#50sides

"It's always the ones with the dirty hands that are pointing the fingers."

There are things in this world that are overrated.  Everyone strives for them, but once they are achieved there is still an emptiness somewhere within.  That thing we thought would fill us lets us down.  All too many times, we get to the top of the mountain only to find out the hole within is still empty.  At this point, we determine that what we are desiring so incessantly must be at the top of the next summit and off we go to scale another mountain, to chase another dream, knowing the top would contain that thing we were after.  Again, the top of the next is empty, but we were so sure.  Perhaps that’s the thing about chasing dreams.  It’s not about that thing we think is at the top, but the experience of the climb.  The hours, days, weeks on the path.  Finding ourselves halfway up.  Learning that we can keep going even when we think we can’t manage another step.  The higher we go, the harder each step gets, but in those steps we find our inner strength.  We become one with ourselves.

  But what about the things in life that are underrated?  Things that hold so much weight and yet they do not draw our attention, for what we think we need is atop that next mountain.  The things we think are givens.  Things we don’t need to work for, for they are already there.  But what happens when they aren’t anymore?  If you are in need of a knife, will the spoon at the top of the next mountain suffice?  The last time you held that knife, you stared at it in such disgust as the blood ran down your arm.  It was your fault the knife got so close.  It was your fault you let its edge slice your flesh.  It was your doing when you took the knife and tossed it in the trash can, took out the bag, and turned your back on the it.   As the garbage truck came, you didn’t think about the knife in the bottom of your can.  You didn’t think about it in any other way other than to say that knife got what it deserved for cutting you.  But as you stand before your plate, staring down at a t-bone, holding your shiny new spoon, you sure wish you had that knife.

  It is possible to get by without the knife.  The steak can be lifted and bitten from.  The steak can be stabbed and lifted by a fork.  That spoon in your hand might be slipped beneath to balance the steak as you take a bite of the tender meat.  There is a saw in the garage, right?  You can find a way to improvise, and yet nothing would get the job done quite as nicely as that knife would have.  But the knife is gone now and was highly underrated in your rage.  The knife was expendable as you sat before your bowl of mac n’ cheese.  You didn’t need that knife.  But now, that knife’s worth is plainly on display before you and you are seemingly fucked.

  There are a million other things you may not think much about, but when you need that thing and it’s gone, can you really blame anyone but yourself for not appreciating its worth when it was in your possession?  And what happens when this thing that jumped out and bit you was a person?  What happens when you put them in a garbage bag, toss them in the can, and turn your back?  What happens when it’s your best friend?  What happens when that thing they did when they bit you was so deep that you said goodbye, or worse, you said nothing?  Friends are underrated.  They are unappreciated until they are gone and by then, it’s too late.  You let them go for one reason or another.  Maybe it was justified.  Maybe they fucked you so good that it could only be met with this farewell, silent or spoken.  In a world where so many are enemies in friend’s clothing, a guard is put up at the slightest scent of bullshit.  A zero tolerance policy is put in place, even stated out loud.  A warning of sorts issued.  Perhaps they even show pride in you for standing up for yourself, but they never meant for you to stand against them.  They never wanted to be called on their own sh*t.  They never thought you’d be so bold.

  Even with just cause, does that undo time?  Does it undo time spent with the person you once referred to as your best friend?  Does it change the love you held for the person?  And are you a fool for looking back, knowing they did a number on you, and yet feeling as though you might’ve been able to change things?  Even the blameless will take fault here, feeling as though they were the one to put the nails in the coffin because in the end, they still don’t want to find fault in that friend, that best friend, that person who was there for them when they felt abandoned by the rest of the world.  And here in lies the problem.  The person who remains is the one who carries the load while the other can run about, claiming how they were thrown in the garbage.  It’s true.  They were.  But they forget to own up to what it was that landed them in the trash bag in the first place.  They can spin it, speaking to that which was done to them, rallying their followers to believe a different version of the truth, their own distorted version of the truth.  A band is formed and opinions there with it by people who held no direct knowledge of that which landed them in the trash bag to begin with.

  This world is fucked up.  It’s always been fucked and it’s just getting more fucked. Your best friend at the time might’ve looked as though they were trying to help, but when you’re looking for your knife, you might wanna check your own back.      

---

    Moving to the new house meant there was space.  Vast amounts of space that their apartment didn’t afford them.  There was something permanent feeling to this place, as it should be considering the thirty-year mortgage on the place.  John had done a great job of making sure everything was move in ready, as well as relocating their things from their apartment to the house, though it would take some time to get it all put where it belonged and such was her mission this day.  Little by little, things took form, each item finding its home in the space.  

  When she believed it to all be done, it was then that she would come across a stack of boxes in a downstairs storage closet.  They were familiar and the sight of them brought a smile to her face.  The items within were her own.  Not from their marriage.  Not from their apartment, but from her own before she was Mrs. James.  A collection of things that had remained in boxes for the last year of their marriage, having been back and forth on unpacking them at various times.  There were times she felt they were solid and she’d stay, at which she’d consider unpacking them, but would stop herself when she wasn’t quite sure which room to unpack them into.  Then there were times she felt they were rocky and it was all better left boxed up.  But now, as she carried the boxes one by one up to the master bedroom, it was with every intention to find homes for these things and to put away the idea of ever not staying right where she was.

  It started out with shoes, some clothes she hadn’t worn in years.  Picture albums containing family images found home on the top shelf of her closet.  These were things she wasn’t willing to get rid of, yet couldn’t quite bear the sight of with all that was going on.  The next held her cap and gown, prom dress, prom shoes.  These items would remain in the box they were in, slipped to the shelf beside the albums.  Within the next box she would find Judas Khrist music, her ticket stubs, a napkin from the bar she met Gia in after that first show she attended in Dallas.  As she dug deeper in the box, she found a few items that didn’t need to be kept any longer.  Her first blade.  A suicide note.  These items would be tossed as that time in her life was gone as the rest of the box was added to the shelf.  Continuing further on, she unpacked some things and stored others.

  A standard box with a capital letter on the outside of it brought pause to the woman.  There was a time the contents of this box were spread around her bedroom.  A high school girl and one of her two best friends were inseparable, infiltrating every aspect of one another’s lives.  Kelly, Shelby, and Spencer should have been born sisters, or so they always said.  Shelby had fallen off after getting married and starting down the path to happily ever after, distance separating the girls over time, but it was natural and expected.  Kelly, on the other hand, that was a different story altogether.  There was no box of Shelby, as items given to Spencer from Shelby still littered her space.  There were still reminders of Shelby in many aspects of Spencer’s life, even if the women weren’t as they once were.  Spencer had tried to call her a few times in years past, but life didn’t much pan out for the two, turning Shelby and Spencer into fond memories of worry free lives back when things were simple.

  Kelly on the other hand, that was a different story entirely.  There was a reason this box donned her name and the items did not infiltrate Spencer’s daily life.  As she held the box in her hands, she drew an uneasy breath.  Her first reaction was rage.  She could remember just how angry she was when she boxed this box up years ago.  A teenage girl with Judas Khrist lyrics blaring in her ears, tossing items in haphazardly with no regard to anything within.  ‘Don’t throw that stuff away, Spence.  You may want it some day.’  Addison Reese’s words were soft and encouraging, so much so that Spencer couldn’t fight them, but she didn’t agree to do it gingerly either.  As she carried the box to the bed, she was already scolding herself for going here.  The box should be tossed away.  Lit on fire.  Thrown into the Schuylkill River.

  As she sat down on the bed, she unfolded the top of the box, anger coursing through her just as it had the day she threw it all in the box.  Until she glanced within.  The pink jewelry box within donned an S atop it in Swarovski crystals.  Spencer bit her lip as she carefully picked up the jewelry box, placing it onto her lap as her fingertips trailed the letter against the top.  ‘I know you loved mine, so I had to get ya one too.’  The girl’s southern draw was there ringing in Spencer’s ear as she recalled just how excited Kelly had been to give Spencer her birthday present.  Closing her eyes, she could see that excited redheads face as she urged her to open the box.  Slipping her fingers against the silver closure, she unfastened the box just as she had there at her birthday party, opening the box slowly, finding within an assortment of best friend’s necklaces.  Some were two part for just she and Kells.  Others were three part for the two of them and Shelby as well.  Each one holding some inside joke.  A set of cupcakes.  Cell phones.  Ice cream cones.  Each one marked an event for the girls.  Some were bought by Kelly, some by Spencer, and some by Shelby.  Each one of them seeming to contribute to this collection over the years.

  Setting the jewelry box to the side, there was a senior scrapbook that would draw a sigh from her lips.  It wasn’t Shelby’s thing, ever, but Kelly and Spencer had loved to scrapbook the things going on in their lives.  Pictures, movie stubs, concert tickets, wrist bands, prom tickets, newspaper clippings, and more were rubber cemented to the pages of the scrapbook.  Page by page, Spencer glanced over the images, rage being the last thing on her mind.  There was a soft smile on her face by the time she made it to the back of the book, setting it aside with the jewelry box.  Further on in the box, she’d find a t-shirt Kelly had left at her house, as well as a pair of pajama shorts the girls fought over who they actually belonged to, but truth be told, she knew they were Kelly’s all along.  Toys from McDonald’s happy meals, folded up locker notes, loose pictures, books, and c.d.’s all littered the box at random, indicative of the manner in which they were thrown into the box years before.

