Better Than This: A Nine Minutes Spin-Off Novel

by Beth Flynn

  “I wasn’t stabbed.” His voice was hoarse. He lifted his shirt, and I knelt next to him to inspect it. “It’s a cut from a beer bottle,” he corrected.

  I looked closer at the jagged edges of the cut as well as the blood smeared on his skin and was hit with an overwhelming sense of nausea. How strange. This never happens to me. I stood up and felt a wave of dizziness.

  Jake reached for my arm and grabbed it to steady me. “Are you okay, sweetheart?” he asked, his eyes darting up. “You’re looking pale.”

  Ignoring his question, I ran to the bathroom. I didn’t even get a chance to close the door behind me. Before I knew it, I was on my knees emptying my stomach. I felt a warm hand on my back and turned to look at him. “I’m okay. Must’ve been something I ate,” I lied. “You need to sit down. I’ll wash up and be out in a second.”

  When I returned to the kitchen, Jake told me, “It was an accident. If we go to the hospital, they might ask for an incident report.”

  “Accident?”

  “Dustin’s drunk friend thought he was helping me out when he started swinging blindly with a broken bottle. He probably doesn’t even know he hit me. The guy may be stupid, but I don’t want him getting into trouble.”

  Since his shirt was already torn I used my scissors to cut it off of him so he wouldn’t need to lift his hands above his head. I rolled up my sleeves, washed again, and put on my gloves. I knelt down next to him and did what I do best. Refusing something for pain, he didn’t flinch when I shot the wound with lidocaine for numbing. I went to work sanitizing it and then suturing it closed.

  “You should sleep here tonight,” I told him as I tossed my disposable suture kit and the used vial of lidocaine in the trash can and walked to the sink to clean up. “You’ve lost a decent amount of blood, but nothing life-threatening. Still, I don’t think you should be driving. You can have my bed since I don’t have one for my guest room yet.” I could tell that he was going to object so I kept on talking. “Besides, the couch is too small for you to be comfortable. I have a big t-shirt you can wear.” I went to the bathroom and returned with clean towels. I was standing at the sink running one of them under warm water so I could wash his torso and arms. He wasn’t saying much so I assumed the numbing was wearing off and the deep cut was starting to hurt. “I can give you something for pain and an antibiotic,” I called over my shoulder.

  After wringing the water out of the towels, I turned to him and stopped cold in my tracks. I’d been so focused on his wound, I hadn’t noticed it before, but now it stood out like a neon sign.

  On his right bicep was a tattoo of a black ball with a chain. I shook my head to clear it as I walked closer. He followed my gaze, and after looking at me, then his arm and back at me, he asked, “Are you okay?”

  There was a hushed moment before I asked while pointing at his tattoo, “What is that?”

  “A ball and chain,” came his casual reply. “You know, to remind me of what it was like behind bars.”

  I got closer and lowered my face. “It looks like it could’ve been something else.”

  “Like what?” His eyes were starting to get heavy. He’d had a long night.

  “Like a pocket watch with a chain.” I stood up and took a step back. “Kenny’s rap sheet said he had a pocket watch tattoo on his right bicep. Your tattoo reminded me of it.”

  “If you’re still thinking that I’m Kenny Pritchard, you’re wrong, Barbie doll. I swear—”

  I stopped him. “No, I don’t think you’re Kenny Pritchard. I only said the shape reminded me of a tattoo described on his arrest report. That’s all. The pocket watch was actually something important to me. I didn’t tell you about it the other night, but maybe I’ll fill you in tomorrow.” I pulled him to his feet and guided him upstairs to my room.

  That night as I lay in the dark staring at my living room ceiling, it wasn’t the harsh events of the evening that kept me awake. It wasn’t even the tattoo that reminded me of Kenny or the memory of the pocket watch that had meant so much. I recalled a story a friend had told me. He was a talented cardiothoracic surgeon, the best in his field. He shared that he and his dad had been working under the kitchen sink to repair a leak when his father complained that his left arm had gone numb. In a panic, my friend stood up to check his dad’s symptoms and promptly fainted. He explained how he was in the heart business, but when it came to his father, fear of losing him was so overwhelming he passed out in the old man’s arms. Thank goodness it turned out to be nothing, but I remembered hearing that story and thinking how that could never happen to me. After all, trauma was practically my middle name. I’d dealt with some of the most gruesome medical emergencies anyone could imagine.

