The way I loved you. (Book 2 of the Illicit Affairs Series)

Chapter I

Ever since Rebecca Barnes could remember, Steve Rogers was in her life. The majority of her childhood memories were tainted by his presence. James, her brother, had met him before she was even born, after all.

The first clear memory she had of him wasn't all that special. Steve was having dinner with the Barneses, sitting in front of her while she stared at the peas in her plate with clear disgust. He had waited until her parents were distracted by Manny, their golden retriever who tried to hijack their dinner every single evening, to quickly transfer all her peas to his plate and wink.

Becca was a popular four year old. Every boy in her kindergarten class insisted on playing house with her and went home to tell their mothers they would marry her someday. Whenever they would "propose", though, she would say no. She already knew who she would marry.

Steve was nine years old, at the time, and didn't even notice how her best friend's little sister adoring blue eyes followed him around whenever he would come over, but she was sure the sandy haired, skinny boy was the love of her life. She knew they would love each other like her mom, Winifred, and her dad, George, did, and she would tell them so.

"We're gonna have three kids like you and daddy." she had told them solemnly, her hand stroking her mother's belly, where her baby sister was growing, "I'm going to be big like you."

Winifred would giggle at her words, then she would giggle even harder at George's exasperated expression. "I can't believe I already have to worry about boys. I don't want to imagine what she'll be like when she's sixteen." he would huff. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately for him, he never had the opportunity to chase teenage boys away from his daughter with a baseball bat.

George Barnes died when Rebecca was only ten years old. Her father's funeral was one of her most vivid memories. The church, which, until that day, was a boring but familiar place she had to go to every Sunday morning before heading to the playground, was now filled with crying people, many of whom she didn't recognise. Probably colleagues, she would assume later. Her mother was at her side, holding a confused six year old Mary in her lap. Winnie's eyes were teary and distant, but she didn't allow herself to break down in front of her children. Bucky, now fifteen, had immediately stepped up into the role of the man of the family. Winifred hated it, she hated putting that much pressure on her baby boy's shoulders, so she had to act strong.

Rebecca was barely old enough to understand death. The year before, Manny had to be put down because he had gotten sick, and her parents had decided not to lie about sending him to a nice farm far away. They had set her down and explained that animals and people would someday fall asleep forever, that it was a part of life. "Do they dream?", she had asked, furrowing her brow and trying to understand. They told her no one knew. She said she hoped Manny would dream of the times they played together.

Now, she was asking herself the same question. Her daddy wasn't old like the nice lady at the candy store. He wasn't even as old as her teacher, Mrs Paula, but they weren't asleep forever. She thought people had to be old to do that. Did that mean she could fall asleep forever, too? Or her mommy, or Bucky, or Steve, or even little Mary?

Bucky was at her right, Steve beside him. He didn't want to overstep, he had said, but Bucky had insisted. "I need you there, man." he had said, and Becca could hear his strained voice through the wall their bedrooms shared. "I know he wasn't your father, Stevie," Winnie had murmured, petting the boy's blond hair, "but he loved you like you were his own son."

The strangers went up to them, clasping Winifred's hands while murmuring, patting Bucky's shoulders and even stroking Becca's cheeks, but she didn't care about them. All she wanted was to go home and stop thinking about the fact that she would never play with her dad again, she would never hear his voice again, she would never pretend to be asleep to be carried to bed by him again.

When they all finally got home, Steve included, she raced to the bedroom she shared with Mary and climbed up on the top bunk bed, where the teddy bear her dad had got her when she was just a baby was waiting for her. She couldn't tell how much time she spent holding it and staring at the ceiling, but at some point she assumed Mary had asked to sleep in their parents' -their mom's, now- bed, since she hadn't come to their room yet.

Becca was lost in her thoughts, so she didn't hear the quiet knocks on the door, and she only registered someone else's presence in the room when the bed frame rattled as someone climbed up. In the barely lit room, she saw a mess of sandy hair she would recognise anywhere, before the mattress dipped and Steve was sitting cross legged in front of her, his head bent to avoid hitting the ceiling.

"Steve?" she whispered, sitting up.

He nodded as much as he could. "I wanted to ask you how you're doing."

"I don't know." she confessed, feeling guilty. She knew she should have been crying inconsolably, but she just couldn't. Steve nodded again, and understanding smile on his face.

"I was ten when my mom died, just like you." he murmured. Becca vaguely remembered something about Sarah Rogers and a car accident. What she remembered very clearly was how Steve had started sleeping over more often, and how she sometimes caught him staring into nothing like she had been doing a few minutes before. She also had met Steve's uncle, Nick, who was taking care of him, now. "I didn't really know what had happened to her. I still don't. I don't think the grown ups really know, either. I just knew she was gone."

Becca nodded. That was exactly how she felt. "I'm not sad. I'm not happy, no, but I'm not sad. I'm just..." she tried to find the correct word. Her teachers always told her she was good with words, and sometimes she even made up her own ones, but she didn't know any that would fit this situation.

"Empty?" Steve suggested.

"Empty." she agreed, "Mom and Bucky are sad, so I feel weird. Am I a bad girl for not being sad?".

He shook his head and reached for her little hands. "You're not, I promise. No one can tell you what you feel is bad. Losing a parent when you're a kid is confusing. Take your time to figure it out."

"Is it easier now that you're old?" Becca asked, looking at what she could make of his bony hands.

"I'm not old." Steve snorted. Rebecca shrugged. Steve was fifteen, which wasn't old enough to drive, but it was old enough to stay up late and watch horror movies with her brother. She decided he was old. "I don't think it gets easier, but with time you'll deal with your emotions better."

Becca nodded and didn't respond. For a few minutes, a comfortable silence fell over them while they studied each other's hands. Steve's were stained with graphite at the sides, she realised.

"Were you drawing?" she asked.Steve liked art in every form. He drew, painted, he had even made a flower pot for Winnie, once. He nodded.

"I'm making a portrait of your family. I thought I'd leave it at your dad's headstone." he explained.

The drawing, somehow, ended up in a frame, hung on the Barneses living room, just above the couch it depicted, the entire family sitting on it. Steve had drawn himself in front of them, sitting cross legged on the pavement and smiling.