  By the time she got to the bottom of the box, tears were streaming down her face.  With all of the good this box contained, there was too much bad that had landed it all in that box to begin with.  Manipulations.  Backstabbing.  Slander.  All of the things that made this box take form nearly a decade before still held true with Spencer to that day.  Some sins even time couldn’t erase, regardless of how much the two had surely changed.  Sometimes things are just how they are and there’s no changing it.  Even with tears in her eyes, able to remember the good times, she could still remember the bad as well.  She’d never forget the last thing the girl said to her as she told her everything she thought about her.  She’d never forget sitting in silence, shocked at all of the nasty things her supposed best friend thought of her.  Things that shouldn’t be said to an enemy were hurled at Spencer unexpectedly.  There were things Spencer knew she should have said in that moment instead of biting her tongue.  She should have stood up for herself in that moment.  Spencer would never quite understand where this division occurred between she and Kelly, but always assumed it had something to do with the joint friendship with Shelby.  For so long, the three made it work, but in the end, three became a crowd.  Sins were revealed as it became clear that Kelly was making a play for just that, attempting to mark her territory on both Shelby and Spencer separately, but her force just wasn’t strong enough to do so.  In the end, Spencer went quietly, fading into the distance, but in the aftermath she knew there were four words she should have said to the girl.

  “Go  f u c k  yourself, Kells.”

"Words can inspire.  And words can destroy.  Choose yours well."

Words.  They can break a heart or make someone feel the love held for them.  They can tear someone down or build them up.  They can incite fear or happiness.  They can bring about a moment of speechlessness.  They can prompt a smile or tears.  They can manipulate and paint pictures that are untrue, or they can bring light to show the truth, depending on that which they fall from.  Words are very potent things and in such, they must be handled with the respect they deserve.  Once they are said, they cannot be taken back.  There is no unhearing them.  Try as we may, they can never be truly unsaid.  Our tongues can be soft or they can be sharp, all depending on that which lies upon them.  Words.  So often they are not properly given the credit they deserve in casual conversation, for is anything truly casual?  

  We must listen.  Fully listen and engage in the person speaking to us.  If we listen close enough, we will hear the true thoughts or feelings of another individual.  Some will come right out with their thoughts, speaking them easily and directly.  Others struggle and must ramble to get their full feelings across to their listener.  It can be hard to tell if the words we hear are truth or lie or manipulation, but time shows all if we are willing to listen.  Words seem to be so simple, but in all actuality they are actually quite complex.  The thoughts and emotions conveyed through them can be overwhelming and vulnerable.  And sometimes they are empty.  Simply the things we believe the other person wants to hear instead of the truth of the matter.  We cannot change the words others would speak, but we can vow to only speak true words ourselves.  Our words are all we truly have.  A form of communication taken for granted.  A power forgotten.  At their very best they can set a love on fire.  At their very worst, words can ruin lives.

---

        The morning was just as the last few had been with the blissful additions of John and River in the James home.  John fresh out of the hospital, River there for his first weekend with his dad, step-mom, and baby brother, Rhys.  As the light came through the window, it seemed as though all was finally right in the world.  John was home, alive and well.  River was there, joining the family of which loved him.  Rhys was lying between John and Spencer in the bed, against every book Spencer had read, yet that closeness between the three of them was truly unmatched.  The fusses from the room across the hall would draw Spencer from the bed as she looked over to John, assuring him she had it.  He could stay with Rhys and she would return with River momentarily.  A quiet moment of exchanged glances between the two and Spencer found her way out of the bedroom into the next.

  “Good morning,” she offered in almost a sing song voice as she came into River’s room where he stood in his crib.  The sobs subsided as he found Spencer there in his door, instantly demanding for ‘da’.  “Yeah, da is in the bed with Rhys.  You want to come too?” she asked to which he was quickly nodding his head.  “Alright, but first, a clean diaper.  Then we’ll go find da and brother.”  River’s arms were outstretched for Spencer to lift the eighteen month old into her arms.  A few minutes later his diaper was changed, his pajamas snapped up once again, and the little one’s feet were on the floor, running out of the room towards the open door across the hall where his father and brother were snuggled up in the bed.  The blended family took up all space there in that bed as Spencer and River joined John and Rhys, each attempting to be careful of three-week-old Rhys there in the middle with his brother quick to his hands, ready to play.

  She could have stayed there all day.  The smallest moment in the world carried the greatest importance to the woman as she looked at her family, fully allowing herself the feeling that this was what it was all about.  It was about the four of them.  She’d said a million times before that it was all about she and John, and at the time it was true.  But now, it was these three men in this bed that she’d fight for.  She’d fight her own family or his.  It mattered not.  Because these three men in this bed were all that mattered to her.  The smile on her face continued even as her cell phone rang on the nightstand.  Glancing first at the clock, then to the phone, she was quite surprised at the 7 a.m. call from the department.  She still had another three weeks on maternity leave, so she couldn’t quite imagine what would prompt the call, but her hand reached over just the same to press the illuminated button on the screen to answer the call as she brought it to her ear.

  “Yes, Sir?”  She asked, immediately hearing the voice of her Sergeant on the other end of the line.  “Yeah, we are home and doing great.  John’s definitely feeling much better and the little ones are keeping us busy.”  She wasn’t overly surprised to hear him ask of the newly formed family unit, but a moment beyond this, his apology for calling would cause her face to go blank.  “Excuse me?  You’re sh*tting me, right?”  Sitting up in the bed, the woman’s rage was instantly flashing through hazel eyes.  “That’s the most insane thing I’ve ever… yeah… I… Give me an hour?”  She asked, her own statements on the call clearly interrupted as she conceded to come into the station.  “Thanks, Serg.  I’ll see you soon.”  As she drew the phone back from her ear, she was pressing the end call button as her eyes fell to John’s, then drifted over two little boys.  Silence befell her as she rose from the bed, dragging her pillow over behind River’s back to make sure he didn’t fall off the bed.

  With her father in jail, it would be easy to assume this phone call had something to do with Brock Reese.  And one would be right to assume so.  Spencer had only been to see him once since he was arrested and that was simply to make it clear that she hated him and never wanted to see his face again.  While her mother, Addison Reese, was still being investigated for her own involvement, Spencer was writing off the both of them, adding their names to a list of James’ that would not be coming anywhere near her family.  The list grew longer and longer, yet it didn’t faze the tiny detective.  She needed John, River, and Rhys.  Everyone else was expendable if they so chose to be.  Once she was out of the bed, the pillow placed, she was making her way to the dresser.

  “I have to go down to the station for a little bit.  Shouldn’t take too long.  There’s some ridiculous accusation being made and they are giving me the chance to put it to rest before it holds any water,” she offered to John, knowing she wasn’t being too clear on just what it was, but not wanting to worry the man at the same time.  He had enough on his plate to have to deal with more and right now his only job in the world should be loving on his boys.  Rhys’ grandmother was due to pick him up later that evening and Spence wouldn’t dare rob the man of a single minute with River, nor would she cloud his mind with legal bullsh*t either.  “I can take Rhys with me if you want,” she offered, already having an idea that John would disregard this entirely, though a part of her wanted to be sure not to overwhelm the man.  Knowing she couldn’t take him into the interrogation room, but also knowing her partner would be more than glad to spend an hour with the little one who had taken his partner from him for the last four months.  

  Slipping into her clothes, she drew her hair up into a messy ponytail, finding her shoes there in the corner of the room.  Still not sure how to tell John what was actually going on, yet knowing she’d have to before she left that room.  The mess with her father had nearly taken his life and was now threatening to take hers as well.  Coming over to his side of the bed, she pressed a kiss into his neck, her hand finding his as she linked her fingers through his.  Her voice low, though she knew River wouldn’t understand a word she spoke, still she respected the boy enough not to speak of such things in front of him.  Her words would be brief, though all John would need to know to understand that which their family was up against now.  Her name being brought into the attempted murder her father was being charged with.

“My father has named me as an accomplice and co-conspirator.”

Sometimes it sucks to realize I had a life before you and you had a life before me.  Someone else held your hand for the first time.  Someone else gave me butterflies in my stomach.  Someone else waited for you to call them.  Someone else texted me good morning.  Someone else hoped you would ask them on a date.  Someone else took me on my first date.  Someone else looked into your eyes before that first kiss.  Someone else looked into mine and initiated that first kiss.  Someone else fell for you.  Someone else loved me.  Someone else undressed for you.  Someone else undressed me.  Someone else laid with you first.  Someone else held me first.  Someone else gave you your first child.  Someone else asked me to spend my life with them.

  Knowing there was someone else before me is uncomfortable.  For a jealous being, like myself, I hate that someone else took those things with you from me.  I hate that someone else took mine for granted.  I hate that someone else has kissed your lips, run their fingers through your hair, and told you that they loved you.  I hate that someone else wrapped their arms around me, pressed their lips to my forehead, and told me that they loved me.  My jealous nature is only superseded by my sadness.  As someone else took our best firsts, they also took our worst.  Someone else looked at you and told you they loved you, but didn’t.  Someone else looked at me and told me they loved me, but chose another.  Someone else broke your heart for the first time.  Someone else broke my heart for the first time.  Someone else turned away when we loved them.  Someone else showed us, for the first time, what hurt truly felt like.

  I’ve spent almost a year not thinking of someone else’s firsts with you or my firsts with someone else.  It has been all about you and I, with no regard for anything or anyone else.  It was just us and though we’ve had our ups and downs, it was beautiful.  It was just us.  We did what felt right.  We f***ed like no one’s business and we made love for our first time.  We stumbled over words.  We fought.  We confessed our love for one another when the burden of the secret became too much to bear.  We made a child together and I can honestly say we did so from a place of love.  We turned our fake vows into real ones.  We protect one another.  We would, and have, killed for one another.  We have rolled with every punch that has come our way, never turning from one another in the process.  We have hit our firsts, one at a time, and I never thought of someone else’s firsts with you.  Until now.