  I shifted uncomfortably on the couch and pulled the blanket up to my chin. I thought about the man resting right above my head. In my bed. I hadn’t vomited up my Dr. Pepper and appetizers because they didn’t agree with me. There was a deeper reason. For the first time in my career, I saw the blood of someone I cared about and it scared me to death. And worse yet, I didn’t know which revelation I found more frightening. The fact that I cared about Jake Chambers. Or knowing that if anything happened to him, I’d be devastated.

  Chapter 22

  My Lonely Adirondack Chair

  I groaned as I stretched and tried to get my bearings. Like a flood, memories of the previous evening washed over me, and I quickly sat up. The sun was streaming around the edges of the curtains. I jumped up and ran to the window. Jake’s truck was still parked in the front driveway. I hurried upstairs and peeked in my bedroom. I remembered waiting for him to use the bathroom before I’d ushered him upstairs last night. After determining that my largest t-shirt was too small for him, he’d kicked off his boots and socks, unbuckled his belt and loosened his jeans, and climbed beneath my heavy quilt without saying a word. I’d started to tell him he could give a shout and I’d come upstairs if he needed anything, but was interrupted by his soft snores. It made me smile before I left the room.

  I now stood in the doorway and couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. He was sprawled on his back, and the covers were only pulled up to just below his belly button. He had one bare leg stretched out. The other one was hidden beneath my quilt. I noticed his jeans were on the floor. The waistband of his underwear was visible from the folds of his pants. Which meant he was sleeping in my bed, totally nude.

  I felt a wave of heat rush up my spine as I allowed myself the luxury of watching him sleep. And I’d thought he looked magnificent while making a salad in my kitchen the other night? I inwardly scoffed and silently inhaled while I soaked in every visible inch of him. My eyes traveled from his slightly mussed hair to his short silver-streaked beard that camouflaged a strong jaw. Then down his neck to the scary skull that had become so familiar. I walked closer and tilted my head as I observed some of his tattoos. I’d been in physician mode, and other than the ball and chain, hadn’t given them much notice last night. One caused my heart to lurch. Ignoring the uncomfortable sensation, I admired his other tattoos. Their colors and designs danced across a broad, muscular chest and tapered down to a highly defined abdomen. I guess I know what he does in his spare time, I mused.

  I walked around the other side of the bed and saw that the bandage wasn’t stained. Good. No leakage and the stitches held. I was going to check him for fever but didn’t want to wake him. I carefully pulled open a drawer and took out some clothes. I spotted my new and unused running shoes I’d left on the dresser and quietly slid them out of the box. I closed the door behind me and headed downstairs to use the bathroom.

  After washing my face, brushing my teeth, changing my clothes, and putting on my new shoes, I started the coffeepot and walked out to the front porch. I slowly stretched as I looked at the vast expanse of fields and pondered what, if anything, I should do with them. I wasn’t a farmer but knew my property boasted fertile soil. Enjoying the brisk, but not too cool air, I sauntered down to where my gravel driveway met the dirt road and asked
myself if I was ready. The answer was yes, so I took a right and headed toward the Pritchard farm.

  I wasn’t in as good cardiovascular health as I’d hoped and realized I was starting to wear thin as I approached the first line of trees that separated our farm from the Pritchards’. I slowed to a walk as I tried to catch my breath. I stopped when I got to the trees and wondered if I should veer off the path and see if I could find the tree houses. I decided against the idea and with caution kept walking. I’d told myself I would be able to gaze upon the Pritchards’ old homestead and feel nothing. Now I wasn’t so sure that I wholly believed it. I didn’t stop, and after getting a second wind, I was able to pick up the pace again. I could see the curve in the road ahead and knew that, once I followed it, I would come face-to-face with my past. I was feeling empowered when something stopped me. I’d come to a small sign in the road. One that had never been there before. It looked like one of those official-looking county markers. It had a number that was attached to a long, steel rod that had been set in the ground just to the right of the road. I found this curious. Why was the county placing markers on a private road? I wondered. And how long had the post been there? It looked fairly new, but what would I know? I hadn’t wandered this street since before I graduated high school, and that was over thirty years ago.

