Better Than This

by Tia Souders

  I stood there for a moment and watched, grateful for the moment to study him without him noticing me. Never before had a plain white t-shirt and jeans looked so good.

  His fingers moved lightly over the strings, and his brow drew together in concentration. He had been playing for a long time. That much was apparent. Though what he played was not particularly difficult, his technique and form were perfect.

  So transfixed by his hands, I didn’t notice he had stopped playing until it was too late. When I glanced back up to his face and saw his eyes open, watching me, I jumped. My heart banged in my chest like rapid fire.

  Well, if he didn’t think I was freak before, he did now.

  I fought the urge to roll my eyes at myself. Way to play it cool, Sam.

  I should say something. I needed to say something to fill the silence which seemed to stretch on for all eternity, but I couldn’t manage to push anything past my lips.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.

  He pushed his sandy hair out of his face and set his guitar down. Trying not to ogle at the way the muscles in his arms flexed with the movement, I fixed my gaze on the wall behind him.

  “It’s okay.” My gaze moved around the room, taking in everything but him. A couple battered bookshelves lined the wall beside the door. Magazines and what appeared to be books on music and various types of instruments littered the shelves. A small counter with a sink and mini-fridge stood opposite me.

  Laird stood and moved to the counter. “Coffee?” he asked, raising a paper cup.

  “Sure,” I said, unsure of what to do with myself. Should I sit? Or should I go over to the counter?

  He glanced over his shoulder. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually come.” When he turned, he held two steaming cups. Instead of handing one to me, he leaned against the counter, holding onto them both. “I’m glad you did.” He grinned then took a large swallow of coffee.

  I smirked and shook off my nerves. If he wasn’t nervous then why should I be?

  His smile widened, showcasing his impossibly perfect pearly whites, and it took all my courage and a deep cleansing breath to move toward him. I stopped less than a foot away and reached out. I grabbed the cup he hadn’t drank from, letting my fingers brush over his. It took everything in me to keep from blushing, but I successfully pulled it from his hand and took a sip before returning his smile.

  When he laughed, the tension in my spine vanished. We moved back to the couch and after a moment of contemplation, I opted to sit on the opposite end of the sofa with him, as opposed to one of the lone chairs. Silence filled the room, once again, and I wondered if he could hear the hammering of my pulse. We sipped our coffee in silence until, Laird, once again, saved me from my awkwardness.

  “So how’d you manage to get a day out alone?” he asked.

  His eye caught mine, and I forced myself to hold his gaze. “What do you mean?”

  “Your friends. You and your band. It always seemed to me you guys spent all your time together.”

  I supposed that was a fair statement. Not entirely accurate, but fair. There was a lot of down time when I opted for solitude and my guitar instead of hanging with them, but my friends also provided a good distraction from home. They occupied a lot of my time, and I rarely found myself out in public without them because without them, I’d be alone. Feeling alone and looking alone were two different things. Feeling alone I was accustomed to. Funny how I wasn’t okay with the latter.

  “I guess I’ve been spending less time with them since the accident.” I tapped the side of my cup, mulling it over in my head. “At first, I wasn’t really up for talking to anyone. I didn’t want company.” I thought of the week after my hospital stay. How I spent endless days in bed, staring at nothing but the walls of my room, wishing I could disappear.

  “And now?” he asked, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, it’s not my business. I shouldn’t even be asking. It’s just… I’ve always been curious about you.”

  Me? I wanted to ask. The idea anyone—especially him—could wonder about me was hard to fathom. I wanted to ask why. I wanted to see what there was to be curious about because from where I was sitting there wasn’t much about me worth knowing, but instead of asking those things, instead of doubting him, I cleared my throat and said, “It’s okay. This…” I gestured to my guitar with my bad hand, “has been hard. I mean, I’ve only begun playing and readjusting to my injury. Playing with my band isn’t something I’m eager to do, I guess. They’re not very understanding. Derek has some scheme all planned out. He’s making a big deal out of my—” I glanced down. I couldn’t bring myself to say missing finger. “—hand. And I don’t know… It’s only been two weeks. I’m sure as time goes by, I’ll start playing with them again, but…”

  “Aren’t you and Derek together?”