  The thing that would bring me to all of this was the realization that one of our firsts was not your first.  Conceiving this child.  Naming this child.  Planning for this child.  All of those things were already done for you.  You hold an experience there that I do not, an experience I wish had been ours.  When I first started interacting with River, it was for you.  I wanted to get you time with him.  I wanted to complete you and I knew he would do that.  I promised to show you happiness even when I didn’t know how I would do that.  It didn’t take long for me to realize River was your happiness.  I never thought of River as someone else’s child with you, but only as your child.  But as we worked through a list of names, there were three that stood out to me above all others.  The first was eliminated before we even began, as River holds that name.  John.  I would have liked to have named our son as your junior, but such a thing was not possible as a portion of that name had been used before my time.  I just met you too late.

  When I was a little girl, my mother told me where my name had come from.  There weren’t other little girls named Spencer.  My mother told me it was her maiden name, passed down to me.  She told me I was lucky she had married my father, for his name could do the same.  I could name my first daughter or son by the name Reese, if I’d like, and it would be something of tradition as it was the same place my own name had originated.  To be honest, I’ve already thought that when we have a daughter, and her last name is James, she will have the ability to pass it down just the same.  Names are lost on daughters.  Daughters don’t get to further their own family name, for they give up their own to take their husbands.  But here, there is a bit of tradition to it.  There is something for the mother to give.  A portion of her own name, the name she has been referred to as for her entire life, dropped at marriage, and passed along to breathe new life into it.  The second name on my list was eliminated within the first few minutes of our name discussions, for my father is all you hear when you hear my name.  He has turned bitter and hateful for my union with you, but it might not have always been that way.  There was a time he was a good man.  I would even say he was an open minded man.  I just met you too late.

  Traditions mean something to me, and you have a set tradition in River’s name.  I wanted to go with that.  I wanted to make sure that no matter what, River always feels a part of our family, even if he is not mine.  The initials R.J. were given to him.  I thought on this for quite some time when the idea came to me to potentially reverse them to J.R.  Then our son would be your junior, and still maintain the naming pattern you had already established.  I knew then if you wanted to stick with the R.J. pattern that I would go along with it, but I liked the other as well.  The first name to enter my mind was Jaxon.  It was strong.  I was already envisioning calling him Jax.  When I first put away the name John, and then was faced with putting away Reese, my heart was fixed on Jaxon.  To find out that it was too close to one already claimed as a potential name for another child within your family, I was devastated.  I just met you too late.

  I was consumed with the feeling that I had been too late.  I have told you at least fifty times before that I love you and I meant each and every one.  But in that moment when I realized I met you too late to share in the things I wanted to, that was when I knew just how deep my love ran for you.  I wanted to be the first one to hold your hand.  I wanted to be the first one to have you look into her eyes and lean in for that first kiss.  I wanted to be the one you undressed for the first time.  I wanted to be the one you laid with first.  I wanted to be the one to give you your first son.  I wanted to name him John William James, II or Jaxon Reese James.  I wanted all of your firsts, but I just met you too late.

  And in that moment, nothing could have calmed me.  I had missed out on all of the greatest firsts.  It wasn’t until you told me I could have any name I wanted, regardless of anything else.  You wanted to know what name I would put on that birth certificate and I believe you would have given it to me.  Be it John William James, II or Jaxon Reese James.  No rules, no eliminations.  Every name was put right back into play.  I could have had anything I wanted.  That was when the tears stopped.  That was when I could see clearly again.  No longer was I so stuck realizing I had met you too late.  No longer did it matter that I had missed all of your firsts, because one thing would bring me to realize that regardless of those firsts, I have something better.

  I may not have been the first to hold your hand, but I will be the last.  You will be the last one to give me butterflies in my stomach.  I will be your last date and you will be my last date.  I will be your last kiss.  You will be the last one to initiate a kiss from me.  I will be the last one to fall for you.  You will be the last one to fall for me.  I will be the last one you lay with.  You will be the last one to hold me.  I will give you all future children, integrating River into every step of the way as we build our family.  You will be my last love, and I will be yours.

  We may have missed one another’s firsts.  We may have met too late.  Or maybe we met when we were supposed to, when the other was broken.  Maybe we were supposed to be the one to show the other what love was again.  We both came into this used and broken, but have found completion within.  The odds have been stacked against us from the start, and yet we have come through stronger and stronger, and yet I know we will continue to become even more so over time.  You are the best part of me and I hope that I am the best part of you.  We don’t match.  I can’t think of a single person who thought this was going to work.  And yet, we are perfectly matched to balance out the other.

  Being your first love may have been great.  But to be your last love is everything I’ve ever wanted.  

"Sometimes the wrong choices bring us to the right places."

Every choice comes with a reaction.  Not a single choice is made without there being something that will occur beyond it.  Sometimes, the reaction is positive.  Sometimes it is negative.  But there is always a response to our choices.  We learn this at a very early age.  The first time we choose not to eat our dinner and we are forced to sit at the table until we fall asleep in that bowl of carrots that we didn’t want to eat.  The first time we choose to say “No!” and display that first sign of authority, though highly misguided, and we are then met with the palm of a hand on our ass.  The first time we choose not to do our homework and receive a D in the class.  The first time we choose to buy something instead of paying the bill that needed to be paid and the power gets shut off.  The first time we decide to break up with someone and have to face the disappointment (or worse) on their face.  

But sometimes, it’s not the first time that will have the reaction.  Sometimes we are sneaky about it.  Every once in a while, we have such a strong pattern in something that it can be hidden.  But eventually, it will show itself in one way or another.  In time, we will get sloppy.  At some point, getting caught is inevitable.  We’re human.  We’re not going to get it all right all of the time.  Try as we may, not a one of us will ever reach perfection.  We will not ever completely figure out how to keep from hurting others.  We will never master the art of standing firm without making another feel inferior.  We will never be able to fully gauge what someone’s reaction will be.  We won’t be able to stop something that is already in progress.  Once the ball starts rolling, the momentum will keep it as such.  An object in motion stays in motion.  We can try to stop it, but there comes a point when there is nothing that can be done but to stand back and watch the mess unfold.  The fireworks may be going off all around you, but somehow, you just feel disconnected from it.  A not so innocent bystander who can do nothing to put a lid on the situation that began at your own hand.

The story is the same with each of these situations.  We learn it so early, yet as humans, there is not much we can do to avert the crisis, though we may try to do just that.  It’s never going to be enough.  Our own nature states that we will make mistakes.  It states that we will hurt people.  We will hurt ourselves.  We will shock one another.  We will fail one another.  We will hide things.  We will try to protect others from that which we have done, or at least to lessen the blow of it, but at the end of the day, we will find that we were not as successful as we perhaps could have been.  Hindsight is 20/20.  When looking back, we will suddenly have completely clear vision.  We will know how we could have better handled the situation.  We will be able to see how we could have avoided hurting someone or ourselves.  It will be easier to see how we could have had more success and less failure.  We will find that things were put into motion by our own choices, even when in the heat of the moment, we can’t see it.  

In the midst of a situation, we are not at our best.  We are acting on emotions.  At times, it may be sadness, anger, or rage.  Other times, it is excitement or joy driving us.  What our emotion is in that moment does not matter, as it still results in the very same thing, be it the high or the low.  We are stuck with blinders on.  In those times, it looks as though this is the end.  The walls may start to cave or close in, leaving everyone involved to feel claustrophobic, as though there is not enough space, not enough air.  If only in those moments, everyone could take a step back, but those emotions that are dictating every move won’t permit us to do so.  Instead, human nature states that we will continue moving forward, even when moving forward is only destroying us further.  Sometimes, we simply should be still.  Sometimes, a pause is needed there.  A moment to collect our thoughts.  A moment to actually be able to see the entire picture.  But instead, we push on, thinking that we are doing the only thing we can do.  We fool ourselves into thinking we are making forward progress when really, we are feeding off the reactions that we ourselves set into motion with that first choice.  That first decision.  And then we wonder in the end how it all happened.  Placing blame where it doesn’t belong.  Effecting someone else and then feeding off their reaction, when in all actuality, those fingers we point should be returned to ourselves.  

This is not to say that the reactor is free of guilt.  A wise person once said that we are the gatekeeper of our own emotions.  It is true, we are.  We decide how much or how little come forth.  We decide to lose everything in how we react to something, or work to rebuild what may be damaged.  We decide how big of a deal to make of something.  We decide if it is something we will allow to linger or if we will face it, deal with it, and move on.  Only, yet again, our nature dictates us in the heat of the moment, allowing for hurtful actions and hurtful words that can never be taken back.  It may be something simple or something that is unrecoverable.  Or maybe, just maybe, two people can draw together in a crisis, hold tight to one another, and see it through until the smoke fades.  It is then that truth will be seen.  It is then that what matters will be left behind.  It is then that the healing can begin.

---

  Spencer sat against the sofa, leaned back in her normal position, though not in her normal place.  Typically, this act had taken place in the confines of a locked bedroom of her parent’s home in Dallas.  Then it would be in a locked bedroom in her parent’s apartment in Philadelphia.  Then the privacy of her own apartment in Philadelphia on a crappy sofa with a cardboard box as her coffee table.  

Three months prior, she married John James.  Though unconventionally, the two found a way to make a bad situation somewhat comfortable.  They got to know one another over time, though it was a work in progress.  Cohabiting was the plan, though they found something more there between them.  Something neither of them actually expected on the fateful morning in late May that they would awake to a disaster and quick thinking that would lead them to the alter to hide their sins.

