by Mila Gray
‘Ha! You’re funny, Lieutenant. But you know what? That’s not a bad idea. I might volunteer him. Didi’s in charge of the decoration committee. I told her she didn’t need to do anything, she just needed to come along. Looking at her would be enough decoration. Swear to God, that girl is so fine, if I weren’t already married I would be in there like swimwear.’
I shake my head, wincing. ‘You use a line like that on your wife?’
Sanchez gives a full-on belly laugh. ‘How else do you think I got her to marry me?’
Didi
‘Man, it’s good to be home,’ Zac says, sighing with satisfaction as we stare at the view.
His new house in the Hollywood Hills is a modern affair, all concrete and glass. We’re standing in front of the window. LA stretches out beneath us. We could be standing on the bridge of a spaceship staring out at a galaxy of glittering stars.
‘How was Vietnam?’ I say, turning to face him.
He smiles. ‘It was OK. Reshoots went well. Like I said, though, it’s good to be back.’ He holds my gaze when he says this last part, and my breath catches in my chest.
I keep having to pinch myself. It’s so surreal to be hanging out with someone who’s famous. I keep making assumptions about him based on the roles I’ve seen him play on screen – a break-out part in a vampire movie in which he played a blood-sucking John Keats, and another part as the young doctor heart-throb in a romcom. I have to keep reminding myself that in real life he probably doesn’t know anything about poetry or how to remove a burst appendix.
‘What do you think of this painting?’ he asks me now, pointing to an enormous abstract canvas hung on the living-room wall.
We stand in front of it. I know a little about art – I took a history of art class in my freshman year, and my parents collect a little – but I know a lot more about psychology, and my guess is that someone very angry painted it. It’s a black canvas with vivid white scratches scored through it – like it’s been clawed by a wild beast. It looks like the painting Dodds described to me that he drew in his art therapy class.
‘Um,’ I say, clearing my throat. ‘What do you think about it?’ Oh God, classic therapist tactic – throw the question back at the questioner. I hope he doesn’t call me on it like Walker did.
‘I’m not sure,’ Zac says, tapping a finger against his lips. ‘My interior decorator bought it. She says it’s an investment. But I don’t know anything about art.’
‘Well, really, with art, it’s not about what it looks like,’ I say, ‘so much as the way it makes you feel. Good art should always make you feel something.’
Zac tips his head to the side and frowns at the painting. ‘I feel depressed when I look at it. It’s kind of ugly.’
I laugh. ‘You have to have this painting on your wall and look at it every day! If I were you I’d choose something that at least makes you feel happy. Or hopeful. Not one that makes you want to jump out the window.’ I think for a brief minute about the platitudes on the wall of the rehab centre. I guess there’s a middle ground.
‘Come on,’ Zac says, turning from the painting and nodding towards the kitchen. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
He strides to his industrial-sized refrigerator and pulls open the door. ‘I’ve got three types of water, beer, vodka, champagne, wine . . . My PA does all my grocery shopping for me. She likes to keep me stocked up. What’s your poison?’
‘Just water, thanks,’ I say, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the windows, which act like giant mirrors. I tug on my dress. Is it too tight? He keeps staring at my boobs.
Zac looks at me with raised eyebrows and a one-sided smile. ‘I can’t tempt you to a beer or a glass of wine?’
‘No,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘I have to drive.’
He pouts and gives me a look that I’ve seen him use on screen, when he was the vampire John Keats trying to seduce the human Fanny Brawne. ‘No you don’t,’ he says. ‘You could stay over.’
My stomach flips. It’s tempting. He’s gorgeous, and every time he looks at me my heart goes into arrhythmia. And it’s not like we haven’t had sex already . . .
But I stand firm on my convictions. I don’t want him to get the idea that I’m just there for a quick bootie call whenever he’s in town. I want it to be more than that. But then again, if I don’t stay over maybe he’ll figure I’m not interested. God, it’s confusing.
‘Let me start with water,’ I say, buying myself some time.
He gives me a curious, appraising look, then smiles. ‘OK, one water coming up.’