  My stomach clenched. I shrugged and said nothing. What could I say? Technically Derek and I were together, but in reality, I didn’t care about him as anything more than a friend? He was my boyfriend, but I was with him out of boredom and convenience? Just thinking the words made me sound awful.

  “It’s complicated,” I said, instead.

  He nodded as if he understood and smiled. “Who was the kid you were with the other day? The little one with the glasses,” he asked.

  I laughed. “That’s Tad. He’s twelve.” I grinned, picturing his pale face and thick black frames, the same shade as his hair. “He’s a friend,” I said, hearing the warmth in my voice, and it struck me how much I had become attached to him in such a short amount of time. “A good friend. Or annoying pseudo-brother.” I chuckled. “Depends on how you look at it. He’s been listening to me play though. Mainly, he just encourages me and tries to boost my ego. Oddly enough, most of the time, it works. I suppose, if I’m being honest with myself, he’s most of the reason I’m even back to playing.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t need him to boost your ego. You’re amazing. Always have been, at least since I’ve heard you play.”

  His gaze softened as his eyes moved over my face, drinking me in and making me wonder if maybe he thought more than my guitar skills were amazing.

  “Thanks. Ummm… what were you playing when I came in?” I said, changing the subject.

  The heat in the room rose to an inferno. A bead of sweat trickled down my back, and my underarms grew damp. I willed my body to cool it. The last thing I needed was to turn into an all-out sweat fest. I’m sure he’d think I was real amazing, then.

  “It’s just something I wrote. I play, but I like to mess around and compose better.”

  “It was really great.”

  “Want me to teach it to you?"

  He must’ve sensed my hesitation, because before I could protest, he grabbed his guitar, and said, “Learning something completely new may be easier for you since it’s not already committed to memory. As we go, we’ll figure out the change in fingers.”

  I nodded, eager to play and get the conversation on level ground. Music I could talk about without turning into a limp noodle under his gaze.

  I took my guitar from the case and held it. Though he waited for me to ready myself and get into position, I fidgeted with my guitar, realizing my bad hand was about to be put on display in front of the hottest boy I had probably ever spoken to.

  My stomach sunk as I realized, since he first approached me at The Clover, I had trouble fathoming any interest in me. Not because I thought I wasn’t pretty enough; I didn’t consider myself a ten by any means, but I knew I was attractive. It was because of my hand. Because how could a guy, any guy, let alone one as gorgeous and sexy as Laird, ever be interested in a girl with a bony stub in place of where her finger used to be? One that couldn’t hold hands without feeling like something was missing? One that couldn’t even stomach looking at one of her own body parts without cringing?

  I shrank back, readying myself to stand and run, but as though he read my thoughts, Laird reached out and grabbed my left hand before I could
flee. He placed it on the neck of my guitar, curling my remaining fingers over the strings and held it there, pressing his fingers into the back of my hand. I bit back a groan as an agonizing stab of pain ripped through my hand. I inhaled and took sharp, shallow breaths until the throbbing subsided and I felt, once again, his warm grip over mine. I looked up into his eyes, which glittered under the light. The corners of his lips curled up in a soft smile, and he leaned back and began to play.

  A surge of something unrecognizable swelled in my chest. Whether it was relief, or love, or some odd combination of both, I wasn’t sure.

  He continued to play the intro to the song on loop, and as I watched, he started to recite the notes and chords. Normally, I learned new music just by watching someone else play, but calling out the chords helped since I had to do so much improvising.

  After some time, I played along with him. Sweat beaded my brow as I concentrated. He slowed his pace until I could match it, and though the song was new, I was able to get at least part of it down while not totally mangling the rest. Whether Laird was right and learning to play with my new hand would be easier with new songs I had yet to commit to muscle memory, or whether it was my head’s determination to impress him, I wasn’t sure.

