He clicked on the other photos accessible on her page. He almost hoped, with a deep visceral bitterness, to find out she wasn’t so pretty after all. But, after he’d flipped through the others, there was no way he could deny she was beautiful. He liked the casual snapshot taken with Samantha outdoors against some lovely flower gardens and another one, a shot of Samantha sitting cross-legged in front of a Christmas tree, most of all. I could send her a friend request and we could connect a little more. She’d never have to know what I look like.
Will indulged in the sweet fantasy for less than a minute. He didn’t dare. He already craved something deeper and closer. Any additional contact would only stir up additional desires. With more force than necessary, he exited Facebook and shut down the computer. Nothing on television piqued his fancy and when he picked up his e-reader, he couldn’t find any interest in the novel he’d been reading. None of the music he blasted into his ears from his Ipod helped either. By the time he prepared to sleep, his nerves were on high alert and his body so tense he knew he’d never get any rest. He thought about snacking but rejected it. Food wouldn’t help scratch the itch in his crotch or relieve the ache in his heart.
Women were in the past, filed away with his old face and memories. Until the accident, Will had adored women and most liked him. Hell, a few maybe even loved him. He’d dated from an early age, had a couple of semi-serious relationships and always figured he’d get married someday. And he’d had Brandi. The dark haired, dark eyed wannabe actress from Southern California had captured his attention and after a rushed relationship in the weeks before he shipped out, he thought he’d found a keeper. Her smoky eyes, her sultry voice, and a figure sexy enough to tempt the devil himself had fired Will with a bad case of lovesick.
He’d had three more months left in Afghanistan when the bomb blast ended life as he’d known it. They’d talked on the phone with Brandi couple of times a week right up until the bombing. He’d written to her, as soon as he had been able, and told her what happened. One of the therapists suggested it with the notion she’d care. They thought concern and participation in a loving relationship might bolster his morale. But, Brandi didn’t write back and his calls went to voice mail. After Will ended up in a burn unit stateside, he called again but her phone had been disconnected. He knew then whatever they had had together had ended.
By then, he’d seen his reflection in the mirror, the scars and his melted, mangled features. He’d known the rough permanent welts down the left side of his neck were permanent. Some veterans saw amazing progress after multiple procedures but not Will. He’d never been vain but he hadn’t expected he’d ever look like a bad Halloween mask either. Brandi couldn’t have dealt with his changed appearance, not with her shallow soul. He rebuffed anything but care from the female nurses, walked out on a counselor who told him he should expect to have future relationships, and ignored any friendly smiles. Instead he steeled his mind to face shocked stares, pity, and horror. And Will Nichols surrendered any belief he’d ever have a relationship again.
No woman would look at him without disgust or dismay, he decided and so he tried to live like a celibate carnival geek or freak. In the three years since, Will had avoided women and thought he’d managed well enough without one. He thought he’d overcome his desires and lost his deep need. Samantha made him realize he hadn’t managed to do either.
He wanted her, difficult as it was to admit. Her voice evoked an inner tenderness he thought he’d lost forever. Will saw in hindsight he’d been falling for her, one conversation at a time but he’d been too blind to notice. I wish I hadn’t looked her up or else I wish she was ugly as homemade sin.
Sleep evaded him until he gave up. Will kicked his discarded shoes out of the way, restrained an urge to punch the wall, and yielded to temptation. He looked Samantha up in the phone book, then went back online and searched to find out every detail possible. By the time he flopped down onto the couch for a late nap, he’d become a stalker.
“You’re a disgusting piece of shit, Nichols,” he said into the silence of his empty apartment. “You really should be ashamed of yourself.”
But he wasn’t and he anticipated his show tonight with more enthusiasm than he’d ever known. Now he could put a face to her marvelous voice and dream.