He brings it over and sits down beside me on the sofa, leaving a few centimetres’ gap between us.
‘So, how’s it going with you?’ he asks.
He does this thing of always looking right into your eyes when he speaks to you so it makes you feel as if you’re the only person in the room – in the universe, even – and that whatever you’re saying is the most important thing that anyone has ever said. It makes me incredibly self- conscious. I wonder if he likes that, though? – enjoys seeing women get flustered when he fixes them with his gaze? – so I determine not to show any sign of anxiety.
‘How’s your job?’ he asks. ‘You’re working, right?’
I frown a little. The last time we had a date I told him all about my summer internship and my PhD. I guess he’s forgotten.
‘Well, I’m doing my PhD . . .’ I remind him.
‘Wow.’ He grins. ‘You must really like school, huh? I hated it. I was out of there the first chance I got. Acting was all I ever wanted to do.’
I nod. ‘Yeah, I get that. All I’ve ever wanted to do is be a therapist. Other kids used to play doctors and nurses, and I’d play therapist and patient. I’d try to talk my Barbie dolls off the ledge and diagnose them with anorexia and body dysmorphia.’
Zac gives me a quizzical look. I hurry on, embarrassed. ‘I’m actually doing some work experience over the summer at a centre for wounded marines. It’s where my dad works.’
He nods again. ‘Wow. That’s awesome.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘It’s interesting. These guys . . . some of them have the most awful injuries – they’ve lost arms, legs, some of them are blind, and yet the atmosphere in there is so positive.’ I shrug. ‘Mainly. I mean, there are a lot of people with depression and post-traumatic stress disorder too.’
Zac nods again, his eyes burrowing into mine.
‘There’s this one guy who’s blind,’ I go on, feeling a little flutter in my stomach. Why am I bringing up Walker? ‘You might have seen him on the news a few weeks ago. He was part of that marine unit that got ambushed in Afghanistan. Five people died.’
Zac shakes his head. ‘No. I try not to watch the news. I have Google alerts set up, but that’s it.’
‘Oh. Well, most of his unit was killed, and he was blinded by the explosion but he managed to carry one of his men to safety. It’s . . . I don’t know . . .’ I shrug. ‘Humbling, I guess. As well as heartbreaking.’ I think about Walker talking in his sleep, crying out ‘sorry’. That was what he said. Something twists painfully in my gut. ‘I can’t even imagine what that must feel like. So, yeah, I’m learning a lot.’ I take a sip of water. ‘It makes you think twice before complaining about the silly things in life, that’s for sure.’
Zac suddenly sits up straighter, his eyes bright. ‘You know what?’
‘What?’
‘You just gave me an idea. My agent’s putting me up for this role. I have an audition for it next week. It’s about a guy who’s in this car accident and ends up paralysed from the neck down and fighting for his right to assisted suicide.’ His eyes light up. ‘It’s a total Oscar role.’
‘What’s an Oscar role?’ I ask.
‘You know – one of those roles you’re almost guaranteed to be nominated for an Oscar for. The kind of role where you have to lose fifty pounds and make yourself ugly or play a blind person or someone mentally ill, or, like, in a wheelchair.’ He grins at me.
I frown.
‘Do you think I might be able to come into the centre with you one day?’ he asks next. ‘To hang out, and maybe research a little bit for the role? You know, get a feel for what it’s really like to be disabled?’
I bite my lip.
‘Oh, come on,’ he says, pouting hopefully. ‘You’d be doing me the biggest favour. I’d pay you back.’ His gaze dips to my lips and I feel an answering tightness in my belly.
‘Let me ask,’ I hear myself say.
‘OK,’ he murmurs, his gaze still fixed on my lips. ‘Now come here and kiss me.’
He curls his hand around my neck and pulls me closer. I draw in a breath and close my eyes, and when his lips touch mine, I feel like I could be starring in a movie. I’m half expecting someone to yell ‘Cut!’, but no one does, and we keep on kissing, but I can’t fully relax into it. I feel stiff, too self-aware, worrying about whether or not he thinks I’m a good kisser and where this might be leading.
