“Hi—Nick, right?”
Blank. Those eyes were two dark, blank holes in an equally blank face. I sighed and wondered why the hell I even tried.
Because the others tried with you. And kept trying. And it saved your ass.
“I’m sorry, do I—”
“No.” I cut him off before he could finish. Making an effort to gentle my tone, I added, “I’m sorry I bothered you.” It was only a little white lie. He didn’t know me. From experience, I knew he wouldn’t remember much at all about this day—much less two brief encounters. Lifting my backpack to my shoulder, I turned to resume my path to the elevators.
“Wait. The hospital. This morning—”
I stopped, turned my head a fraction, just far enough to catch a glimpse of him from the corner of my eye.
“You gave me water.”
I turned more fully. “Yeah, that was me.”
“I…I’m sorry.” He stood there, looking miserable and defeated and thoroughly lost.
“First days are hell.” I shrugged and shifted my backpack higher onto my shoulder. “Anything outside of your doctor and your wife is bound to fade to decorative wallpaper status.”
His eyes widened, black brows rising. “How’d you—”
“Educated guess.”
Dammit, there he went, going that sort of sick sort of yellow as he realized what I meant by “educated.”
Smooth move, Libby. Give the man more to stress over. He’s just trying to get through one wretched day and now you’ve got him fixating on just how long this might take. How much more miserable shit he might learn.
“I’m sorry, that was insensitive of me.”
“No. It’s okay.” His head dropped as he shoved a hand through his hair, making it stick up in wild spikes and cowlicks. “There’s just so much…it’s all so…”
Overwhelming. Horrible. Nightmarish on a level that couldn’t be comprehended unless you’d been there. Yeah, I knew. And he didn’t want a damn bit of it. Been there, done that, had the free bumper sticker that came with the initiation package. But I was tired, and as much as I owed the newest member of our involuntary club a little of the same pay-it-forward I’d been granted when I’d stood quaking in his shoes, I simply couldn’t. Not today.
“Well, I guess I’d better let you get checked in.” I managed one more nice, noncommittal smile.
“Wait—um…dinner? What do you do?”
He remained frozen in that same spot, cloaked in an almost palpable misery.
“You’re not having dinner at the hospital?”
His eyes closed, and I could see the muscles of his throat working as if swallowing around something hard. Opening them, he said, “Katharine’s been really sick today. And when she hasn’t, she’s been asleep. They told me I’d do her more good by getting some rest. Come back later and maybe by then she’d be up for a short visit.”
They’d told me the same thing my first day. Did I leave? Hell, no. I’d been stubborn and stayed. When I hadn’t held vigil over Ethan’s bed, I’d parked myself against the vending machines, eating bag after bag of Fritos and stale Hostess cupcakes, washing them down with Diet Dr. Pepper until I finally got good and sick myself, barely making it to a bathroom to throw all of it back up before collapsing in a defeated heap on the waiting area sofa. Just by being here, Nick was already proving to be brighter than I’d been. Good for him. Even if he didn’t know quite what to do with himself. I was planning on a shower, room service, and sitting and just being…quiet.
Wasn’t going to happen, was it?
I sighed and took him in again. Despite the grays peppering jet-black hair and the fact that he was this big, athletic looking guy, there was something about his overall demeanor that suggested a lost child. A very tired, very frightened child. And once again, I felt that subtle, tentative thread of kinship. One I couldn’t ignore. Not and be able to live with myself afterward. Damned karma.
“Would you like to grab something to eat?”
There was an audible rattle as he took in a shaky breath. “I…I thought I wanted to be alone.”
I’d already let him off the hook—just in the asking—but as Nan had observed earlier, he was going to be tough. “Honestly, it’s better if you’re not.” I offered the advice gently, not certain how he’d take additional evidence of long experience. “But at the same time, you should get some rest. Couple hours? Then we can meet back down here?”