The scars against her flesh were discovered by him quickly, though mentions of them were never made.  Instead, he looked at her and told her she was gorgeous and her ex had been an idiot for choosing his career over her.  Only, Chris had never seen these scars.  They were post Chris.  Yet John did not judge her for them not even once.  But this night, as he arrived home earlier than she had anticipated, she sat on the sofa, the blade having just left its mark against her flesh.  The bandage was placed at her side, two blood stained alcohol wipes against her abdomen, a blade lying beside them, her blood clinging to the shiny metal.

The sound of the door opening had her frozen.  There was nothing she could do in that moment but freeze.  A deer in the headlights as she finally had his name at her lips.  She couldn’t follow it with an explanation, though she had one.  She couldn’t run to him.  Instead, she spoke just his name, lowering her head moments later as he stood, equally as frozen for a moment in the doorway.  Finally, he closed the door, leaning back against it at the sight of his wife in her situation against the sofa.  A situation that had her pegged as just someone else in his life to be dependent on something, though this was not an addiction at all.  It was payment for sins.  But she couldn’t open her mouth to say so.

The air thick, moments passing by like hours as he finally dragged himself towards her. Standing in front of her, his hand finding the bandage at her side.  He lifted the bandage to inspect the damage. Amazed he didn't piece that one together sooner.  He knew of the scars, he just couldn’t have known how recent the activity had been to place them there.  Spencer didn’t see John move from the door.  It wasn’t until she heard his booted steps through the space coming towards her that she would fear what was to come.  Her guilt radiated off her pores into the space around her.  She wanted to tell him she was fine, as she had after many injuries along the way, but this time, she remained silence as she awaited his reaction.

John watched her as she never lifted her head, as if he had done something wrong in his opinion, yet it was her own guilt that kept her head lowered.  She had been in the wrong.  Her choices lead to this reaction, though she knew not yet what that reaction would be.  Silently bracing herself all the while.  After checking the damage at her side, he turned, collecting the items from beside her, from her abdomen, cleaning up her crime scene.  She nearly spoke up, yet again remained silent.  Used items.  New items.  None of it mattered.  They were all taken and promptly taken to the kitchen trash can.  Spencer continued to remain silent as he bagged the trash, kicking it to the door to be disposed of.

A moment later, she heard him in the bathroom.  The medicine cabinet, drawers, under sink cabinets, everything being gone through as he ransacked the bathroom in search of anything with a remote edge on it that could be used for self-harm.  When he emerged with their razors, finding no other item that was used in this process, he moved on to their shared bedroom.  The dresser drawers were pulled free, clothes pulled out piece by piece as he searched within them for more blades, having her pegged as an addict.  It was then that Spencer rose from the sofa, hand holding to the bandage at her side.  Her tanktop folded upwards, covering the fabric of her sports bra as she waited for the bleeding to stop.

She paused in the doorway, watching him as he continued his search for her secret stash, though he did not know yet that he had already tossed it all.   “John?  What are you doing?”  She asked, the confusion clearly there against her features.  She approached him as he tossed through her dresser, grabbing his arm with her free hand.  “What are you looking for?”  She asked, finally having broken her silence in sheer shock at the mess he was making in search of what?  More?  She knew there was no more to be found, but she also recognized his actions as being that of an intervention, to which there would be no stopping him.

When she took his arm in her small hand, he yanked it back.  He felt there was guilt in her voice.  A guilt he had heard from his own mother, Judas, and Nat.  He was no stranger to addiction.  “You know what the f*** I’m looking for.”  His voice was nearly a growl as he tossed out another drawer of her clothes, still heavily in search for any and all other stashes there may be within her personal affects.

Spencer took a step back, having no other choice but to let him do what he felt he needed to do.  “John, there’s nothing else.  It was a bag in one of the boxes in the other room from my apartment that has never been unpacked.”  She tried to tell him just where it had come from, showing him that it was one solitary isolated possession, but still he continued on.  She knew he would, but the words came from her in the calmest manner she could muster.  This wasn’t a recreational thing for her.  It was payment for sins.  Yet she couldn’t seem to make him see the truth.  “I’m not some closet cutter, John.”  She could only reassure him to a certain point, though he was having none of it.

“I don’t know what you are right now,” he confessed, his tone not open for conversation but merely informational at this point.  He had nothing to say to her as he continued through her belongings, plagued with the idea that he was sharing the bed with yet another addict.  Spencer stood beside the dresser, waiting for him to realize he would find nothing.  She knew that he would have to find this himself as she watched now silently.  As the dresser was emptied, he made his way to the bed, flipping the mattress, pulling things from the wall, on a clearly defined mission to which Spencer could only watch.  

After a long silence from her until the point there was literally nothing left to overturn or ransack in the room, she whispered in a submissive tone, requesting permission to clean up her things that were now strewn about the room, the only thing left were her own personal cavities.  “If you’re done…”

He couldn’t be satisfied finding nothing, a deep rooted crazed need to just find something, anything.  He raised his hands as he took a step back, letting her have at the mess as he left the bedroom, going to the living room where his thoughts only seemed to grow louder.  He wasn’t sure if he was on the verge of a psychotic break or a panic attack, but the heat of the room seemed to penetrate through, leaving the man sweating visible bullets as he forced the window open.  His chest was tight all of a sudden, his head finding the wall where he would force his forehead into the drywall repeatedly, trying to combat a beast taking him over.

As she began to put her things away, one item at a time, she heard the sound of his head to the wall, prompting her to run to the livingroom.  Ordinarily, she would have paused a moment, but this left no time.  She ran to him, slipping herself between him and the wall.  If he was to thrust his head forward again, it would be into her.  “John.  It’s not what you think.  Stop.  Listen to me.  Sit down and listen to me.”  She pleaded, her hands at his face forcing him to look down to her.  Her reasoning may have been lost, but she was confident in the connection they had, drawing from that to attempt to stop him.  “Just listen to me.”  His hands came to hers, pushing her hands away from his face.  His vision grew dark as he was certain anything from her lips would be lies.  He couldn’t listen.  He pulled from her, walking down the hall to the bathroom within their bedroom, closing and locking the door behind it, leaning against it as he slipped to the floor.

The moment the bathroom door closed, the sound of it alone forced the tears from her eyes.  She had held it together as he tore apart the place, knowing he had to.  But when he found nothing and still wouldn’t hear her, that was when she lost it.  She loathed herself in that moment that the now exposed cut had been made, so why should he not loathe her as well?  He didn’t want to speak, that much was clear.  She went into the bedroom, attempting to clean up her clothing one piece at a time through tear streaked eyes.  She could hear the sound of his head hitting the door of the bathroom, each hit causing her to jolt.  She couldn’t get to him.  Within the bathroom, John came to realize he was in a full out panic attack.  His throat was closing, his breathing sporadic.  He attempted to splash water to his face, attempting to draw back from the attack, yet the anger was still there underneath, just as strongly as it had been before.  She could hear him coughing, causing her to go to the door, turning at the knob to find it locked.  “John?  John c’mon.  Open the door.”  She pleaded, her hand still at the knob.  She could gain entry by force if she wished, but she was trying to give him and their connection the benefit of a doubt.  “John, we have to talk.  You’re going to hurt yourself.  Please open the goddamn door!”

Within, he would feel a hot trickle down the back of his neck, one that had his fingers idly searching for a source.  The blood coating his fingers matched that painted against the door where he had evidently opened up his head.  “John, please?”  Her voice could be heard beyond the door, something spoken low, something familiar there.  With John refusing to answer the door, she released the handle.  The apartment fell silent as she sank to the floor beside the door.  Slow breaths in and out, an attempt to calm herself, knowing if she were upset, she wasn’t going to be able to get through to him.  “If you can’t look at me, I get it.  Sometimes I can’t look at me either.  Sometimes I do things and I can’t make them right, so instead, I pay for them, one cut at a time.  You’ve seen them before.  Each one is in payment for my sins.  Today I took a bribe, John.  That’s it.  I pay for my sin and the bag goes away until there is another.  You didn’t marry an addict.  You married a corrupt cop with a conscience.”  Within, he shook his head at the explanation.  It wasn’t making sense to him.  He was a criminal.  Bribing cops was part of the life.  His eyes dilated, every inch of his body tightening as he attempted to force an exhalation of breath before the tightness in his chest and inability to breathe pushed him back to the floor, his head between his knees, elbows pressed to the tops of his knees as his hands held at the back of his bleeding head.

Spencer could hear his breathing within the bathroom through the silence in the apartment.  Faint, yet enough that she could hear it.  “It started when my dad was shot.  The department was of no help.  The insurance money wasn’t enough.  I was two years out of the academy.  I moved home to help pay the bills, but it wasn’t enough.  The first time I took a bribe, I was weighed with guilt, yet could tell no one.  My father’s a cop.  He’s all I ever wanted to be.  And I spat on the badge he wore the day I took money to help him.  That night, I didn’t know what to do.  I drank until I couldn’t see straight and then I did it.  Every time since then, it’s been my way of releasing the guilt.  You can believe me or you can call me a liar, but either way, John?  Please open the door.  Please.”  Her words were a plea from her lips as she pressed her hand to the floor beside her, barely slipping her fingertips beneath the space below the door, attempting to reach out to him in a non-threatening manner.  As she did, she felt a warmth against her hand.  She withdrew her hand to find crimson painted fingertips.  Her eyes grew wide as she climbed to her feet, searching the room for something.  