  I looked at my watch and realized I’d run long enough. I need to be there when Jake wakes up, I told myself. The Pritchard farm had waited for this reunion for more than three decades. It could certainly wait another day. I didn’t know if it was the second wind or knowing who would be waiting for me when I got home, but I found a burst of energy as I headed back toward my place. I could see him standing on my front porch, and I waved as I got closer. When I ran up my driveway, he walked toward me. He was wearing a clean shirt and offered, “I had a spare in my truck. I was too tired to mention it last night.”

  I was huffing by this time and could only nod. I was going to ask him how he was feeling when he started peppering me with questions about where I’d gone. I waved my arm toward the Pritchards’ as I bent over and placed both hands on my knees. “Whew,” I barely got out. “I’m not in as good a shape as I thought.”

  “You went to the Pritchard farm?” he shot back. “You were there?”

  I stood up and smiled. He was frowning and I surmised that his side was hurting. “No.” I shook my head. “I almost got there but turned around at a marker in the road I don’t remember ever seeing before.” I took in a deep breath. He seemed almost relieved which was understandable. Exploring an abandoned house alone wouldn’t have been a wise choice.

  “Why do you only have one chair on your porch?”

  We both looked over at the red Adirondack chair that graced the front of my house. It stood in stark contrast to the faded siding that was badly in need of a new coat of paint.

  I shrugged and said, “I don’t know. I guess because it’s just me. Why would I need another one?”

  “So, if I want to enjoy my coffee on the front porch with you, you’ll have to sit on my lap?” he teased.

  “Is that an offer?” I laughed.

  “A standing one,” he replied, his face more serious.

  “If I wasn’t in desperate need of a shower or concerned about tearing your stitches, I might’ve taken you up on it.”

  He started to say something when we both heard the crunching of gravel and turned at the same time. I recognized the midnight blue pickup truck that was making its way toward us. It belonged to Darlene’s oldest child, Matthew. I knew parents weren’t supposed to have a favorite child, and Darlene was no exception. But I knew Matthew was very special to her for many reasons. The one that stood out the most was because he’d chosen his family and Pumpkin Rest over the lures of the big city. Most kids, myself included, took one look at the outside world and couldn’t wait to escape small-town life. Matthew had done the opposite. After getting his degree in psychology at Arkansas State University, he chose to come back home, marry his high school sweetheart, and give Darlene and her husband three grandchildren. He commuted to his job as a counselor for underprivileged adults who were battling drug and alcohol addiction, while his stay-at-home wife homeschooled their children. And it didn’t hurt that he’d named his oldest daughter after Darlene.

  I smiled as I walked toward the truck that had pulled up behind Jake’s. Darlene jumped out, and after slamming the door, stuck her head back inside the open window. “Tell your father he doesn’t need to come get me. I’ll get a ride.” She blew her son a kiss. Matthew waved at me and gave Jake a gentleman’s nod before he backed out and drove away.

  Darlene stood with hands on hips and looked from me to Jake, then back at me. “I heard over coffee and donuts at church this morning that there was an incident at The Lonesome Keg last night that involved you two.”

  Without missing a beat I piped up, “And you had to have poor Matthew drive you all the way out here to find out? You couldn’t have just called?”

  “I did call and you didn’t answer,” she shot back. “Which only upped my sense of concern.” She busted out laughing. I laughed too because I knew Darlene had been rooting for me and Jake to get together and she had to see if her subtle cheerleading had paid off.