Admittedly, not an altogether altruistic suggestion on my part, not with the crying jag I could feel hovering around the edges. This Nick’s dilemma was scraping against some genuinely exposed nerves today, his misery rubbing against mine with the coarse, gritty rasp of sandpaper. But I couldn’t take my offer back. Not with the way he was smiling—or trying to, at least.
“Okay, couple hours, then, uh—” He stopped, his mouth slightly open as if hoping what was missing would somehow magically jump off his tongue. And while he didn’t blush, not even the faintest hint of pink, the skin around his eyes visibly tightened, like the muscles were cringing in shame.
I released the handle of my rolling overnighter, feeling the blood rush toward my fingertips as the muscles relaxed. Offering my hand I said, “Libby. Libby Walker.”
A short breath escaped him as I said my name. “You told me that at the hospital, didn’t you?”
“Well, not the Walker part.”
“Still…I’m sorry.”
“You can stop saying that. I promise, I understand.”
He still appeared to be doing a little mental berating as he said, “Nick Azarias.”
The lilt and roll he put on his surname clued me in on how to respond as his hand closed around mine. “Un placer, Nick.”
“Thank you.” His fingers tightened and he released a deep breath. “Y el placer es mío.”
Nick
“I thought I wanted to be alone.”
“It’s better if you’re not…”
I kept curling and uncurling my fingers around the room’s door handle. The metal, which had started out icy from the air conditioner, was warm and slick beneath my palm. How long had I been standing here, like some indecisive jackass?
She didn’t want to go. There wasn’t a lot I was seeing today outside of Katharine and her pain, but I’d seen that this Libby—and what the hell kind of name was that anyhow?—didn’t really want to get something to eat with me. But she was nice. She’d brought me water. Had offered reassurance that it was okay. That I was allowed to be blank and thick and fucking stupid.
Hell, she knew I could barely remember meeting her at the hospital. Didn’t stop her from coming over and talking to me downstairs. From offering to go to dinner with me, and I wasn’t sure why. All she wanted was to hide out in her room, order food she wasn’t going to eat—
Cry until she was sick.
Scared the shit right out of me—that I recognized that—because, clearly, she was a vet. Who knows for how long, but she definitely knew what it was all about and still, she felt like that. There was no way—I couldn’t take it.
Jesus. Listen to me. I couldn’t take it. I wasn’t taking shit, unless you considered watching my wife having poison blasted into her body to cure another poison as taking anything.
How did she do it?
This Libby woman—how did she take it?
That’s what finally prompted me to turn the handle, step out into the hall, and head for the elevator. What had me pushing the button and compelled me to cross the lobby floor to the palm-lined sitting area.
She wasn’t there.
At least, I didn’t think so. I was having a hard time remembering what she looked like—as a whole picture, at any rate. Only out of sheer habit and years of training in noticing details could I recall at least a few little things. Like her touch on my arm. Her hand had been warm and firm, but gentle too, as if she were afraid to scare me.
She had a nice smile, and as she’d turned away, I’d noticed that her hair was pulled back in a long,
dark braid that made me feel sick to my stomach because Kath’s hair was long and thick and beautiful and was going to start falling out any time now. She was being so brave and amazing about it, saying it was just hair and now she could try all those tacky wigs she saw in magazines. But I’d heard the forced cheer that only just masked the pain. It wasn’t just her hair. It was everything.
Madre de Dios, why Kath? Why now?
I needed to get back to the hospital. No matter what they said. What if Katharine needed me? What if she—
“Hey.”
I closed my eyes at the disappointment—and relief.
Turning, I found Libby standing a few feet behind me. She looked fresher. Another detail—she’d changed clothes. But come to think of it—oh man, I didn’t want to make it obvious.
“You’re wearing a clean shirt.”
I glanced down. A T-shirt instead of the wrinkled polo I vaguely remembered. “I…uh…wasn’t sure, actually.”
“I know.” One corner of her mouth eased up. “I never pack anything that’s too similar. Makes it too easy to mistake yesterday’s shirt for today’s. Next thing you know, you smell like stale coffee and the cafeteria's Tuna Noodle Special.”
“Right.” I made a mental note of the advice.
