by Jae
“Oh, I get it now. You just said that so you wouldn’t have to be the one being tickled.”
Lana flashed her a mischievous grin. “What can I say? Weak bladder.”
“Then you’d better hope you don’t lose control of it during our loooong shopping trip.”
Lana groaned, rounded the counter, and threw a glance back at her stepsister. “If I’m not back by the time my shift starts on Monday, send out the dogs.”
“Oh, no, no, no. You’re not leaving yet,” Avery called. “Let’s have some coffee. I want to get to know Claire.”
“You mean interrogate her,” Lana answered. “Maybe next time. It’ll take us forever to get to that boutique Claire wants to drag me to.”
Avery sent Claire an impressed glance. “You seriously got her to go shopping with you? Wow! She really must be head over heels for you.”
More like for my fifty thousand dollars. But before Claire could think of an answer, Lana waved and dragged her through the door.
Sometimes, Claire’s follow-the-rules personality was a good thing, Lana decided as Claire guided the Audi through the bumper-to-bumper traffic inching toward Santa Monica. Claire never violated traffic laws or tried risky maneuvers to get to where she was going faster, so Lana felt safe in the passenger seat—or as safe as she’d ever feel in a car.
Lana stroked her fingers over the dashboard. “So, I guess you didn’t name yours?”
“Mine what?” Claire asked without looking away from the street.
“Your car, of course. She needs a name.”
“Why would it be a she?”
Lana chuckled. “My first stepfather, Avery’s father, always said anything that costs so much money and takes so much time to maintain is clearly female.”
Claire arched her eyebrows. “What did your mother say to comments like that?”
“Not much. He was actually not a bad guy. The ones after him were the assholes.” But she didn’t want to get into that topic with Claire, so she asked, “What about Sophia or Blanche? As a name for your car, I mean.”
The driver behind them honked as Claire braked at a light that had just turned red instead of trying to make it across the intersection. Claire ignored him and turned toward Lana. “Let me guess. You like the Golden Girls.”
“Sure. What’s not to like?”
A new song started on the oldies station Claire had tuned in to.
Lana recognized it immediately. It was The Beach Boys’ “Good Vibrations.” Oh please no. Not that song. Cold sweat erupted all over her body and trickled down between her shoulder blades. She wanted to reach out a hand to turn off the radio or switch to another station, but she couldn’t move. A car horn blasted behind her, making the world around her blur.
Stop! Make it stop!
Fear sank sharp claws into her chest, squeezing the air out of her lungs. Can’t…breathe! Her heart beat so rapidly that it felt as if it would give out any moment.
Everything twisted around her like a carousel, but she could still see every detail in crystal clarity as a handful of seconds seemed to stretch into an eternity: the wide-eyed face of the driver in the oncoming car, the airbag exploding toward her, the hood of her car crumpling, glass shattering.
Worse than those snapshots were the sounds. Brakes screeched, horns blasted, metal crunched. Someone screamed. It might have been Lana.
Every muscle in her body stiffened, prepared for the pain of metal slicing into her.
The seat belt snapped taut, pinning her in place.
Crushed! She’d be crushed alive.
Pain flared through her arm, her leg, everywhere.
Then came that awful silence, worse even than the sounds. The only thing she could hear was the hiss of oil spilling over a hot engine and the drip, drip, drip of blood splashing onto the floor mat.
She clawed at the seat belt with numb, trembling fingers, then grabbed hold of something. Something warm and soft. Something that didn’t belong in this world of sharp metal and pain.
“Breathe, Lana,” a soothing voice said. “Take a deep breath. Slowly in and out through your mouth. That’s it. Now another.”
She wasn’t alone in the car. Someone was there, breathing along with her. Oxygen trickled into her screaming lungs.
“You’re safe,” that voice said softly. “Just focus on your breathing. Stay in the present. Stay with me, Lana.”
Slowly, the hissing and dripping sounds faded away, and the smoke wafting in through the shattered windshield dissipated.
