Look the Part

by Jewel E. Ann

  With his brows drawn tight as if he’s in his own pain, he nods slowly. “How’s your dad?”

  “Asleep. It was a stroke. They’ll know more over the next twenty-four hours, but he doesn’t need surgery. He could go home within a week.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “Yeah. He’s not out of the woods yet. But …” I nod toward the hallway to his room. “I’m going to stay here tonight. So…” I shrug “…you’re off the hook. I’ll figure out a way to make it home. I’m good with trains and rental cars. I packed my stuff in boxes at your office. I’ll call someone in the morning to move them out of your building and return my car to my apartment.”

  “You should eat something.”

  I shake my head. “I will, but not until tomorrow.”

  “Ellen?”

  I turn.

  “Lori.” I smile before turning back to Flint. “Again, a huge, inadequate thank you. Tell Harry I’m sorry for taking you away today.” I rest my hand on his arm. “Have a safe flight home.”

  When I turn back around, Lori pulls me in for a hug. Over her shoulder, I watch Flint leave.

  I should have moved out of his office the day he asked me to leave. But I liked it there—and I liked him.

  *

  Flint

  I GET A hotel room, take a shower, and make a few calls. By one in the morning, I still can’t get to sleep, so I go back to the hospital.

  Ellen’s in her dad’s room, but I feel the need to be near her in case she needs … anything. That realization gives me more than a moment’s pause in my life. Am I here because she may need me or because I may need her?

  In the waiting room, there’s something resembling a sofa; basically it’s three connected chairs without armrests separating them. I make it work, using my jacket as a pillow. Nurses pass through with their coffee refills. One of the florescent lights in the distance flickers every few seconds. It’s just an eerie place to be—the pungent odor of disinfectants, the occasional page over an intercom, and every so often the ding of the elevator doors.

  By three a.m. my eyelids begin to feel heavy. A slender figure moves in the hallway. I can’t see beyond the shadows, but I recognize the messy hair. Her feet scuff along the floor, stopping every couple of steps to twist her body in one direction and then the other before stretching her arms above her head and leaning side to side, taking more steps toward the waiting room.

  Just as her face comes into the light, she stops, eyes on me. Her hand covers her mouth for a few seconds.

  I ease to sitting, leaning forward with my elbows resting on my knees as I rub the fatigue from my face. When I glance up, she’s still there—frozen in place. Crooking my finger at her twice, she moves one hesitant foot in front of the other, inching her hand away from her mouth.

  Taking her hand, I press my lips to the inside of her wrist.

  She draws in a shaky breath. “You should leave,” she whispers.

  “Why?” I look up, my lips still savoring the warmth of her skin.

  “Because if you don’t, I’m going to fall in love with you.”

  We gaze unblinkingly at each other for a few seconds. My other hand snakes around her waist, pulling her closer. She eases onto my lap, straddling me with her knees. I thread my hands through her hair. “I’ll risk it.” I kiss her. She slides her arms around my neck and hums, moving her lips from my mouth to my jaw and down my neck until settling into the crook and releasing a contented sigh.

  I close my eyes and let her hum me a lullaby.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Ellen

  I EASE OFF a sleeping Flint, grab some coffee from the cafeteria, and check on my dad. He’s asleep. It’s possible that he’ll sleep all day. No two stroke cases are the same. The nurse doesn’t expect the doctor to check in on him for another couple hours.

  My phone is low battery—I am low battery. I need a shower, food, and a toothbrush. Hell, I need clothes and underwear. The original plan was for Abigail to take me home to pack. Flint must have thought the best chance of getting me on a plane was to drug me in the car and get me in the air without hesitation.

  “Can you call me if he wakes before I return or if the doctor gets here early?” I ask the nurse, handing her my business card.

  She nods and smiles.

  It’s just before six in the morning, five o’clock in Minnesota. I need to find help with my babies. They’ll need food and water soon, but I don’t want to call anyone quite this early.

