen to the speech that Frank gives because it’s almost the same speech we tell the fire victim’s family who waits on the scene. “I’m sorry for your loss.” What a crock of shit. I lean against the wall, putting my head back. I need a fucking drink.

  I see Hailey just nodding, but her eyes never leave that brown fucking bag. Crystal drags her away from everyone and walks into another room. Frank comes over to me, extending his hand. “I’m …” I grab his hand, holding my other one up to stop him from the speech.

  “I know,” I say, and he nods at me. We all know.

  “If there is anything that you guys need, let us know,” he says, and that is the way it is—firemen, cops; it’s all family.

  I don’t have a chance to say anything because Crystal yells my name, and I rush into the room where they disappeared.

  I pick Hailey up, waiting for someone to say something, but I know she’s in shock. She has to be in shock. This morning, she got up with her husband, probably sat at the table as they made plans for the night or even the weekend, and now she goes back home alone. The plans a distant memory.

  “She is in shock. What do you want to do?” Dr. Arnold says. “We can keep her here, or you can take her home.”

  “Home,” Crystal and I both say. “The last thing she needs is to be in a room two feet from her dead husband,” she whispers to me. I turn around, picking Hailey up and carrying her back to my truck. I drive her home; this time, the drive is even more dreadful than before.

  I look over at her as she clutches that brown fucking bag so tight her fingertips are white. There is no vise that will pry that bag out of her hands.

  Chapter Two

  Blake

  We pull up to Hailey’s house before I even have a chance to make a plan. I jump out of the truck, open the passenger door, and unbuckle her, then help her get out.

  Crystal follows us as we walk up the step to her house, their house. Eric and Hailey’s house.

  I walk in and take in the house. You know right away Eric is home. He was an engineer for aircrafts and was always on the road. But when he was home, you knew right away because his things would be all over the house. A tossed sweater here, an empty mug by the couch. And now is no different. His sweater is tossed over the couch. Hailey walks over to the mug left beside the couch and picks it up.

  “He just got home last night,” she whispers at us, looking up. “Maybe if he didn’t come back, he would still be here. Maybe …” She trails off in a whisper. Crystal looks at me, telling me silently to get rid of anything that shouldn’t be out of place. I know what she means by just a look and walk to the kitchen to place his mug in the sink. His laundry is draped over one of the chairs.

  Crystal takes her upstairs while I try to take things down that will remind her of Eric, but I know it’s all for nothing; nothing will make her forget. I’m leaning against the counter with my head hanging down when the front door opens and my mother and father walk in.

  “Where is she?” my mother asks Crystal, who has just walked back down the stairs. Her jacket is tossed over the couch, right next to Eric’s sweater.

  “She is sleeping or resting,” Crystal answers her quietly. “I don’t even know anymore.” I watch her walk into the kitchen and go to the cabinet that holds the whiskey. She comes to the counter, reaching for a glass, and takes a couple of shots. My mother walks into the kitchen, placing the brown fucking bag on the counter.

  “You want one?” she asks me, and I just nod my head. I don’t want just one shot; I want the fucking bottle. She pours three fingers into the glass, and I pick it up and swallow it in one shot, feeling the burning all the way down.

  “How the fuck did this happen?” Crystal asks the question everyone is wondering. How in the fuck did this happen to us again? “I’m going to go up and lie with her in case she wakes up in a panic.”

  I nod my head as she walks out of the room. “There is so much that needs to be done,” my father says from the kitchen table as I pour another shot. “Arrangements that need to be …”

  He stops talking, or I stop listening. I think it’s a mixture of both when I pour myself another drink; this time, it goes down even smoother than before. “I think I’m going to go for a drive,” I say to them, and they nod. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  I grab my keys, start the truck, and pull away from the house. While I’m driving, my mind swirls all over the place as I pass the black-iron gate, turning left and then taking the second right. I stop as the sun starts to go down, the sky almost pink. I walk through the grass, making my way to the small little tombstone.

  Francesca Marie Bianchi

  Beloved Daughter and Sister

  June 5, 1980 – July 5, 1999

  “Hey, Frankie,” I say. Sitting in front of her tombstone, I feel a peace settle in me. “How you doing today?”

  When I first set eyes on Frankie on the first day of high school, my heart stopped. Her long brown hair flowed in the wind. Honest to God, it was like that moment in The Wonder Years when he meets Winnie. I just knew, knew in my heart, she was the one. I was fifteen when we had homeroom together, and I thought that it was definitely a sign. Then we were on the same debate team, and what started as us being study partners turned into
so much more.

  Loving Frankie came so easy; she was just carefree about everything—nothing fazed her, nothing upset her, it just was. Her motto was “Even if you get angry or mad, it won’t change anything.”

  I shake my head. Until she turned eighteen, when she started feeling sick. It just wouldn’t go away; nothing she did made her feel better. One day, I took matters into my own hands and got her dressed to take her to the doctor, but I didn’t have to leave her house because she sat me down.

  “I know why I’m sick,” she said, avoiding my eyes.

  “Did you go to the doctor already?” I asked her, finally relieved that she was going to get better. She had lost so much weight.

  “I did about two weeks ago.” She finally looked up, and her brown eyes were filled with tears.

  “Well, you should have gotten better already, so we need to go back.” I started to get up, ready to take her to the hospital.

  “Blake, I’m not going to get better,” she whispered as one lone tear rolled down her cheek. A cheek I’d held in my hand, a cheek I’d kissed, a cheek that hid a secret dimple that only came out when she was really, really smiling. “I have leukemia.”

  Three words cut me off; three words that took away my world. That night, I went home and researched everything there was to know, but nothing, nothing, prepared me for what was to come.

  We did everything the doctor said, everything down to the T, but in the end, the disease won, and she was nothing but a shell of the vibrant woman I once knew. I begged and pleaded with her to fight. I begged and pleaded with God to spare her. But no one listened; her parents didn’t think I would stick around, but an army of Navy SEALs couldn’t keep me from sitting by her bedside. Nothing could stop me from begging her to be my wife; nothing could stop me from loving her so much that when she took her last breath, I died as well. Breathing was hard to do because the pain in my chest never went away. Fuck, it still lingers. My hopes, my dreams—everything got buried the day we lowered her casket into the ground. I went through the motions, pretending I was okay when inside, I was empty. I was hollow; it was gone. My heart was still beating, my breath was still coming, but I wasn’t there.