Lana’s stiff muscles went limp. She stared from the windshield—which wasn’t broken or even scratched—to her arm. The scar itched, but there was no blood.
No blood. You’re safe.
Someone rubbed her arm, right above the scar, where the blue and green tail feathers of the phoenix curled across her skin. Her previously numb fingers began to prickle as feeling returned.
Lana turned her head.
Claire was leaning over her, peering down at her with her eyebrows pinched together in concern, not even a hint of her professional mask in place.
The soft, warm thing that Lana had grabbed hold of was Claire’s arm.
Oh shit. That would surely leave marks. She snatched her hand away. “I’m sorry. I…I…”
“It’s okay.” Claire took a bottle of water from the center console, unscrewed the cap for her, and pressed it into Lana’s shaking hands.
The taste of blood and chemical dust from the airbag still seemed to linger in Lana’s mouth, so she gratefully gulped down some water and then pressed the bottle to her sweaty brow.
Slowly, the shaking stopped, as did the ringing in her ears. Only now did she realize that the radio had been turned off, and Claire had performed a miracle by finding an open parking spot. They were parked in front of a trendy yoga studio somewhere in Santa Monica.
A couple with a stroller and several people with shopping bags passed by, giving them curious stares.
Oh God. Lana wanted to hide behind that plastic bottle forever.
“What was that?” Claire stopped rubbing Lana’s arm and slumped back into her own seat. “Scratch that. I know what it was. You were having a full-blown panic attack.”
“No,” Lana said, wishing her voice sounded stronger. “I don’t get those. Not anymore,” she added more quietly.
“Lana. Please. Something just triggered a panic attack. Tell me about it.” Claire’s tone managed to be soothing and firm at the same time.
It sounded too much like the psychobabble tapes Lana’s mother used to listen to.
“What happened?” Claire asked. “Was it…an accident?”
“You graduated summa cum laude. I bet you can put two and two together without me having to spell it out for you.”
“Of course I can, but—”
A car horn blared in the distance, threatening to shatter Lana’s fragile composure. She had to get out of here. Now. Blindly, she fumbled for the door release and swung her legs out of the car, ignoring the stiffness in her left thigh. “We’re here to shop, not to play therapy.” She slammed the passenger-side door shut with more force than intended and strode toward the boutique next to the yoga studio, trying not to limp.
An ocean breeze cooled her hot cheeks, and the scent of flowers and watered grass trailed on the air. Lana sucked it in greedily, hoping to get rid of that smell of burned oil and blood that still seemed to cling to her nostrils.
Claire followed her. “Running away won’t help you deal with the trauma.”
“Who says I haven’t dealt with it?”
“If you had, you wouldn’t still be having flashbacks.” Claire caught up with her but thankfully didn’t try to grab her arm. “This is very treatable, Lana. EMDR or cognitive behavioral therapy can—”
Lana stopped and whirled around so abruptly that they colli
ded.
Claire took hold of Lana’s shoulders to keep them both upright.
“I wasn’t kidding when I said I wanted to amend the contract to no quack talk. Besides, isn’t it unethical to counsel people you’re involved with in your private life? So stop psychoanalyzing me!”
“I’m not psychoanalyzing you,” Claire said. “I’m trying to help you. Not as a—”
“I don’t need your help. If I had wanted a therapist, I would have gotten one.” Lana shook off Claire’s hands and continued marching toward the boutique.
Claire rushed after her and pulled her to a stop in front of the boutique’s door, forcing Lana to look into her eyes. “Forget about me being a therapist for a second, okay? Can’t I just be a friend?”
The soft, pleading look in Claire’s eyes was nearly Lana’s undoing. “If you want to be a friend, let it go. All I want is to find something to wear for the gallery opening and to forget about the last few minutes. Can we do that?”
Claire sighed and ran a hand through her hair, which had come loose from her chignon. “All right. If that’s what you need.” She twisted her hair into a new knot and reattached the clip.