  I paused and winced. Fire shot through my hand.

  “Sam?”

  I glanced over at him and his eyes went soft, as if he thought I couldn’t handle it, and so I grit my teeth and laid into the song. The strings bit into my fingers, and my eyes filled with tears as I fought through the agony. When I almost had the song down, I played harder. The strings bit into my fingers and I gasped.

  I dropped my hand, shaking and blinking back the moisture in my eyes. I clenched and unclenched my hand, willing the throbbing away, but it only made it worse.

  “You okay?” Laird asked, his face a mask of concern.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” I grabbed the collar of my shirt and fanned myself with it. Why was it so hot in here?

  “Play me something,” Laird said.

  I almost groaned at the request, wanting so badly to be able to play, and play well, but knowing I couldn’t. Not with my hand aching so bad.

  Still, my pride won out, and I began Heitor Villa-Lobos’ No. 1 Andantino, a piece I had wanted to use for Juilliard, but the second I started, I stopped, my breath a mangled sob in my throat.

  “Is your hand hurting?” Laird asked. “Maybe we should take a break.”

  I nodded just as my vision blurred. The couch Laird sat on tilted and swirled until there were two instead of one. I shook my head to clear my double vision, but instead of helping, my head spun worse. Sweat beaded my brow as I took a deep breath and tried to compose myself. Reaching up to massage my temples, I waited until the world grew still, then said, “I’m okay. I’ve just been having a bit of pain. It’s been the last few days, but I’m sure that’s normal.”

  “Well, you would certainly be sore, but the pain should’ve subsided after the first couple weeks. It should be getting better, not worse. Let me see.” He held his hand out, waiting, and because it throbbed too badly to refuse, I placed my hand in his.

  He softly probed the flesh around my knuckles and the spot where the joint of my missing finger met my hand. I clenched my teeth so tight, I thought my jaw might crack. Before I could stop myself, I drew back and yelped.

  “It’s red and looks swollen.” He dropped my hand and stared at me, examining my face with an alarmed expression. “Sam? You’re sweating.”

  Great. Not exactly the words you wanted to hear from one of the cutest guys you’ve ever met.

  I cleared my throat to speak, but before I could, Laird began to unwrap my finger.

  “Hey,” I said. I tried to yank my hand from his, but it was as though I could hardly move my arm. The muscles in my arm went limp, and I gave up the fight as he worked.

  My gaze remained on him, praying I didn’t look as horrific as I felt. Later, I would be appalled I allowed him to remove my bandages, but now, I couldn’t muster the energy to stop him.

  He unwrapped a layer of gauze and his jaw nearly fell to the floor.

  His expression undid me. In one disgusted look, the moment I had been waiting for all day—his horrified expression at my hand—had arrived.

  My stomach sunk as a wave of shame washed over me, and when I tugged my hand away for the second time, I succeeded. I shot up from the couch and grabbed my guitar and case.

  “Sam, wait. Where are you going?”

  I said nothing, as I threw my guitar over my shoulder and turned to leave.

  “Sam!” He stood up and placed his hands on my arms. “Have you looked at your hand? The finger?”

  I said nothing and tried to pull away. But he moved with me, blocking my exit. “Have you looked at it lately? I think—”

  “No, I haven’t looked at it! I can’t look at it, okay?” My screams echoed in the small room. Sweat rolled down the side of my face while the temperature in the room spiked. “It disgusts me, too. Is that what you want to hear? That I can’t even bear to look at my own hand?” I stood staring at him. My breath heaved in and out of my chest. “What was all this about anyway?” I said, waving my hands around the room, only partially aware of how I probably looked like a raving lunatic. “Was it some sort of pity date? A ploy to look at my hand so you can tell all your friends? Brag about how you saw Samantha Becker’s missing finger?”