The faint smile disappeared, but her demeanor seemed a little…looser, I guess. “I also don’t ever bring anything terribly dressy,” she said, gesturing vaguely at her khaki shorts and T-shirt. “There’s no real reason, you know?”
I nodded but couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Most everything around here’s casual, too.”
I nodded again, kind of feeling like one of those stupid bobblehead dolls we’d give away on fan appreciation nights.
“Casual’s my favorite kind.” Hell, I wasn’t hungry. Just didn’t want to be alone. I may have thought it's what I wanted, but honestly, the last thing I wanted was solitude. I did, however, want a stiff drink.
“Great place a few blocks away.” Her eyes narrowed as she continued to study me. “Good bar selection. Close enough to walk.”
And not have to drive. She was starting to scare me. “Lead on.”
It wasn't until we were standing on a corner, waiting for the light to change, that she spoke again. “Was Harbor House full?”
Harbor House…Harbor House…. It sounded familiar, but so much of today was a blur. Harbor House…. Finally, it clicked into place—the facility adjacent to the hospital for families.
“No, they had room. I just didn’t—I couldn't…”
Jesus, how could I say I had to get away from the hospital without sounding like a total dick?
I was saved from saying anything by the tricked-out vintage Impala that pulled up to the intersection, bass thumping. I could swear, though, that beneath the throbbing bass, I heard a quiet, “smart guy.”
We headed down a long, partially blocked-off thoroughfare that seemed to be just one unbroken line of shops and restaurants.
“What is this?”
“Lincoln Road Mall.” She glanced up as she maneuvered us around gawking tourists and kids on skateboards. “I take it you’re not familiar?”
I shook my head slowly. “We—” My throat closed around the word like a vise. Taking a deep breath, I tried again. “We live up in Boca—near Kath’s job. Since I work in Coral Springs, it’s convenient for both of us.” That was better. I’d at least recovered enough to make it past her name without tripping.
If Libby noticed my verbal slip, she didn’t say anything. Leading us down a side street, she paused in front of a bright red door that stood propped open despite temps that had to be ninety plus, even this late in the day. As we crossed the threshold, though, we were slammed with the icy chill common to every South Florida interior in August.
“Only down here,” I observed as we followed the hostess’s vague wave to seat ourselves anywhere. Libby glanced away from the chalkboard with the day’s specials scrawled on it in English, Spanish, and… Chinese. Coño, there was something I hadn’t seen in a long, long time.
“What? The arctic air conditioner/open door combo or,” she waved at the chalkboard, “that?”
“The first.”
“So Cuban-Chinese doesn’t throw you but air-conditioning and open doors does?”
I grinned at the flood of memories. “There were some fantastic restaurants in the city back in the day. Unfortunately, I think a lot of them are gone now.”
“The city? Where exactly are you from, then, Nick Azarias? Since I’m getting the distinct vibe it’s not from around here.”
Shifting my study from the chalkboard to the bar, I replied, “Jersey. Close enough to New York that I saw more than a few of those.” I gestured at the trilingual menu. “Although I’ve lived in Florida for over ten years. “ I turned back to look at her. “You?”
“Born and bred in the Keys—still live down there.” She smiled; an instant later, her expression turned serious. “So what’s your poison?”
No question there—it was a tequila sort of night. “Patrón Silver, double straight up,” I said to the waiter who’d appeared with glasses of water and a basket with a long row of saltines and a plastic tub of dip.
“Forget the double. Just bring the bottle, a lot of lime, and two glasses.” Her tone was so casual, the words took a second to register. She cocked her head and smiled again, but it still retained a trace of serious. Grim, even. “What? You didn’t think I was going to let you get ripped by yourself, did you?” She calmly spread some dip over a cracker and held it out. “Put something in your stomach. Not too much though, because they pretty much frown on those who hurl all over the floors. Seeing as it’s one of my favorite restaurants, I’d kind of like to not be banned.”
My fingers grazed hers, the cracker suspended between us as our gazes met. “I know how to drink.”