***
By two a.m. his anticipation turned into sour disappointment, as sharp as acid indigestion. Will had a touch of it, too, thanks to the two foot long chili dogs he’d bought on the way to work. Samantha, regular as the calendar, hadn’t called. Although he couldn’t figure any way she’d know he’d looked her up, he couldn’t stop feeling guilty. The more time passed without a call, the more his belly growled and grumbled. About the time he decided he’d ransack the office for some antacid, the phone line lit up.
“Go ahead,” he said, more brusque than usual. “Talk to me.”
“Hi, Will. I’m more than a little under the weather tonight but I wanted to call anyway so you wouldn’t wonder if something happened to me.”
Her hoarse voice crackled as she spoke but he recognized it. Relief came with such force his head whirled. Heedless to the fact he was live on air, he responded. “Hey, Samantha, sounds like you’re down with the croupy crud that’s been making the rounds. You’re running late tonight, honey. I was worried, thought maybe somehow I’d offended you or ran you away.”
He kept his tone light but he meant every word although he’d never admit it, not to Samantha and barely to himself.
“Never,” she croaked and made a choking sound he decided might be a laugh. “I’ve been listening but I’m about to lose my voice so I had to drink some hot lemon tea first.”
“Sounds like a hot toddy and a warm blanket are in order. I’m sorry you’re not feeling well.”
“Me, too. I think I’ll take some cold medicine and go to bed. Maybe I’ll feel better tomorrow.”
“I hope so, too, honey. Maybe you should try some chicken soup.”
“If I had any, I would but I don’t. And, I sure don’t feel like going to the supermarket.” She sneezed three times in a row.
“Bless you.”
“Aw, thanks. I’m going to hang up now and let somebody who can talk call in, okay?”
“Sure, honey. You know how it is on The Midnight Special – the callers call the shots.”
“Well, bye then. If I have any voice left, I’ll call tomorrow night.”
“Please do,” he said and moved to the next call in queue as if he hadn’t made Samantha’s personal. The other listeners are going to think I’ve lost it or expect me to talk to them the same way, which is not happening, ever. “Go ahead, you’re live and on the air. What’s happening in your world?”
“Hey, I think I saw either Bigfoot prowling around my neighborhood, man, or else there’s a werewolf,” the caller said and laughed in a ridiculous, over the top way.
“Well, the moon is full, dude,” Will replied, his mind still on Samantha. As soon as the Bigfoot sighting call ended, he went to a break and played six commercials back to back. While they aired, on impulse he dialed Samantha on the other line. She answered after a half a ring.
“Hello?” Her voice crackled, rough as an unpaved country road.
“Hey, Samantha, this is Will.”
She perked up, a little. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Not much. I just wanted to tell you to feel better and good night,” he said, then to make it seem less personal, added, “And watch out for those werewolves and Bigfoot creatures running wild.”
She giggled a little. “That’s sweet of you, although I wasn’t worried. Thanks.”
Now that he’d called, he wished he hadn’t. He shouldn’t have. “Well, good night, then, honey.”
“’Night, Will.”
He hung up before he said anything else he’d regret or called her ‘honey’ again. Although he often tossed endearments at callers, it hadn’t meant anything until now. In some wounded, scabbed over place inside his heart, it did. And
Will didn’t want it to matter. Caring opened up a wound with heavy duty potential for pain and he’d had more than enough of it, mental and physical, to last a lifetime.
Funny thing, though, about the time his show ended, he realized how hungry he was. His indigestion had vanished without notice, probably after Samantha phoned and he relaxed. Although Will loathed supermarkets and shopping, he stopped to buy groceries on his way home. He bought things he usually didn’t, some deli meats, eggs, a package of ice cream bars, and a fresh steak. As he strolled down one of the canned goods aisles, he saw a display of home style chicken noodle soup and thought of Samantha. Before he could balk, he grabbed a couple of cans for her and tossed them into the cart.