  The waiting room is minus one Flint Hopkins. Maybe he went to get coffee. Maybe I said too much and he’s gone. I regret nothing. I took my dad’s sage advice and told Flint how I felt. So if he can’t handle me falling in love with him, then he’d better run.

  Before my phone completely dies, I text him.

  ME: I’m running out in quick search of a shower and food. Where are you? If you’re halfway to Minnesota, thanks again.

  I press the elevator button.

  “The restroom down the hall.”

  I grin at the voice behind me.

  “Not halfway to Minnesota,” he finishes as if it’s an absurd assumption.

  I turn and shrug. “I wouldn’t blame you.”

  The elevator doors opens. Flint takes my hand and pulls me onto it. I like how small my hand feels in his hand. I like that he wants to hold it even while he holds and scrolls through his phone screen with his other hand.

  “You have people who depend on you, so I know you can’t stay. You should go home.”

  He keeps his eyes on his screen. “I feel like you’re trying to get rid of me.”

  “I feel like you’ve taken pity on me.”

  “Hardly.” Flint leads me off the elevator.

  “Let’s get a cab to my dad’s place. Then we can take his car to find me a few changes of clothes and some toiletries.”

  “The red sedan is mine.” He motions to the car out front.

  “Yours?”

  “Well, a rental.” He opens the door for me. “We’ll get you some clothes and go back to the hotel since it’s close, unless you want or need to go to your dad’s house right now.”

  I shake my head.

  Within an hour, we arrive at the hotel with some necessities and takeout food, in spite of Flint’s offer to take me some place nicer to eat. I just want to shower and get back to the hospital.

  “I’m going to hop in the shower,” I say after eating half of my sandwich. “Oh…” I turn just before the bathroom door “…I tried messaging my landlord, so if my phone rings will you answer it? The hospital could call too.”

  “Sure. Why did you message your landlord?”

  “I need him to let someone in to feed my rats.”

  “I handled it.” He sits back against the headboard of the bed.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Amanda is going to take Harrison over to feed, water, and play with your rats after school.”

  “She doesn’t have a key.”

  He gives me a tight grin. “I know. If your landlord calls back, he can help them get in.”

  I shake my head. “You didn’t know I called my landlord. How were they going to get in before I mentioned this to you just now?”

  “A friend of mine was going to get them in.”

  “Pick the lock?”

  “Something along those lines.”

  I stand idle, a little shocked. “I … I don’t know if I should be grateful or pissed off.”

  “Let’s go with grateful.” He looks up from his phone, brows peaked, looking hopeful I go with the first option.

  I shake my head again and drag my tired ass to the shower.

  *

  MY DAD WAKES up for less than twenty minutes today. Brain injuries require lots of sleep to heal. I know this, but it’s hard to let what I know chase away the fear. I know the chance of dying in a plane crash is much less than dying in a car accident, but no amount of knowledge will ever ease that fear. I’m sure at least one person on the
plane with my mom thought, “What are the chances of this plane going down?”

  It’s between one in five million and one in eleven million—yes, I’ve researched and obsessed over this for years. The chances of getting hit by lightning are so much better, yet I don’t always stay home when it’s raining. I would, had my mom died from a lightning strike.

  By seven, I leave Dad’s room. He opened his eyes. He recognized me. That’s a blessing. His inability to speak breaks my heart, but I knew he’d most likely have a certain amount of trouble speaking for now. Still, watching him struggle, ripped my heart a bit.

  “You’re still here?”

  Flint looks up from a magazine, not his phone. It’s an odd sight, especially since it’s a gossip magazine. “Did you really think I’d leave without telling you?”

  I take a seat next to him. He rests his hand on my leg and leans into me, kissing the side of my head.

  “Sorry, I would have been out earlier, but I just kept hoping he’d wake up again.”

  “You said the doctor said—”

  “I know, I know … he needs sleep. I’m like a mom who wants to wake her newborn every hour to check for a pulse.”

  “Well, now that you’re here, I will tell you that I’m leaving in the morning.”

  “Private jet?” I wink at him.

  “Nope. I only call in that favor for others. Commercial airline for me.”

  “First Class?”