Her gaze never leaving mine, she released the cracker and reached into the basket for another, spreading dip across the surface. “Do you know how to drink after a day like today?” Her eyebrows rose as she eyed the cracker I held.
“Not a fucking clue,” I said with a long sigh before biting into the cracker. What do you want to bet she also knew I didn’t have squat in my stomach? Tequila against bare stomach lining? Not such a good idea. Again and again, she was right—this Libby.
“What kind of name is Libby?”
Man, that came out belligerent. Not at all what I’d intended, but like every other goddamn thing, I couldn’t seem to control what I was saying or how it came out sounding. But either she didn’t hear it that way, or, more likely, chose to ignore it. All she did was smile at our waiter as he deposited a bottle, glasses, and a bowl of cut limes. Pouring us each a shot, she licked the top of her hand, shook salt, licked again, swallowed the tequila, and bit down on a wedge of lime in a rapid, sequence that was so graceful, all I could do was sit there and stare.
“I wasn’t named after canned corn, if that’s what you’re asking.” She pushed my shot glass closer, watching as I echoed her movements.
Goddamn, but the burn felt good. Felt unbelievable sliding down my throat and landing in my stomach, all liquid heat. Grabbing the bottle, I poured our second round.
“Well, can you blame me for wondering?” I swallowed my second shot, closing my eyes against the sting. Opening them, I said, “You’re the only person I’ve ever met with that name.”
Pausing in the midst of shaking salt on her hand, she looked up. “At one time it was a pretty common derivation of Elizabeth.”
She held my gaze as she swallowed her shot and, for the first time, I noticed her eyes. Not so much the color as the condition. Red-rimmed, maybe a little puffy—and all of a sudden I was hit with a stark, vivid recollection of standing in front of the bathroom mirror, dispassionately studying my reflection. I'd stood there for I don't know how long, taking in the bloodshot puffiness of my eyes, the dark angry circles beneath, until finally, I'd leaned down into the sink and splashed water on my face u
ntil my shirt was soaked through.
That’s why I’d changed.
“Nick?”
I blinked, losing the image in the mirror and coming back to the restaurant, to this table, where Libby was sitting across from me, looking concerned. “Uh…sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
She poured us each a third shot, filling the glasses to the brim. I wondered about the wisdom of a third shot so quickly, but…fuck it. Reaching for the saltshaker, I tried to pick up the thread of our conversation. “So, why not go with Liz or Beth or one of the more common nicknames?”
The corner of her mouth eased up in that small half smile. “All I said was that it was once a common derivation of Elizabeth.”
I lowered the saltshaker to the table and waited.
Gaze fixed on the table, she said, “Liberty,” in a quiet voice. Lifting her head, she met my gaze head on. “My full name is Liberty Estrella Santos Walker. I am the spawn of the only Cuban hippies known to mankind. Or at least, known to me.” She sighed and reached for her third shot, tossing it back, no salt, no lime, nada.
Damn, but I was glad I’d decided against that third shot. Because it would’ve been genuinely rude to spew tequila all over the one person keeping me from coming completely unhinged.
Just then, our waiter made a reappearance. I found myself pushing my still full shot glass and the bottle toward the waiter—I’d had enough. I did order a Corona, though. Hated to waste all the lime.
After Libby echoed my request for a Corona and we both placed our orders, silence fell. It wasn't particularly uncomfortable or anything, but at the same time, I felt this itch to keep the conversation going, to keep talking—anything to keep my brain from going into overdrive. Seconds stretched into minutes until I finally couldn't take it anymore and blurted the first thing that came to mind.
“So—Cuban hippies?”
She sighed and reached for another cracker. “Yep.”
“That’s…different.”
“You have no idea.” And while she smiled, she didn't elaborate any further, instead staring out the restaurant's wide window. Well, so much for that. At least there was one of those triangle-shaped golf peg games on the table I could fidget with. And after the waiter brought our beers, I had the bottle to hold. A label to pick at, even though it was normally a habit that drove me batshit.
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