On his way past the bakery, a display of floral arrangements caught his attention. A vase of white daisies arranged with baby’s breath stood out among the others, so simple, beautiful, and sweet. I bet those would perk up Samantha’s day. He halted, stared at the flowers, and with a weird mixture of trepidation and anticipation, he put them into the basket. What the hell am I doing, he thought, I’ve lost my mind. But he added a festive Mylar balloon with a ‘get well’ message, a cupcake from the bakery and a small basket. He added a bag of dark chocolate candy kisses, then left before he got any crazier.
At the checkout, he forgot to make sure his hood draped his face and failed to realize it rested against the back of the neck until he’d finished. Holy shit, he’d displayed his ugly mug in public. I’m surprised no one screamed or fainted. When he replayed the short scene, though, he couldn’t remember a single weird stare and no one had asked any embarrassing questions.
Instead of probing his experience or trying to dissect it, Will arranged the things he’d bought her in the basket, a little haphazard, but he decided it looked okay and tied the balloon to it. I’m doing this shit because I know what it’s like to not feel well and be alone. That’s all it is. Besides, Samantha would never know who dropped it off. It would be a random good deed from an anonymous benefactor. He drove to the apartment complex where he’d figured out she lived, parked and entered her building with stealth. He put the basket and flowers in front of her door, hoped to hell he’d picked the right one, then he knocked.
He rushed down the hall and around the corner before she opened it. Will peeked as Samantha leaned out with a puzzled frown. Her gaze dropped to the floors and she smiled. Sweet lovin’ baby Jesus, the woman was prettier in person than in any picture. He watched her scoop up the things he’d left. A giggle passed between her lips after she paused to cough. “Thanks,” she called into the empty corridor. “Whoever you are, you made my day.”
Warmth radiated from his chest upward and he grinned. She’d never know who did the good deed but he’d savored the memory for a long time. It’d been worth the effort to see her smile, he decided but now whatever impulse sparked him to do it faded. Sudden fatigue came down over him, thick and confining as a fisherman’s net and he took the back stairs to exit the building. Sunshine filtered through the scrubby trees along the parking area and made pretty shadow patterns. He admired them, then realized he had no idea when he’d last seen so much sunlight.
Although tired, his breakfast of steak and eggs tasted delicious and when he hit the bed, Will slept. He didn’t have to struggle and suffered none of the frequent nightmares which often haunted him. When he woke, he stretched and for a few moments, he forgot about his burns. For a short span of time, he was the original Will Nichols if only for a little while and he had one hell of a hard on, one with Samantha’s name written all over it.
A quick glance at the clock confirmed he had plenty of time to do something about it, shower, and still make it to the studio on time. So he did all three, one at a time.
***
He stalked into the radio station’s back door with the confident prowl of a bobcat on the hunt and slammed the door. Will mounted the couple of steps to the main hallway and turned down the short corridor to the studio. He burst into the room and despite the live mic, he shouted, “Good morning, Vietnam!” in a passable imitation of Robin Williams. Taylor grinned but his even tone didn’t break as he finished up the weather forecast with professional grace.
“Tomorrow should be sunny and warm,” he said. “Look for highs in the mid-80’s and clear skies.” He cut the mic and turned to Will. “What the hell, man? You win the lottery or something?”
Will turned around a chair and straddled it like a backwards saddle. “Naw but it’d be nice.”
“Are you high or something?” Taylor sniffed the air as if he might detect the sweet lingering scent of marijuana. “I thought you even quit smoking.”
He snorted, then laughed. Drugs had never been his thing although he wasn’t adverse to a beer or an occasional stiff drink. “I did quit smoking, but no, I’m not doing any drugs. I’m just in a good mood.”
Happy, he thought. I’m god damn, sappy, crazy happy. Will had almost forgotten how it felt. He quelled an urge to dance around the room or break into off key song. Taylor shot him a wide, incredulous stare.
“Oh,” he said in measured tones. “Okay. I’ve, uh, never seen you like this before. I mean, it’s cool and all, dude, but different in a good way.”
Will shrugged. “I’m being me, same as I am on the air, that’s all.”
“No way, Will. I mean, I can see it, a little, but you’re like on crack compared to the way you act on the show. You’re laid back and awesome today, totally, and I like it. It’s the shiz.”