  “Why does my flight status interest you so much?”

  Running my fingers through my hair, I work out the tangles. It’s been another long day, and I look it. “You interest me. I find you to be a very fascinating creature. I like to study your habits, your idiosyncrasies.”

  “I think you’re delusional from sleep deprivation. I don’t have idiosyncrasies.”

  “Delusional? No. Sleep deprived? Absolutely. And don’t get me started on your idiosyncrasies.” I stand. “My dad’s parents will be here tomorrow. I want to go check on his place. Clean it if necessary.”

  “Wow, both of his parents are still alive. Where do they live?”

  I hold out my hand. He takes it. And for this brief moment between breaths, my world stops long enough to think of my grandparents and the way they still hold hands. I remember my father always reached for my mom like it was just this instinct he had—an intrinsic need that never faded over time.

  “They live in New Haven, but they’ve been out of town. They got home last night. I couldn’t even contact them until this morning.” He stands and shifts our hands so that our fingers interlace.

  Alex rarely held my hand. He wasn’t touchy-feely like that. Sex? Yes. Anything else—no. I wonder if losing his hands has put such simple things like this into perspective. He always chased the next adventure, afraid that he wouldn’t conquer the world before he lost his youth. But sometimes … we forget that the greatest experiences we have as humans are with each other.

  “Let’s get dinner and I’ll drive you to your dad’s house.”

  “Sounds perfect. Thank you.”

  *

  “YOU SHOULD ORDER a glass of wine.” Flint glances over his menu at me.

  “Less than forty-eight hours ago we had a knock-down-drag-out fight in the parking lot of a restaurant. We didn’t even get water served before you stormed out. Don’t start this with me. I’m not in the mood.” I give him a playful squint. I really don’t want to revisit his issues or mine at the moment.

  “I’m only suggesting you might like a glass of wine to relax after the stress you’ve been through.”

  “Thank you, but I’m good. Really.”

  He shrugs and goes back to studying his menu.

  “Did you fight with your wife very often?” I set down my menu at the end of the table.

  Flint twists his lips, eyes making one more quick survey of the menu. He sets his down on top of mine and blows a breath out of his nose. “Sure. Usually about my drinking. But sometimes we’d argue about stupid stuff.”

  I nod. “Alex and I never fought, not until his accident.” I laugh. “I wanted to fight. He’d make me so mad sometimes, but he’d walk away or dismiss all my attempts to argue or ‘discuss’ with a simple ‘whatever.’”

  I grin. “I was so pissed off when you walked out of the restaurant on me. And when I chased after you, I expected you to get in your car and drive off. But … you lost your cool. You got in my face. And for a moment I didn’t know how to respond to someone giving enough of a shit to fight it out. Then you left, and we felt over before we really had a chance to begin, but I knew you cared. You cared enough to give a shit.”

  Flint sips his water, eyeing me. Is he wondering if he does in fact give a shit? “How did you meet Alex?”

  Just as I go to speak, our waiter comes back for our order. After we give it to him, I slide off my jacket and second guess saying no to a glass of wine. Talking about Alex is a conversation that requires at least a glass of wine, if not an entire bottle of vodka.

  “Alex and I met in high school.”

  “High school sweethearts?” Flint shoots me a raised brow of surprise.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s … sweet.” He grins.

  “Yes, so sweet. He was sweet. And outgoing. And everyone loved him. He was fun and adventurous. Our first year of college, when he asked me to marry him, I knew our life would be the grandest of all adventures.”

  Flint nods. “And was it?”

  I drum my fingernails on the table. “Yes.” I find a small smile to share in spite of the pain. “I don’t regret anything. If I had it to do over again, knowing the outcome, I’d do it in a heartbeat.” I laugh, shaking my head. “Wow … I’ve never said that out loud. I’m not sure I’ve even thought those exact thoughts until now.”

  “How’d it end?”

  I grunt. “Tragically. He tried to conquer a mountain, but the mountain won. He and his buddy got trapped in the debris of an avalanche. Alex got out but decided to go back and look for his friend. By the time he found him, his friend was dead and Alex had severe frostbite. They had to remove part of his hands. It left him with a thumb on one hand and two fingers on the other.”