His hands slide down my neck and then lower, running down my sides to my waist and then back up again.
‘Has anyone ever told you that you have the most amazing body?’ he whispers in my ear.
I laugh under my breath.
‘I can’t wait to see you naked.’
Butterflies swarm in my stomach. He already has, I think to myself. Has he forgotten?
His lips find mine and we kiss for a few more minutes, until, breathing heavily, Zac pulls back and strokes my hair behind one ear.
‘Stay the night?’ he asks.
He sees me hesitate, and his eyes glimmer with intensity in just the same way as they do on screen.
‘I promise you won’t regret it,’ he murmurs.
Walker
I bench-press until my arms burn and the physio guy has to come over and tell me to stop. I’m dripping with sweat but I don’t want to stop. I didn’t want to come down here, but José pep-talked me into it and Sanchez wouldn’t get off my back either. I remembered, too, Doctor Monroe’s admonishment yesterday about acting like a marine.
That bugged me. More than I let on at the time. But when I got myself calmed down, I realized it was because I knew he was right. I’ve been moping around for too long. Sanchez isn’t lying around feeling sorry for himself. He’s back in the game, setting himself goals, working towards them. In the end, as well as being sick of hanging out all day in my room, it was the taunt about being able to beat me in a physical that got me going. I was always top of the class – no one could ever beat me in endurance training. Now a three-year-old could probably slay me, no trouble. So I keep going, switching to the rowing machine with the help of the physio. He warns me to go gentle on my shoulder and knee, but I tell him it’s fine. In truth, I like the burn. It gives me something to focus on. And I’m also thinking that if I push myself to the edge, maybe tonight I’ll sleep right through, no nightmares.
Last night I woke up screaming again, but this time there was no Didi waiting in the dark by my bed to chase the dreams away.
‘Hey, Lieutenant.’
I don’t recognize the voice. ‘Who’s that?’ I ask.
‘It’s me. Dodds.’
‘Oh, hey,’ I pant, keeping up my pace on the rowing machine.
‘You training for the triathlon?’ he asks in a strong Alabama accent.
‘Nope,’ I say.
‘Why?’ he asks. ‘You scared Sanchez is going to beat you?’
I slow my pace. ‘No.’
‘That’s what he says.’
‘Oh, is that right?’ I grit my teeth and push harder, feeling the pain flare hot in my knee as it bends and straightens, bends and straightens.
I should probably give it a rest, but I can’t seem to make myself stop.
‘I’m thinking I might take part too,’ he says. ‘In the wheelchair race.’
‘Awesome,’ I say drily but then I feel a flicker of guilt. ‘I’m sure you’ll ace it, Corporal,’ I say with more feeling.
‘Thanks,’ he says, and I hear the slight swell of pride in his voice.
I remind myself to make more of an effort. That’s another thing the doc’s talking-to did – reminded me that I’m an officer. I should be setting an example – it doesn’t take much. And there are people in here worse off than me. Dodds has lost both his legs and Sanchez told me that he’s got no family. Not that having family necessarily makes that much difference, in my experience, but still, offering him a little support isn’t going to hurt me.
I start trying to think of a question to ask him that won’t seem awkward or tactless, but my conversational skills seem to have dried up these last few weeks. Before I can think of anything, he speaks up anyway, in a low voice.
‘Oh hey, Lieutenant, someone’s checking you out.’
I tilt my head up. ‘What?’
‘Didi – you know, Doctor Monroe’s daughter? She’s over by the door. She’s staring at you.’
I frown and swipe at the sweat pouring down my face. She is? She hasn’t been by my room for a few days now. I hate to admit it, but I’ve been anxious about it, wondering whether it has something to do with her being embarrassed to see me because of the other night. I figured I wouldn’t bring it up if she ever did come by, then I got annoyed with myself for thinking about her so much. It’s another of the reasons – probably the real reason – I wanted to get out of my room. To take my mind off her. I couldn’t concentrate on anything, or even listen to any audio books, because I kept listening out for her footstep in the hall.
‘She’s gone now,’ Dodds says. ‘Man, she’s hot. I’d get in there if I were you.’