If only Lana’s jagged emotions could be put back into order that easily. But she was an actress, someone who pretended for a living, so she might as well pretend to be fine. She held the glass door open for Claire and followed her into the boutique on slightly unsteady legs.
Immediately, she wanted to apologize to the sales staff and back out in a hurry. Rows of designer skirt suits and tops from high-end brands lined the walls. Tables presented purses with price tags that made Lana gasp. She could never afford this upscale place in a million years, and even if Claire would be paying, was it really necessary to spend so much on an outfit that she wouldn’t get to wear very often?
But a stylishly dressed saleswoman with too much makeup was already headed toward them, so it was too late to retreat.
“Are you sure you want to shop here?” Lana whispered out of the corner of her mouth.
“We’re here now,” Claire said. “Why not try something on? If we don’t find anything that is worth the money, we can always leave.”
“How may I help you?” the saleswoman asked.
Claire faced her. “We’re looking for a dress for a gallery opening.”
“Certainly.” The saleswoman eyed her. “You’re wearing a size six?”
“Yes, but it’s not for me.” Claire half turned and wrapped one arm around Lana.
Lana hoped she couldn’t feel the slight trembling that still hadn’t stopped entirely.
“It’s for my fiancée,” Claire added.
For a second, Lana’s mouth gaped open. She would have bet money on Claire introducing her as a friend in this posh establishment.
To her credit, the saleswoman didn’t bat an eye. Apparently, once you exceeded a certain number of zeroes on your price tags, sexual orientation no longer mattered, only how much money the customer was willing to pay. With her power suit and the discreetly sexy silk camisole peeking out from her blazer, Claire certainly fit into this upscale boutique.
Within short order, the saleswoman had guided Lana toward the fitting room, while she and Claire went about the store, picking out things for her to try.
Lana undressed behind the curtain and eyed herself in the full-length mirror. Did this store even carry anything that would fit a woman with real curves? Her gaze trailed down to the scar on her thigh. She gently touched it, following its raised contours with her fingertips. Other accident victims that Lana had met in the rehabilitation center had looked at their scars with disdain or had tried to avoid looking at them altogether, not wanting the reminder of the day they’d nearly lost their lives.
But for Lana, having the scars was nothing to be ashamed of. They reminded her that life was precious, and they were proof that she was a survivor. Her wounds had healed. You’re fine. Just fine. The little voice in her head sounded like Claire, and Lana had to admit that it was soothing.
A soft throat clearing made her move her hand away from the scar.
“Um, here’s the first one,” Claire’s voice came from the other side of the curtain. She pulled it back a bit and, without peeking in, held out a black dress on a hanger through the gap.
Well, that answered Lana’s question about whether the store had anything in her size.
A pantsuit, two dresses, and several elegant tops later, Lana noticed two things: First, there was something to be said for shopping in expensive boutiques. The saleswoman had a great eye for sizes. Everything Lana tried on fit her to perfection. No squeezing into tops that seemed to be made for women without boobs, no frustrating struggles with zippers, no dropping pants back to the floor because she couldn’t even pull them up past her knees.
If clothes shopping were always like this, she could almost come to like it.
Almost.
Because the second thing she noticed was a pattern in regards to what Claire was handing her: everything covered both of her scars.
The long-sleeved scarlet dress she’d just put on was no exception. Lana smoothed her hand over the satin hem, which ended below her knees so no hint of the scar would peek out.
Lana slid back the curtain with more force than necessary and stepped outside.
Claire, who stood by right outside with the saleswoman like a dutiful spouse, looked up. Her gaze slid over the dress and lingered on the hint of cleavage on display before moving on to Lana’s face.
“You should definitely go with a dress, not a pantsuit,” the saleswoman said. “You look wonderful in dresses.” She sounded almost sincere, not as if she was just angling for a commission.
“Yes,” Claire said quietly, still looking at her, “yes, you do.”