“John!  Open the door!  Open the door, John!”  She demanded.  Her gun would be her item of choice to open a locked door, blowing the lock apart, but the risk was simply too high.  Her eyes settled on a lamp that appeared sturdy enough to potentially sever the hold.  She yanked it from the wall, returning to the door, lifting the lamp above the door handle.  Within the room, John began to black out.  Everything was going dark and sounded faint.  Spencer called out his name once more, pleading with him as she didn’t want to do it this way, but she knew he was hurt and that was enough to force her to take extreme measures.  She closed her eyes as she lowered the lamp against the knob, two firm blows before the poorly made handle fell to the floor.  She dropped the lamp, working her fingers against the door locking mechanism to gain access, pulling the door opened, and making her way to him.  The medical training she did in Academy had escaped her seeing him like this.  The tears from before had given way to that which she had to do, yet had now returned.  She had done this to him, another cross for her to bear.  “John… please say something.  Can you hear me?”  She asked, knowing she should be searching for the injury, yet her need to get him to speak, to prove to her that he was at least okay enough for that, had overwhelmed her.  

He was fading off, barely even hearing the door being broken into before her voice.  He was easily pulled to her lap, not fighting as his eyes held vacancy.  He managed to shake his head, fighting a losing battle to the fogginess that was setting in.  He drew his hand to his chest, his fingers raking against his bare chest, a strong signal to her of what he needed.  Air.  He rolled onto his stomach, off her lap, the tightness breaking slightly, allowing a strong gasp of air as if he had never breathed it before.  The racking coughs followed as oxygen began to filter through.  “It’s going to be okay, John.”  She assured, even hearing the fresh breath he took in, followed by the coughs.  He was opening up, but she knew she could help him further.  Dragging a stack of towels from the cabinet, she positioned them beneath his feet, raising his feet up and allowing him to lie on his back.  Though he may hate her in that moment, she wasn’t leaving him.  She knew that serious progress had to be made in a matter of minutes or he would be right back on the verge of a blackout, at which point she would have no choice but to call for emergency services, which neither of them truly wanted with the condition of the apartment looking like a domestic violence call.  In those first few breaths of oxygen, he was pushed to his back. It was like being born all over again as each bit of oxygen brought his color back from that intense red that had crept over him. Each vein raised under his skin and he shook like a leaf. Freezing though he was profusely sweating. Managing to have cut his chest open with his nails, laying on the growing pool of his blood as the black faded around his eyes. Breathing still ragged and out of breath but improving with each drive for air.

As the color began to even out on his features, Spencer was able to sigh a sigh of relief.  The tears still ran down her face as she looked down over him, having gone from frustrated to upset to angry to scared to death all too quickly.  She had been holding her tongue for days on end now over her affections for him, knowing he knew them, but holding them out of respect for him to feel no pressure at her emotions.  Yet in this moment, there was simply no restraint.  She drew close to him, taking his hand in her own, though she truly wanted to wrap her entire body around his.  Her hand clutching tightly to his, her sobs taking over as she watched him slowly come back.  “Damn it, John.  You can’t leave me.  You can be mad at me, but there’s a no death clause here.  I love you.”  She stated through clenched shut eyes, her tears falling against his own flesh as she sat close to him, hovering just above.  As he felt her at his hand, his eyes closed, overwhelmingly exhausted after that as his breathing finally found some regularity. Everything in him hurt, the storm of it had left him with nothing as heavy lids slowly opened. Hearing her statement, having known that for some time now. He swallowed hard as his eyes closed again. Giving no indication as to his own feelings even if he physically wanted to.

John’s silence did not come as a surprise.  She never expected him to reciprocate, though he needed to know it.  She may have shown him her own heavy imperfection, but she loved him through all of his.  She couldn’t turn it off and she wouldn’t even try to.  Sitting beside him on the bathroom floor, his blood staining her own lap and hands, she didn’t care.  She said not another word, allowing only the sounds of their mutual breathing and her tears to be heard as she waited out the storm with him, watching over him while clutching that hand tighter within hers.  Just when it all seemed to be leaving him, abruptly his thoughts channeled another deep racking cough as if it was all about to happen again. His eyes meeting hers, sending a fear to race within her, ready to bolt for the phone for emergency medical services.  It would be his hand tightening within hers as if he was attempting to tell her something that would cause pause.  

His intense anxiety and all around fear would momentarily be understood. It swelled up, it needed to be released. "I love you..." he confessed weakly, his voice barely able to be heard. Not sure she had even heard it but there it was. Out in the open. Suddenly explaining it all.   When he spoke, his voice so quiet, she almost thought she was imagining things.  Hearing things that weren’t really there.  Convincing herself of something again that wasn’t necessarily true.  Yet his lips moved.  The proof was there beneath her.  All of his actions in the bedroom, in the living room, the bathroom, they all made sense to her in that moment.  “John…” she whispered, wanting more than anything to press her lips to his, yet refraining as she had to be sure he was okay first.  “One more time?”  She asked, the slightest light behind her eyes shining through, the hope that she hadn’t heard something that wasn’t there, asking him for confirmation.  It was in the way he merely looked at her said it all.  She had heard him and he knew she had.  That look said more than words needed to say.  Leaning down over him, she pressed her lips to his forehead, holding a kiss there against his flesh.  Her own emotions still taking over, an exchange of words through tear filled eyes as she sat with him in the aftermath of an emotional night, all driven by the love they had for one another.

”I love you too.”

“I want to love you, but I’m just too cynical.”

Love as defined by Webster’s dictionary is (1) A feeling of strong or constant affection for a person. (2) Attraction that includes sexual desire; the strong affection felt by people who have a romantic relationship.  (3) A person you love in a romantic way.

I have loved before.  I did not get burned by it.  I let it walk away without trying to hold on.  I let distance and time get in the way of it.  I fell victim to the long-distance relationship that is impossible to make work.  I reneged on the offer to close the gap.  I chose myself over the relationship.  I chose my life over him.  So did I ever really love him?  Did I feel love for him?  Yes.  But if I wasn’t willing to move mountains for him, to close gaps, to relocate, to put myself on the line, did I really love Chris Wilson?  I guess not.

Fast forward to now.  I am a married woman, albeit a legal situation, but still, married.  I go to bed with him each night, fulfilling his needs and my own.  I care for his happiness and wellbeing.  I look into his eyes and wonder what it is behind them.  I wonder if he sees that which is in mine.  I don’t know just what it is he would find if he looked behind the hazel hues and saw into my soul.  Do I love John James of South Philly?  Would I move mountains for him, close gaps, relocate, put myself on the line?  Can you love someone that you know so very little about?  Or is that just physical attraction?

The definition of love implies a strong or constant affection for another.  Yes.  A sexual desire for another that a strong affection is shared with.  Yes.  A person whom love is felt in a romantic way.  Yes.

The full definition goes on to touch on familial love.  As for relationship love, it is further defined as -Attraction based on sexual desire. -Affection and tenderness felt by lovers. -An assurance of affection. -Inspired by affection. To each of these, I must say yes.  But can love be weighed and balanced, looked in depth to determine its existence.  If I have to look it up and qualify a situation as being love or not love, then is it really love at all?

The sexual attraction is clearly there.  Never, in my life, have I been so gloriously fucked in nearly every way possible as I have by John James.  There is an animalistic hunger that laces our every interaction.  I fall to him, obeying him, his will being my command.  Any other time, I can hold my ground against him, yet once he touches me, it is over.  I cannot think.  I cannot speak.  I cannot function without him inside of me.  My body is his to do with whatever he pleases.  There is a trust there, as I know anything and everything inflicted upon me is for our mutual benefit, as it always is so.  The way he fills me, marks me, devours me leaves me sore yet always wanting more.

But it is not in those moments that I am hanging on a word that I am stuck on.  It is not when I’m cuffed to a bed post, bent over a counter top, or straddling him when I am plagued with this feeling.  It’s the in between times.  It’s in the after.  It’s the moments that he cares for me, caressing the wounds inflicted by his own hands.  It’s in the times that he flies off the handle with his possessiveness, threatening assured death on any that looks at me in any type of lustful way.  It is in the times that we lie in bed, wrapped against one another, completely spent, yet his fingers still find their way to sweep the hair away from my face.  Things that a good fuck wouldn’t bother with.  Things that show the things that we cannot say with our mouths.

A cynic is one that is distrusting or disparaging of the motives of another; showing contempt for accepted standards of honesty or morality; bitterly distrustful or pessimistic.  A cynic is one who has been scorned for whatever reason.  I say that I am cynical when it comes to this, as there is a distrust in my own feelings.  I cannot trust myself.  I want to believe that love can transpire between two people who are forced together in a situation less than ideal.  I want to believe that this is a one and done situation.  I want to believe that love can exist here.  I want to think myself worthy of his love.  Yet, I am reminded of the situation.  Of the Motorcycle club.  Of earnings of patches.  Of the women that constantly surround him.  And it is in those moments that I am plagued with the realization that I love a man who may never be able to fully commit to me.

Home pussy.  Road pussy.  Other pussy.  Pussy other than my own.  This is what holds me back.  This is what puts walls up around my aching heart.  This is where it all gets cloudy.  And then there is the ultimate realization that I do love John James.  And I will more than likely get hurt by doing so, yet I have absolutely not a bit of control over that which I feel for the man, my husband, a deep rooted love that could ultimately result in a broken heart.  And then there is this thought that John wouldn’t do it to me.  Could he?  Yes.  Would he?  I don’t think so.  I don’t think that he could actually hold another against him, pounding into them as if the world was on fire and it was his last fuck.  I do not think that he could look at another the way he looks at me.  I do not think his lips could pass over another’s body.  Or is that just me, being green to this world he lives in, a world that I do not understand?  Am I supposed to just be okay with it?  Is it better to look at this as a marriage of convenience that is keeping us out of prison orange, or is it safe to fall in love with my own husband?

Safe or not, I did.  And I’m left to feel the one-sided aftermath of such a realization.  I cannot say the words.  I cannot breathe them to life, for if I do, it is then that my heart could be shattered.  Would he reciprocate or would he turn away?  Would he hold me or leave me standing there?  Would he laugh at me, call me mad, lash out that he doesn’t feel love or happiness?  Or can I love him from a silent state.  Can I think it within my mind, yet speak not of that which I feel?