I stop rowing and fumble for the towel I thought I’d left on the side. Dodds hands it to me. ‘She has a boyfriend,’ I tell him.
‘If I was her boyfriend, I don’t think I’d be happy about the way she was just looking at you.’
I wipe the sweat off my face. What’s he saying? He’s probably just shit stirring. Maybe Sanchez put him up to it. But . . . I pause for a minute. What if it’s true? I shake my head, laughing at myself. No, of course it’s not true. Who am I kidding?
I chuck the towel back at Dodds and stand up gingerly, my knee throbbing, out of breath. But as I make my way with the physio’s help towards the door, I feel a lightness in my step and in my body that wasn’t there before. Whether that’s a result of the endorphins flooding my bloodstream from all the exercise or because of what Dodds just told me, I couldn’t say.
Didi
I walk down the corridor, passing Dodds’ room, and note that my heart has started beating extra fast and I’m really nervous. I don’t know why. I wasn’t this nervous when I was at Zac’s, the memory of which still makes me blush.
Walker’s door is open and I hesitate a beat, taking a deep breath before walking over, my hand already raised to knock. My arm drops to my side. He’s not there. The room’s empty. Maybe he’s still in the gym. The image of him on the rowing machine flashes suddenly into my mind and I have to shake it away.
‘Damn it . . .’
I jump. The door to the en-suite bathroom flies open and Walker appears. He’s wearing just a towel wrapped loosely around his waist, and he’s holding a razor in one hand. He has shaving foam half covering his beard, and blood is trickling down his neck. My gaze drops from his face to his chest and my mouth falls open.
‘Who’s there?’ he asks.
I drag my eyes from his rock-solid abs with difficulty.
‘Um, it’s me, Didi,’ I stammer.
His expression changes, softens. Or maybe I’m imagining it.
‘Hey,’ he says.
It’s disconcerting. The bandages are off – I was taken by surprise when I saw him in the gym earlier; I found myself staring at him – and he’s looking straight at me as if he can see me.
‘You need a hand?’ I ask and immediately regret it. I remember what happened the last time I offered to help.
‘No,’ he says and I nod to myself and start to leave, feeling disappointment wel
ling up and trying to brush it away.
‘Actually, yeah,’ he calls out.
I turn back around.
‘I do. Really I need eyes, but I’ll take a hand.’ He frowns. ‘You still there?’
‘Um, yeah,’ I say, taking a step into the room. ‘You trying to shave?’
‘Yeah,’ he says, pointing at the blood on his neck. ‘Trying and failing. I cut myself.’
‘Here.’ I step towards him and take the razor from his hand, but then find myself suddenly overwhelmingly flustered. We’re standing so close, and he’s half-naked – I’m assuming fully naked beneath the towel – and his chest fills my vision.
‘Um, shall we go back in the bathroom?’ I finally manage to stammer.
He turns and bumps me with his arm. ‘Sorry,’ he says.
‘No worries,’ I mumble and stand aside to let him feel his way into the bathroom.
I stare at his back. Holy shit. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone as ripped in my life. He has broad shoulders knotted with muscle, and perfect, smooth, tanned skin. On the back of his right shoulder there’s a tattoo of what looks like a sword with some Latin script through it, but I can’t read the words from where I am.
‘Should I sit? Would that be easier?’ he asks when we’re in the bathroom.
‘Um, yeah,’ I say. ‘Why don’t you sit on the toilet?’
He does, and now I’m confronted once again with his chest, which, close up, is every bit as solid and defined as his back. The only thing that mars his skin is an angry, raised scar just down from his shoulder. I have to stop myself from reaching out and running my fingers over it, and— I catch sight of myself in the mirror, flushed and with my jaw hanging open, and frown angrily, ramming my mouth shut. Thank God he’s blind and can’t see me gawping like a schoolgirl.
I distract myself by filling the basin with hot water, and then I take a corner of the towel, wet it and wipe off the trail of blood down his neck.
‘Sorry,’ I say when his body tenses.
He laughs under his breath. ‘It’s fine. I’ve had a lot worse than a shaving cut.’