Am I so different? Does a hand job, some sunshine, and doing a good deed for a pretty woman make miracles? “If I’m so different, what am I like on a normal day?”
“Uptight, hard-assed, and a little scary,” Taylor replied without hesitation. “Everyone walks on eggshells around you because they’re afraid they’ll insult, offend, or piss you off somehow. It’s cool to see you unchained and laid back.”
Hard-assed, he liked. Uptight, not so much and he loathed scary most of all. A jarhead with combat experience should be hard-assed and he had been, probably even still was but he didn’t like the rest of the description.
“Scary how?” Will asked. He anticipated hearing something about his grotesque, frightening face and tensed. Some of his happiness ebbed away with speed.
Taylor’s answer stunned him. “They’re afraid you’re going to kick their ass, man.”
“I figured they were worried I’d give them nightmares,” Will said, candid and open as he’d ever been about his scarring. “I know I look like a horror movie monster and people talk.”
“Not much, man. They really don’t.” Taylor played back to back commercials, then stood up. “It’s time for me to get out of here so it’s all yours. See you tomorrow night.” He slapped Will’s shoulder and gathered his gear.
Rattled by his co-workers’ unexpected opinions, Will blasted his intro song and launched into an opening with what remained of his earlier upswing. “It’s the witching hour, children, and time to rock a little. Call me and talk. You wanna bitch, phone me. Have something to share? I’m your man. Light up the phone lines so I don’t get bored.”
The first caller launched into a tirade about vandalism in local parks, the second offered advice on saving money on everything from groceries to gas, and the third wanted to know if anyone wanted to join a weather spotting team. By the fourth, a young mother begging for tips on making her baby sleep through the night, Will drummed his fingers against the console in boredom. Samantha didn’t call. Will debated whether or not her absence made him a little sad or relieved. He quipped and quoted, though, and put on a song to take a break from calls. As the heavy metal sound of AC/DC blasted through the small studio, his other line lit up.
“Midnight Special,” he said into the phone.
“Hi, Will.” Her voice sounded less hoarse tonight.
“Hey, Samantha, how’ve you been?”
“I’m better,” she said, then dropped her voice lower, almost to a whisper. “The chicken noodle soup tasted
so good and it helped. I enjoyed the cupcake and kisses but the flowers absolutely made my day. Daisies are my favorite flower!”
Will listened through a rush of delight tempered with something close to embarrassment. “My grandma always said chicken soup makes the best medicine.”
“It does. Thank you, Will, so much.”
He played dumb. “For what?”
“I know you brought those things for me, the daisies, the soup, the cupcake and the kisses,” Samantha said. “It’s the nicest thing anyone’s done for me in a long time, probably ever. So thank you. I wish you’d knocked on the door, though, so I could meet you.”
Fuck it, he shouldn’t have bothered with a good deed. A dozen random thoughts raced through his head as he struggled with denial. When he failed to speak, she did. “Will? Are you still there?”
Highway To Hell ended and he scrambled for the mic. “Let’s rock the house with more AC/DC,” he said and played another tune. “Yeah, I’m here. I gotta go, though, ‘cause I’m busy tonight. Nice talking to you it, glad you liked the flowers and all.”
His tone came out brusque, sharper than he intended. “Did I say something wrong?” she asked.
“Hell, no, you didn’t.” It’s not you, it’s me. I’m the one with a problem.
“Good. You had me worried for a minute. So, anyway, how about we meet for breakfast on Saturday? I should be over this crud by then.”
For one moment, Will indulged in the sweet fantasy. He could see it happening in a coffee shop or diner somewhere with Samantha across the table, coffee cup lifted to her luscious lips. God, he almost smelled bacon frying and pancakes on the griddle. Then he tried to envision her reaction to his scarred, twisted face, the horror or pity in her eyes, the way she’d never look at him and how she’d hurry through the meal so she could escape. “Uh, no, I can’t, sorry.”
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