  “I’m sorry.” He frowns.

  “Me too. It’s interesting how our self-worth is so dependent on our capabilities—how little confidence comes from within. And I don’t mean that in a judgmental way at all. I say that because I watched my husband’s spirit die, leaving behind a man I don’t know. And it hit me pretty hard because I thought if it could happen to him, it could happen to me.

  “If someone cut off my hands, how would that affect me? And not just the physical part. How would I see myself? My purpose? My dreams? Can I be good at my job without hands? Can I be a good friend who helps someone move into their new apartment if I don’t have hands? Can I be a lover to my husband if I don’t have hands? So those sacred wedding vows, ’Til death do you part?’ They’re a little more complicated than that. I will love Alex until I die, so in that regard, I’ve kept my vow. The sickness and health is where it gets sticky.”

  “So you left?”

  “No.” I laugh, but it’s really the most painful laugh ever. “I stuck around for two years. I would have stuck around for the ’til death do us part,’ but he didn’t want me there. I was a reminder of what he was, what he lost, and who he would never be. He didn’t want to be touched. Not a kiss. Not a hand stroking his hair. Eventually, even a smile pissed him off. Depression turned into verbal abuse. I took all the hard licks of his words, and they bounced off this protective shield I’d built around myself, waiting for my Alex to come back to me.”

  “Divorce papers?”

  “Yep. On our anniversary no less. Gotta hand it to him, he’s always been a bit poetic with his timing. On our first anniversary after the accident, we watched our wedding video. He asked me to go get his wedding band, and before I could react, he said, ‘Oh, that’s right. I don’t have a fucking finger to put it on. Maybe it will fit around my dick. I�
�m pretty sure it’s atrophied from lack of use.’ So I got served papers on our second anniversary, and two days later, when I refused to sign them, he had a friend come help him throw all of my stuff out onto the yard.”

  He flinches. “Did you sign them?”

  “Ha! I hate that you have to ask that, but I know you’ve seen the stubborn side to me. Yes, I signed them.”

  “And he was calling you last week?”

  “Yes. He’s tried several times. I’m not going to talk to him. All the awful, cruel things he said to me finally settled into my conscience and my heart after I moved to Minnesota. I owe him nothing. His parents still live around here. I think my dad still has coffee once a month with his dad. If Alex had an emergency, my dad would’ve called me.”

  “Maybe he wants you back.”

  “Maybe he just needs a verbal punching bag.”

  The waiter brings our food, and we don’t talk about Alex again.

  *

  Flint

  “DID YOU GROW up in this house?” I ask, pulling into the driveway of the two-story, beachfront home with a wraparound porch. It’s a great house—and far from cheap.

  “No. We lived in Providence.” She gets out. “Brr …” She jogs to the porch, trying to open the door. “Of course it’s locked. Come on …”

  We wind our way around to the back, lights from a string of houses reflect off the water.

  “How the hell did he pass out in the yard, but all the doors to the house are locked? I’d bet money that he locked himself out.” Ellen yanks on the door.

  “We’re locked out?” I ask.

  “Here.” She hands me her purse. “No.” Bending down onto all fours, she crawls through a doggy door.

  I chuckle, shaking my head. The porch light flicks on, and she opens the door. “Where’s the dog?”

  “He’ll be here tomorrow. He’s my grandparents’ dog.”

  “This is quite the retirement home for a tailor.” I step into a large kitchen of cherry wood, white granite, and stainless steel.

  Ellen flips on a few more lights. “It’s been in my dad’s family for three generations. After my mom died, he moved here to renovate it … and fish.” She smiles, slipping off her jacket. “My grandparents stay here most of the summer. This is where I spent my summers when I was younger. But to answer your burning question, my great grandmother was the daughter of a wealthy man who happened to own a lot of land—the kind that was rich in petroleum. She and my great grandfather moved from Oklahoma to Providence. Shortly after my grandfather was born, they built this house.”