  As the three of us made our way into the house, I shared the details of the previous night’s events. She showed concern when I told her that Jake had suffered a serious cut by a jagged bottle. “And how in the world has the gossip made its way back to your church’s coffee and donut hour?” I wanted to know.

  She sat at my kitchen table and shook her head at my offer of coffee. “Oh, you know small towns. I think someone’s cousin, who happens to be best friends with someone else’s sister-in-law, who works with the guy at the feed store, whose wife teaches the second grade Sunday school class, who—”

  I held up my hand to interrupt. “I get it.” I took a deep breath and told her, “I’m pretty sure nobody knows that Jake got hurt. He’d like to keep it that way.” I looked to Jake for confirmation and he dipped his chin in agreement.

  Darlene made breakfast while I changed Jake’s bandage, checked him for a fever, and wrote a prescription for antibiotics. He shook his head at my offer to give him something for pain. I don’t remember how the conversation veered toward Jake’s old nickname, and I watched as Darlene appeared puzzled but seemed to shake it off.

  “I just had a tiddlywink,” she offered.

  Jake looked confused so I explained, “It’s Darlene’s description for déjà vu.” He laughed at my clarification and took a sip of his coffee.

  “So, Doc, huh?” Her wheels were spinning at top speed. “Are you a doctor?”

  Here it comes, I thought. The inquisition. Darlene was very detail oriented and I knew she’d be grilling him for the next hour so I decided to rescue Jake by quickly explaining the Dr. Pepper reference.

  She laughed at the explanation and stood. Scooting in her chair, she directed at me, “Barbie, I hope you don’t mind if I leave you with the dirty dishes, but I need to get home.” Before I could reply she turned to Jake and said, “If Barbie gives you the all clear, could you drive me home?”

  Jake and I stood at the same time, and if I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought he seemed nervous. It was probably the pain and he might’ve been second-guessing his decision to turn down a prescription. I was on the verge of telling Jake that I needed to take a look at his stitches in a few days, but Darlene was already herding him out to his truck. He climbed in and gave me a wave. By the look on his face, one could’ve sworn he was heading to the guillotine. I had to laugh as I watched my best friend climb in next to him. I could tell by the stern expression she wore that she would be reading him the riot act about the dangers of bar fights. She would then proceed to lecture him on not overexerting himself and tearing his stitches. And I was certain she would follow it up with a lesson on making sure he took all the antibiotics I prescribed.

  I watched them drive off and walked back up the steps to my
front porch. I stopped and looked at my lonely Adirondack chair. I could buy another one, I speculated, but decided against it. The thought of sitting on Jake’s lap was too darn appealing.

  Chapter 23

  Consider Yourself Officially Evicted

  “Only one coin was missing?” Darlene frowned as she gazed at me over her reading glasses. Taking them off, she set them on the counter, leaned her elbows on the countertop next to them, and propped her chin in her hands. “That seems weird, Barbie.”

  “I totally agree. Was it missing when you took the collection?” I glanced around the gas station and waved to a local man who was filling up his half-gallon drink cup with Dr. Pepper. I tried not to sigh when I thought of Jake. I’d only seen him twice since the bar fight, and that was only to quickly assess his wound. It was healing nicely, and the stitches could be removed soon.

  She straightened up and slowly shook her head. “I never looked. It was the same day I boxed up a few personal items for you. I stuck that box in my pantry and hid the coin collection in my bedroom closet. I never took the time to open it before I tucked it away.”

  We recalled the last time either of us had seen what was in the antique wooden storage box. It was when we were teenagers and snooping. We’d found the hidden treasure and only removed one or two trays before we heard my grandmother’s car. Neither of us had looked inside the box since. For all we knew, the lower part of the box could’ve been stuffed with newspapers. But it wasn’t. When I’d taken it to the first appraiser, his eyes went wide as he carefully removed five trays filled with Civil War coins in pristine condition.

  “Based on the order the coins were stored, the appraiser is guessing at what the missing one might be. And if that’s the case, it’s the most valuable coin out of all of them.” I stepped aside while the customer paid for his drink.