There is no such thing as safe.  It’s terrifying.  It’s doomed from the first inclination of the feeling.  Is it my turn to love, the way Chris loved me, only to have what I did done to me in return?  I may not soon know if this is one sided, as my boldness does not go far enough to be able to say it aloud.  Instead, I must harbor these feelings for an undetermined amount of time.  I must sit on them, silently, hiding them away.  For in the vulnerable moment that love is confessed, that is when the truth comes out.  That is when the security of our vows can come apart at the seams.  Testimonies will be required.  We will both be put away for life.  It is safer to love him silently than to risk the announcement and shatter the blanket of freedom that wraps around us now.  

---

Every time with John James was a sexual endeavor she had never imagined herself in.  The first time with him, at a party, completely intoxicated.  She holds no recollection of the events of that night, only knowing she woke up on the floor against him.  The second time with him was just hours after their marital union, another drunken exploit in which the two partook in shots from the confines of one another’s mouths, heightening the inebriation and intimacy at every turn, desperately grasping at one another as they relieved every ounce of stress the day had held.  After that, the times and situations are countless.  But they all seem to end in much the same way.

The keys to the cuffs had been located.  The cuffs were removed from her wrists.  It was daring to go the route of using her issued cuffs, as they were in no way designed for this type of activity as there was no give to the comfort of them.  The cold, hard metal cut against her wrists as she constantly pulled against them, forgetting of their existence until the pain shot through her.  Never did John attempt to remove them though, almost seeming to enjoy the struggle she was enduring, as she did so relish in it as well.

Once the cuffs were removed, Spencer immediately went for his lips, having endured for far too long without them through the blissful hell he evoked upon her small frame.  Her kiss was returned by him as his hands slipped down to the back of her legs, preparing to lift her small frame to himself.  “How are your wrists?”  He asked, glancing to the marks that laid upon her thin wrists, knowing she had done a fair amount of damage during the process of the night.

With a quick glance to that which he was inquiring over, she brought both arms to wrap around his neck, taking her position against him as he scooped her into his arms.  “I’m fine.  Give me something to remember tonight by.”  She stated, playing it off, though the throbbing radiated throughout her arms.  She wouldn’t allow him to feel bad for even a moment for that which had been self-inflicted over the course of their sexual exploit, as she could not seem to remember those restraints and hold back at all.

He hummed as he felt her locking naturally against him.  “I believe it.”  He stated as he carried her the distance from the guest room that was meant to be hers, to his own room, laying her down onto the bed, laying down beside her, his body against her own.

A tired smile graced her lips as she buried her face into the curve of his neck.  Once she was laid upon the bed and he joined her, she curled into him, carefully mindful of the bruising at her wrists.  “Best make up sex ever.”  She whispered to him, a yawn on her lips as she draped one arm across his torso.

“Is that what they call that?  Make up sex?”  He teased as he slipped to his back, arm finding her shoulders as he pulled her in closer to him, heavy eyes closing after a slow moment.  Exhaustion plaguing the couple as they laid spent in his bed.

In the moments to follow, the two shared words of pleasure, complete euphoria binding them together as it seemed to every time.  They may not have known all of the things that made up one another, yet they clearly knew how to fight, how to fuck, and how to take what they were supposed to be, mixed with what they were pretending to be, and jumble it all up.  It had been agreed that they would try to hold their façade in all moments of the day, as to make it harder to be tripped up.  They would act the parts, but in this moment, as John cared for her in the aftermath of that which they had partaken in, it was then that Spencer lost her grip on what was real and what was not.

As the thoughts plagued her mind, she let her own eyes fall shut.  A soft kiss to his lips as she found her way out of the conversation between the two of them.  “Goodnight, John.”  She whispered, her head resting against his chest, her body formed against his as she checked out for the night, unable to trust her lips to stay sealed to that which she thought.

John leaned into her kiss, hearing her bid him goodnight.  He pressed another soft kiss to her lips before he stated the same in return to her.  Within minutes, he would fade out just after her.  His arm tightened around her as they found a deep sleep that was uncharacteristic for him.  He remained close to her, not feeling the need to move away, caring for the woman, protecting her, even as they slept.

“Goodnight, Spence."

"He didn’t tell me how to live.  He lived and let me watch him do it.”

When I was a small child, my time with my father was limited.  He worked long hours, pulling extra shifts anytime that he could.  My days were spent with my mother, and sometimes late at night, I would feel a kiss fall upon my forehead from my uniformed father as he came in from his shift.  The gun at his side, the badge to his chest.  I learned from day one that police were not scary, like some of the other kids thought.  I knew that if I were to ever get separated from my parents, I needed to just look for a man or woman who dressed like my father for help.  I learned that though he was only with me two days a week, he loved me.  He taught me how to work hard and to care for others, without ever having to tell me to do it.

As I got a little older, those two days a week would be spent with me drilling questions at him.  Every answer was committed to memory, as I had dubbed my father as the authority on all things outside of the house.  I asked about the sky and the weather.  I wanted to know about the people he arrested.  I wanted to know if those people would ever get out or if he would always keep the bad guys behind bars.  I requested to know about his partner and if he would protect my father.  As I got older, the questions became about myself.  All too often he didn’t have the answers, but he never sent me away to ask my mother, managing as best he could.

I learned quickly that I could talk to my father about most anything.  He would listen and give the best guidance he could offer where it was needed.  It wasn’t until the day that I told him of my marriage to John James that he shut down on me.  A tongue lashing was delivered.  A dismissal.  For the first time in my life, I had earned the statement that I should go home.  A place where he was not.  A place where he could not come to, as he did not know where home was now.  I knew going into that dinner with my parents that I would be faced with adversity and that it would take some time for them to warm up to the idea, but I never anticipated that just a short time after telling them, I would be turned away for the first time in my life.  

---

”Hi, daddy.”  Spencer’s voice was unsteady as she sat on the end of John’s bed, phone pressed to her ear while he was in the shower.  Silence was on the other end of the line, prompting her to state her reason for calling.  “I wanted to see if we were still on for Sunday?  The zoo?  Could go first thing before it gets too hot.  I think they’re open around 10.”  Waiting for a  response, she heard her father’s heavy sigh on the other end of the phone as he thought through her proposition quickly.  In her entire life, Spencer had never spent Father’s Day without her father and she didn’t want anything to come in the way of this year either.

He made her wait a moment longer than he should have before his stoic voice filled the phone.  “Yeah, Spence.  We can do that.  I’ll meet you there, alright?”  He was unsure of it, but at the same time, she was his only child and she had always made her family a priority.  He knew this, deep down, prompting him to agree to their standing date.

”I’ll see you there, dad.”  She whispered as she reluctantly hung up the phone.  This would be the way to get him to warm up.  If she could walk the zoo and talk to him like she always had on Father’s Day, everything would be fine.  They would find their way through this, and ultimately her mother would end up on board with it as well.  Things were going to come together.  In her mind, she was already picturing having her parents to meet she and John for dinner somewhere, a first introduction.  Spencer desperately needed the support of her parents, unsure how to function without it as it had always been there.

Two days passed by.  Saturday night, she was lying in bed with John, wrapped up in him when she heard the text alert on her phone.  “It can wait,” she whispered as she took to his lips once more, refusing to touch the phone as they were clearly experiencing a piece of heaven wrapped up in one another.  An hour later, she slipped from the bed, reaching for her phone as she leaned off the side of the bed, reading the text message there waiting for her from her father.

’Sorry Princess, I have to cancel on you.  Mom’s not feeling well.  Maybe next weekend.’

Spencer shut off the screen to her phone, giving off no hint of emotion to that which was running through her, suppressing it.  John had spent enough time comforting her over the separation of her from her parents, she wasn’t going to let him do it again.  Slipping back against John, she resumed her now normal spot against him, going right back to that which she would have done any other night, kisses to his chest, fingertips grazing his flesh, stolen lips.  Unphased.  At least on the outside.

The next morning, she turned her negative feelings to that of John and his son.  A restraining order stood in her way of getting John any face time with his son, but that wouldn’t stop her in her determination.  She was going to do all that she could to ensure that someone had a good Father’s Day, even if her father wouldn’t see her.  It took an act of God to get through that which she attempted, a meet with the Grandmother/Custodial Guardian of River James.  She met with the woman, making a strong argument for John to gain access to the child, for just a short time period, though never mentioning her true connection or investment in John.

That afternoon, Spencer stood within the confines of the Philadelphia Zoo.  Her eyes at her phone constantly, only to glance around at the same time.  Part of her wondered if her father would somehow show up there, perhaps on  his own, not even looking for her.  Destiny.  It existed.  She was sure of it.  An unspoken connection.  As her eyes surfed the crowds for her father, searching the phone for Mrs. Petrov, back to the crowds for her father once more, she found Mrs. Petrov there at the zoo with John’s son in a stroller before her.

The day wasn’t a complete loss.  She may not have been able to have her own father, but she was able to reunite a father and son, at least for a few minutes, in the middle of a crowd at the zoo.  Spencer’s emotions were turned up by watching John with his son, their borrowed time under the judgmental eyes of the grandmother not too far away.  John appeared happy, which was the best medicine for Spencer after the loss she was suffering herself.

Later that night, she held her phone in drunken fingers, typing out a text message to her father.  Reaming him for that which he had decided.  Reminding him that he had but one daughter and he was pushing her out over a choice she had made.  Telling him that she had uprooted her entire life for him.  She had supported him financially over the last couple of years.  Tarnished her badge for him.  All for him to do this.  Reminding him that there was a time when her mother’s parents may not have been too fond of him either.  Cutting him down for not even being willing to give John a chance, sight unseen.  Telling him that she regretted walking in his footsteps.  Not to contact her anytime soon.  That she was going to live her life how she saw fit and if he didn’t want to be a part of that, then he didn’t have to be.  She wasn’t going to force him.