  “Sam, that’s not…” He ran his hands through his hair and looked up at the ceiling, then returned his gaze to me. “Is that what you think? You thought I invited you here so I could gawk at your hand or to get some story to tell?”

  I said nothing, which must’ve been the only answer he needed.

  His eyes flashed. “Because, if so, that’s ridiculous. I don’t care about your finger. Anybody who does is an idiot. And just so you know, I hadn’t even gotten through all the bandages. But I saw enough to know it’s severely infected. You need to see a doctor. I think that’s why…”

  His words rang in my ears. I only half heard them as the ringing increased until it drowned them out entirely. His lips moved, but it was as though nothing came out. I swayed as his face became fuzzy, like tiny grains of sand, and a prickly feeling descended my body, like when a limb falls asleep. How long had I been standing there? Long enough for my arms to go numb?

  My body went weightless and wind rushed through my hair. I realized all too late I thought I was falling, but I couldn’t catch myself. I could hardly move, and it was all I could do to register the feel of something strong and warm beneath me.

  I took a deep breath, but my eyes wouldn’t open, and my only thought before the world went black was how the woodsy scent enveloping me like a safety net, must be him—Laird. And how I could drown in it forever.

  Maybe I already did.

  9

  Something cold surged through my arm while the steady drone of machines filled my ears. I shivered as my eyes fluttered open.

  Several seconds passed as my vision focused and I immediately recognized the pale blue walls, the cheaply framed prints which decorated them, along with the plaster ceiling veined with cracks.

  I glanced to my left. A machine whirred, with red and blue peaks spiking over the blinding white screen. Two bags of clear liquids hung from a rack attached to two tubes which dripped down to a “T” and into the IV in my hand.

  Instinctively, I glanced to my injured hand. Thick gauze overlapped the space where my finger used to be and hugged my pinky and middle fingers, making it look as though I was giving a perpetual hand signal for gnarly.

  Someone with a better sense of humor than me may have found it funny.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to remember what happened, and wondering if the past two weeks had really even occurred or whether they had just been a dream and I never left the hospital after my accident.

  The sound of shuffling pierced through my confusion. I turned and squinted to my right and the source of the noise to see Tad.


  It hadn’t been a dream.

  He stood and the youthful lines of his face tensed.

  My gaze darted to my left hand, then back to Tad. “What happened? Why am I back here?” I pushed myself up on rubbery arms into a seated position.

  “You got sick when you were with Laird. You passed out for a bit. When they got you here, your temperature had spiked. It was almost 104 degrees. You were burning up from infection.”

  I nodded. My gaze focused on the bottom of my bed, on the two lumps my feet formed under the covers as I contemplated the new information. It made sense—the soiled bandages, sweating, weakness, horrible pain. When I wrecked June’s yard, my hand got dirty. Even though she changed my bandages, enough time had probably elapsed to allow dirt and bacteria to enter the wound. I hadn’t exactly taken care of myself these past weeks.

  “I guess I should’ve been more careful,” I said, verbalizing the understatement of the year, but Tad didn’t say anything. Instead, we both sat in silence for a moment before I turned to him again. I knew the facts now, and my mind was consumed with one thing. “This is going to set me back isn’t it?”

  The answer flickered in his eyes before he said, “They want to keep you here a couple days to make sure the infection is under control and you’re hydrated. Then they’ll release you, but I overheard them talking, and I don’t think they’re going to clear you to play for a while.”

  Tears stung the back of my eyes. Just when I had begun to play again and make some progress, I had a setback.

  I shook my head, willing away the moisture in my eyes. “But I could be really careful. I can give it a couple days and then go easy. Even easier than before. And this time, I’ll take care of my wound. I’ll change the bandages and clean it. Whatever they want me to do.” I spoke quickly, as reality settled over me. I had already wasted time, and now more time would pass without me advancing. I only had five months left. I couldn’t lose another day.