Her gaze seemed to warm Lana’s skin through the layers of satin. For a moment, she nearly forgot her annoyance with Claire.
“You don’t like the dress?” Claire asked when Lana kept staring at her.
“I do, but…” Lana’s gaze flickered to the saleswoman. “Would you excuse us for a second?” Not waiting for a reply, she tugged Claire into the fitting room with her and pulled the curtain closed.
A flush that outshone the color of Lana’s scarlet dress rose up Claire’s neck. “Um, you do realize that she now thinks I’m doing more than helping you out of the dress?”
Lana ignored the remark. The saleswoman could think whatever she wanted; she didn’t care. “Tell me one thing. Is it my body that you dislike so much that you want to cover it from head to toe, or—”
“What? No!” Claire’s eyes were as wide as Lana’s when she’d seen the price tags. “I told you, you look gorgeous.”
A flush of pleasure rose up in Lana’s chest, but she suppressed it. “Then it’s the scars that bother you.” She made it a statement, not a question, and caressed the scar and the tattoo above it through the fabric of the sleeve, as if preventing the bird from angrily taking flight.
A fine line dug itself between Claire’s brows. “Who said that?”
“Your choice of outfits does!” Lana gestured at the long sleeves and the below-the-knees hem.
“Nonsense! I don’t care if you want to proudly display the scars and the tattoo.”
Lana snorted. “Who’s talking nonsense now? I saw how you looked at me during the audition, the very first time we met.”
Claire deflated a little. “Okay. I admit it. I thought the tattoo was a little…much. I didn’t get it then, but I think I do now. Your tattoo… At first I thought it was an overly colorful eagle. But it’s a phoenix, symbol of rebirth, isn’t it?”
Lana nodded and rubbed the bird’s wings through the satin.
“So, show it off if you want. I don’t care, but if you do, there’ll be questions. About the tattoo. About the scars. Questions I won’t be able to answer because you refuse to talk a
bout it. You can’t have it both ways, Lana.”
Damn. Lana hadn’t thought of that, even though she probably should have. She sank onto the stool in the corner of the fitting room.
Silence spread through their tiny refuge.
From the corner of her eye, she peeked at Claire. Would it really be so bad to tell her? Yes, Claire was a psychologist, and that made Lana want to pull up her mental drawbridges, but she was also a decent human being, someone who was trustworthy, private, and reliable. Despite their slightly rough start and the complicated nature of their relationship, Lana sensed that Claire’s offer of friendship was genuine—and every fiber of her being urged her to accept it.
Lana opened her mouth, not yet sure what she was about to say or if her vocal cords would even work.
“Abby broke up with me five minutes before our engagement party started,” Claire said, speaking very quietly. She didn’t look at Lana. Instead, she sat on the second stool in the opposite corner, picked up Lana’s T-shirt that had fallen to the floor, and folded it. Then she did the same with her capri jeans.
Lana closed her suddenly dry mouth. Wow. And she had thought Katrina leaving her the day she had been released from the hospital had been low. “And you had no idea it was coming?”
Claire huffed out a breath. “You’d think I would, right? I mean, how can a relationship expert be so blind to not see the signs?”
“Forget about that. In your private life, you’re a woman, a mere mortal like the rest of us.”
“Apparently.” Claire smoothed wrinkles from the T-shirt on her lap. “I was as clueless as all those heartbroken women leaving comments about sudden breakups on my podcast. I sat on my high horse, giving them tips on how to get over it and find lasting love, while my own fiancée was planning to call off our engagement.”
Lana slid her stool closer. “I don’t get it. Why propose to you if she had her doubts about the relationship?”
“I was the one who proposed.” A weary smile ghosted across Claire’s face. “After seven years together, I thought it was time.”
“Okay, but then why would she accept your proposal if she had her doubts?” Before Claire could answer the question, something else occurred to Lana. “Wait. That’s why you asked her to marry you? Because you thought it was time?” And that from a woman who loved romantic black-and-white flicks.