Just as she was about to press send, she erased the text message, instead sending over a simple…

’I love you, Dad.’

“I’m a people pleaser who has a knack for disappointing.”

Sometimes the hardest decisions in life are not actually decisions at all.  They are circumstances that lead us to choose the lesser of two evils.  One road taken will always lead to something negative, thus making it not an option.  The other road is one that has just a shred of possibility, but it is in that faint, yet there, lining that a choice is made to go for the possibility of something that might just happen to turn out better than that place you are in now.  We are always going to try to save ourselves.  We are always going to try to find that path with that silver lining, even if it is a slim one.  In reality, we all want better than that place we are in when faced with a decision, even if the decision is of no real question.

In my case, it was prison or marriage.  A length of time spent in a concrete cell for my actions that may or may not have led to the death of a teenage girl or a lifetime with a man that I did not know, yet held the only testimony that could put me away.  In this, he faced the same consequences as I, prison or a marriage with someone he had, for all intents and purposes, shared a one night stand with.  We did the only thing we knew to do.  We got married, thus ensuring that neither of us could be called to testify against the other, hence making the job of the investigators that much harder.

In that first twenty four hours of my time as Mrs. John William James, decisions had to be made because of the decision that we had made, though had we really made any decision at all when faced with the other being prison?  We had to decide where to live.  We had to decide how it would work.  And ultimately, we just decided to act the part in the privacy of his home, playing into what a real couple would be doing at this stage, basically a non-stop sex fest that christened nearly every room in his apartment.  We had goals and we took them seriously.

In the end, the ‘decision’ had been made.  We chose to embrace it to the best of our ability.  We didn’t think about other people in the ‘decision’ making process.  We were out to save our own necks, without considering the consequences that would lie just after the ink dried.  There were other factors that should have been considered.  There were things that need to have happened in the order of things to make the transition smoother.  But that fear of prison orange had us jumping into something, partially blindly, vowing to figure out the rest later.

But what happens when later comes?  What happens when you have to face the facts and what you have done?  What happens when a confession has to be made?  What happens when you break the hearts of the people who truly love you most in the world?  What happens when all of the pieces shake out and you are left holding them all in your hands with no clue where to even begin?  What happens when you are so deep in a lie that you are now hurting people?  What happens when you realize that you’ve lost everything, and so you must cling to the decision you made, making it the best that you can, because it is quite literally the only thing you have left?    

---

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”  Spencer looked over at the clock, noting the time.  She had exactly one hour before she was to be at her parent’s apartment for dinner.  She took a deep breath, already knowing that she had to come out with what she had done.  She’d have to look her parents in the face, and lie to them.  For the past couple of years, she had been telling small lies here and there about the takes that she passed on to them to cover her father’s medical bills.  Though those lies were difficult, they were nothing in comparison to the field of lies she would have to deliver to them in exactly 58 minutes.

With a knock at the door, she took a deep breath.  She had been prepping herself for this for the last few days, generating the story behind closed doors from the moment Kenneth Ryan made mention of what she would have to do.  “Spence,” the sweetest tone from a mother to her child as she opened the door and pulled her daughter into a warm embrace.  Her hand coming to rest at the back of Spencer’s head, holding on to her before pulling back to size up her daughter.  “Have you been eating, honey.  You look thin.”

Spencer shrugged her shoulders as she looked to her mother with a light nod.  “Yeah, mom.  I’ve been eating.”  She promised, though it was only partially true.  She had been so stressed out that the most she had eaten in one sitting was a bite of a sandwich from Wawa before wrapping the sandwich and putting it back in the fridge at John’s.  “I promise, I’m fine.”  She stated as she heard her father’s voice coming through the apartment.

“Addy, you gonna keep her at the door all night or bring her in and feed the poor kid.  Out there protecting the streets and she gets held up outside of her own parent’s house.”  The voice of her father regularly brought a smile to Spencer’s face as he urged his wife to invite her in.

Addison moved over and held the door opened for Spencer.  Spence walked through the door, painting that smile to her features as she looked to her dad, sitting on the sofa, looking healthy as could be.  “Think she was gonna feed me in the hall.”  She joked as she shut the door behind her, flipping the lock.  Pulling her piece from her side, laying it on the table by the door, right beside her father’s she walked into the livingroom, taking a seat on the sofa beside her father.

Brock’s eye was watchful and observant.  He watched her as she moved through the apartment, coming to sit beside him, which was her normal place.  “Since when do you carry full time, kid?”  He asked, noticing that removal of her pistol at the door.  Spence looked over at him, choking at the answer to that.  “And your mom is right.  You do look thin.  Everything okay, kiddo?”

Spence took a deep breath as she looked to her father, then to her mother as her mother was now receiving back up from her father over her appearance.  “Yeah, I…” she paused, unable to answer that question about carrying, as that question led to John, and the John subject needed to be crossed carefully before she answered the question of carrying.  “Some stuff at the department, has us all on high alert.  Cop killers.”  She stated plainly, a lie delivered as warm up for those to come.

Her response was something that Brock couldn’t argue with.  He knew all too well what went along with wearing that badge.  Addison turned her back, not wanting to hear this, as she had never wanted Spencer to become a cop like her father, wishing she had chosen just about any other profession aside from that which Spence’s heart had once been in.

With her hands carefully placed over one another, concealing the wedding band set on her left hand, she watched as her mother set the timer on the stove for a half hour, indicating just how much time she had to get through this.  “Mom, come sit.  I want to talk to you and dad about something.”

Never had Spencer ever uttered such a phrase, but tonight she had no choice.  Addison came into the small livingroom, sitting down in her normal chair, crossing her legs and looking across with worried eyes.  Brock turned slightly into his daughter, a look of concern etched in his brows.  “What’s going on, Spence?” Her mother asked, urging this along as she was all too nervous already.

“A few months back, I met someone.”  She stated, starting out easy as her mother’s eyes lit up.  She had been waiting for someone to catch Spencer’s eye after the break up with Chris almost two years before.  “We’ve been keeping things quiet, just enjoying our time with one another, and keeping it simple, ya know?”  Nods were given from her parents, though they weren’t sure when this was going to turn to bad news, as they were already anticipating.  The silence through the room gave Spence the go ahead to keep going.  “One thing led to another and-“

Spencer’s words were cut off when her mother lifted her hand over her mouth, looking to Spencer with a gasp.  “You’re pregnant?!”  She asked, shaking her head, not wanting this for her daughter.  Spencer was raised to get married and then have children, not to put the cart before the horse.  “Addy, stop jumping to conclusions.  Spence isn’t pregnant.  She’s thin.  Too thin.”  He stated with attentive eyes.

“Mom, dad, no.  I’m not pregnant.  John proposed to me.  He asked me to marry him.”  She paused, not realizing it would give the indication that she was telling them that she was engaged.  “I told him I didn’t need an engagement or a big wedding.  I wanted to be his wife.”  With that, Spencer uncrossed her hands, allowing the marital bands to be seen by her parents as she braced herself as best she could for cross words and tears.

Tears were right on cue from Addison as she sobbed in her chair, the idea of her daughter being married, to a man she didn’t know, was one that brought forth great fear and emotions in the woman.  “Mom, don’t cry.”  Spence whispered in a low, raspy tone.  Addison stood up from her chair, going into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

Spencer turned to a silent father beside her, looking over at him as he hung his head.  “Dad?  Say something?”  She pleaded as she had always maintained the support of her father.  “I love him.  And he loves me.”  She laid on him, the lies gliding right off of her tongue, but met with silence from him for several long moments.  Spence rose to her feet, going to the door and bringing her piece to her side as she heard her father’s voice break the silence.

“You weren’t raised this way, Spence.”  He began, stopping Spencer in her tracks as she strapped her piece at her side, turning around to find her father looking down at the carpeting, his words hesitant, yet coming forth with great force.  “You are my only daughter and this man, who you love, and who loves you, didn’t have the courage to face your father before asking you to marry him?”  He asked, prompting Spence to walk back across the room, kneeling in front of her father, taking his hands in hers.

“Dad… it wasn’t like that.  It came up in conversation.  He didn’t know if I was even in that place and was mostly just feeling me out and then one thing lead to-“

“I know.  One thing led to another and now my only daughter is married to a man who did not ask MY permission first.”  Spencer jumped as his voice level increased, striking the fear of God in her as he gripped her hands in his.  “So where is he now, Spencer?”

Spencer bit her lower lip, knowing the answer with it, but unable to deliver the truth, yet again.  “He’s at home.  I asked him to let me do this myself.  He didn’t like it, wanting to be here.  But I told him to let me do it, that it was mine to do.  My family.  Just like before.  Chris was a part of us, but yet we still had our own dinners, our own time.  Just because I’m with someone doesn’t mean they change us.”  She stated, a statement that she hoped would tug at his heart.  A statement he had given her that first night she wanted to bring Chris to a family dinner.

“Well, I think it would be best that you go on home to… John, was it?  You were raised to have respect for your mother and I and this?  This was about the most disrespectful thing you could have done to us.”

Spencer stayed knelt at his feet, her hands falling as he released her.  “Dad, you don’t mean that.  Let’s sit and eat and I’ll tell you about him.  Then tomorrow, I’ll bring him here, or you two can come over to our place and meet him.  Please, dad.”  She knew it was a longshot to ask him to reconsider his words as anything that Brock Reese said, stood.

“Spencer Elizabeth Ree-“  He paused, shaking his head at the realization that he did not know his own daughter’s name anymore.  “Goodnight.”

With that, he rose to his feet, stepping past her and walking to the bedroom where his wife was sobbing on the bed, shutting the door as he went to Addison’s side.  Spencer had held her emotion for so long that once that door shut, she brought her head to lay against her knees, crumbling on the floor of her parent’s apartment.  It had been a long time since Spencer had actually cried, so with it came months of built up emotion as she finally let it all out.

The buzzer of the stove sounded, breaking the sound of just her cries that had filled the room.  Spencer rose to her feet, hands pressing against the sofa as she gained her stability.  She walked to the kitchen of the apartment, turning off the stove, and silencing the timer.  Once the meal was set atop the stove, she picked up a pen and paper, jotting down a note for her parents.

--I’m sorry that I disappointed you both.  I know that John should have come to you guys first.  But you taught me love and that it should never be ignored or put off.  You taught me that when you love someone to that level, you don’t let them go.  I have never before loved a man enough to even consider marrying him, and yet, that is exactly what I found with John.  I love this man, with all of my heart and soul, and if you guys need time to process that, I completely understand and I’ll give you that time.  But you should also remember all of the times that you’ve told me that you trusted me and my judgment.  Marrying John was the right thing to do, because that’s what you do when you feel so deeply for someone that you want to share every piece of your life with them.  Remember the example you both set for me throughout my whole life.  I haven’t turned my back on that.  I just fell in love.  I want you two to meet him, and I know that you’ll love him too.  When you’re ready to do that, just call me and we’ll set it up.  I love you both, and I’m sorry that we didn’t do this the way you would have wanted.  I’m sorry.  Xo-Spencer--

After leaving the note beside the finished meal where she knew her parents would see it, she pulled her keys from her pocket, letting herself out of the apartment, turning around and locking the door for her parents.  She went down to her car, sending John a text, asking where he was.  When she got the text back with the name of the bar he was at, she googled the address, and headed that way.

That day had started with intense passion between herself and John, monopolizing on the physical chemistry the two had discovered the night before.  Wrapped in one another’s arms for the better part of the morning, the start of the day had varying intensities, all of which was a part of them finding their stride as a couple.  So how did the day go to complete shit?

Once she arrived, she walked in, taking a seat next to John.  Silent company as the two sat, tossing back drinks.  A half hour later, six shots in, she buried her face against her arms, folded atop the bar.  She cut her eyes in his direction, finally breaking her silence.

“Long day.”

“A father is a son’s first hero.”

Thirty three percent of American children are being raised without a father in the home.  Absent fathers, whether by their own choice or the restrictions placed on them by the courts, are being linked with higher rates of juvenile delinquency.  Families with a father present, regardless of income status, are showing fewer behavioral issues and higher intellectual abilities.  The product of these fatherless homes are much more likely to grow up in poverty, while married couples with children are showing income levels of nearly four times that of the single parent families.

I was raised in the seventy percent of Caucasian families with both parents present.  I’ve never known the pain of missing one parent, being split between two households, monitored visitation, or the bitterness that lives in the mess, on the shoulders of the child being fought over.  I’ve never felt unwanted, or had a parent fill my head with lies about the other to win my favor.  I’ve never had to choose.  But there are so many that do.  Played with as a game of tug of war with little to no regard to that tiny person that is stuck somewhere in the middle.

People always state facts about how children need mothers.  But what about the argument that children need their fathers too?  There is something to be said for a child having a mother, and a father.  Two people, working together, sharing different sides of the scope to build a well-balanced child who feels safe and secure, which children at young ages translate into love.  Routines, security, regular meals, expectations, limitations, and structure are what small children see as love.  In truth, if a parent is providing all of those things, they are doing so out of their love for that child.

But when a father, who wants to be involved, is being kept from their child, it’s a damn crying shame.  Same for a mother, who wants to be involved, being excluded by the father.  It is my opinion that for a parent not to allow involvement of the other parent, without whom the child would not be in existence, is typically a pathetic control attempt.  ‘I don’t have you anymore romantically and therefore I will punish you with the only thing I have left.’  Using children as pawns to get even with that spouse or partner that ‘did you wrong’.  Using them against the other parent, turning them against the other parent who is not even there to defend themselves.  It’s frankly fucked up and the parent playing power games should take a long, hard look in the mirror and realize that when that child is of age, they will ultimately make their own decisions about their relationship with both parents, and don’t be surprised if when they find the truth about that absentee father who wanted to be there, that they drop your ass on the curb without a second glance.

Maybe it’s not my place.  Maybe I can’t have an opinion on this since I was raised in the majority.  Perhaps I should mind my own business, but that just simply isn’t my style.  When I became privy to the information that my husband, John James, has a child out there that he is being refused visitation for, being held by a restraining order- which isn’t hard to get, and desperately wants to be a part of his child’s life, I had to do something.  I didn’t know what I could do, but with a few friends in higher places, I reached out.  Calling in a favor or two to get my hands on files and begin digging to see just what could be done.

---

“I need to ask you a favor,” Detective Spencer James began.  “It’s a restraining order, could have been filed at any point over the last… two years.”  The voice on the other end of the phone was eager to help Spencer after that which Spence had done for them a couple of weeks prior on a case.  “John William James.”  She stated, repeating once more to be sure the name was taken down properly.  Spencer went on to give John’s present address, hoping it could be of some help.  “Thank you, very much.”  Spencer hung up the phone and went on to the next person she would be tugging at for assistance.

“Hi, this is Detective Reese,” she stated, intentionally using her maiden name.  “I am looking for a custody file for a case.  Yes, I can hold.”  She paused, listening to the hold music on the other end of the line for far too long, tapping the end of her pen against her desk, waiting.  When the voice finally returned, with the file in hand, Spencer couldn’t be more pleased.  “No, I don’t need the original case file.  I just need copies of everything within to see if I can find a link for the case we’re working.”  She stated her needs as she began to arm herself with information.  “I really appreciate it.  Thank you.”  She stated upon hearing she would have the files in the hour.

By mid-afternoon, Spencer had both files before her, one being the restraining order, the other being the custody case.  Scouring over them both intently, committing the words to memory, looking for anything that could play in John’s favor.  Judge Mark Gold.  First key point, a male judge who was raised by an abusive father, consistently siding with mothers on custody cases, picturing every father to be just as his was.  Plus side, Judge Mark Gold retired a month prior and would not be the one to rehear the case.  A sly grin flooded Spencer’s features as she continued to dig, already feeling a win on that first fact.

Custody established, yet would have to be revisited every two years.  Wouldn’t help much, considering the child was under a year old.  Moving on, the address of the child stood out to Spencer.  She’d been at that address in the last six months since she came to Philadelphia.  She didn’t know much of this city yet, but that address she did know.  She scribbled it down on a post-it note, with the intent to cross-reference it later.  Moving forward, the rest of the custody file was rather ordinary with a judge like Gold.

Switching over to the restraining order, she stared at the form with a bite to her lower lip.  The claims that were made as to why the order was necessary were heinous, things that Spencer wasn’t sure if she could overcome, but yet the fact that John was now married to a Police Detective could assist with it some.  He had broken into the home to attempt to gain access to his child, which was documented as an attempted kidnapping.  “Shit,” Spencer sighed as she looked over the rest of the document, knowing that alone would be a hurdle to cross, so high that even she may not be able to do it.

An hour later, she was standing outside the door of the residence noted on the post-it note in her pocket.  “Just let me do what I need to do, and back me up on it.”  She asked of Detective Ryan at her side.  Lifting her hand to the door, she knocked and waited for the door to be answered.  “Hi, I’m Detective Reese and this is Detective Ryan.”  The woman at the door stared blankly towards them, clearly in another world.  “We answered a call here a couple of months ago and we noticed an error in our files.  We didn’t get the location of the child’s room, which is customary for us to make note of.”

”Isn’t that too bad?”  the woman responded, not much budging in the idea of letting police within those walls.  “Have to be more careful, won’t ya?”  She added, if only to make Spencer’s blood boil.

Spencer remembered being in the child’s room, comforting the crying baby after the baby had been pulled from the mother’s eyes to drug test her. Ripped from her thoughts as the crying of a child came from the room down the hall.  “Is he… okay?  Do you need to check on him?”  Spencer asked, now personally invested in the fact that the child was crying, as it was her husband’s son, knowing that John would not be pleased at the sound of that child’s cries.

The woman hesitated, but stepped back from the door, walking down the hall to the child’s room, where almost instantly the crying ceased.  Spencer turned to look at Kenneth, eyeing him suspiciously as the woman came around the corner, holding the baby in her arms, bouncing him up and down on her hip.  “And now you know the location of the room.”  She stated to Spencer and Kenneth, to which was answered with a nod to Spencer’s head.  “I really appreciate your help on that.  I hate when files are missing something, or the information within is… I don’t know… wrong.”

At that, Ryan took over, bidding the farewells to the woman, commanding Spencer to fall back by the touch of his hand to her shoulder.  Spencer eyed the child for as long as she could, finally doing just as Ryan had.  “Thank you for your time.”  She spoke as she turned her back and headed back to the waiting vehicle with Ryan.  She knew she couldn’t up and grab the child, nor could she enter the premises without a warrant or just cause.

It would be something Spencer would watch.  Looking for an opening, though she probably should not.  She promised John happiness and though she didn’t know how she would provide that to him when she made the promise, she now felt as though she knew what it would take to bring him that emotion.  A child he was refused access to.  As she got into the car, she looked over at Ryan, a determination flooding her eyes that should invoke fear in any that should stand in her way.  A look to which Ryan quickly asked her, “So you gonna tell me what that was all about?”

“He’s my step-son.”