Beneath the Sheets

by Shandi Boyes

  “You were told to buzz me if you needed anything,” Raquel scolds, rushing toward me without the slightest concern for my nakedness.

  She encircles her arms around my waist and guides my shivering body to a shower chair sitting at the side of the stark white vanity.

  “I was shot in the shoulder, not in my legs. I'm perfectly capable of walking,” I remind her.

  She snarls before pushing me into the chair, surprising me with her strength for her small stature. Her eyes reprimand me as she paces to my suitcase stored on a luggage table in the washroom. Her hand digs through the clothes laundered and packed by Catherine, Isaac’s housekeeper. Suddenly, she stops rummaging through my belongings, cranks her neck and looks at me, blinking and confused.

  “They didn’t pack you any briefs,” she informs me, her nose screwing up.

  I lick my dry lips, concealing the grin attempting to spread across my face. “I don’t wear briefs,” I retort.

  The scrunching of Raquel’s nose amplifies.

  “Boxers, butt huggers, nut huts, Calvin Kleins, whatever you want to call them. I don’t wear them.”

  Raquel’s brow cocks. “You go commando with that?” she queries, gesturing her head to my crotch.

  I don’t have a chance in hell of stopping the shit-eating grin stretching across my face. Come on, I’m a guy. You never turn down a compliment to your manhood, woeful mood or not.

  A ragged gasp expels Raquel’s lips when I nod. Swinging her bulging eyes back to my suitcase, she yanks out a pair of cotton blue-striped pajama pants, straightens her spine and saunters toward me.

  “These will ensure there are no zipper incidents,” she chides in a witty tone.

  I gulp.

  Noticing my panicked expression, a broad grin etches on Raquel’s face. “Can you manage? Or do you need me to shower and dress you?” she quips, holding out the trousers.

  I roll my eyes before snatching the pants out of her hands. “I’ve got this,” I assure her, standing from my chair.

  My abrupt movements send a rush of dizziness to my head, causing me to sway like a leaf in the hot summer breeze. Raquel grabs the tops of my arms, steadying my uncontrollable sways. Through gritted teeth, I use her and the IV stand as a brace as I slip my legs into my pants and yank them up my waist while internally grumbling at how pathetic I am since I can’t even dress myself. I got shot in the chest for fuck sake, not my legs.

  “You had a class four hemorrhage, Hugo. That’s well over four pints of blood lost. Your muscles not only need time to recoup from that, you also chased a car for nearly five miles,” Raquel explains, her tone sincere yet stern. “Even the best marathon runners in the world would need help getting dressed after that effort.”

  Once she secures the drawstrings on my pants, she wraps her arms around my waist and guides me back to my bed. Any agitation about my inability to care for myself dampens when I notice the strain hampering Raquel’s face. The heavy crease in the middle of her eyes, and the way her lips are pursed, reminds me so much of a face Ava pulled years ago.

  The groove crinkling Raquel’s usually smooth forehead disappears when I flop onto the hospital bed. “There you go,” she says, hauling my legs, which seem the weight of concrete, onto the bed.

  “What happened to my personal belongings?” I ask. I try to keep my tone neutral, but my attempts are borderline.

  Raquel’s brows scrunch as her eyes shoot around the room. “Your clothing was given to a local detective, but your wallet should be here somewhere.”

  The heaviness weighing down my chest lightens. I have a very important item in my wallet I'd hate to lose.

  Suddenly, Raquel’s face lights up. “The triage nurse said she locked it in your drawer.”

  She ambles to the stack of drawers next to the double hospital bed. I release the breath I'm holding in when her hand plunges into the top drawer and she produces my black leather wallet.

  “There you go.” She hands it to me before walking to the bathroom.

  Once she slips out of my view, I crack open the wallet. I inwardly sigh when the edge of a faded and cracked polaroid photo confronts me. I close my wallet and place it onto the side table. I don’t need to see the photo to know what it looks like. I’ve studied it many times the past eleven years; I can recall it in photographic detail.

  It is a picture my mom snapped of Jorgie, Ava, and me on our last family vacation at Lake George before Ava and Jorgie left for college. In the photo, Ava has a crazy mess of ringlet hair; she's wearing a teeny yellow bikini under a hideous Rochdale Village T-shirt she stole from my suitcase, and she has a knock-your-socks-off smile plastered on her face.

  The smile she was wearing is the reason I carry the picture with me everywhere I go. That was the first time in the eight years I’d known Ava that I’d seen her smile like that. As if it wasn’t rewarding enough being in the presence of such a beautiful smile, it was even more special because it was directed at me.

  I’d spent a majority of the summer vacation hanging around Michael Scoller. Michael was a local boy who lived by the lake with his parents. He was four years older than Ava and Jorgie, but that didn’t stop them slack-jawing in his presence. Jorgie nicknamed him Junior because she swore he was an exact replica of Freddie Prince, Jr. from Jorgie’s favorite movie at the time, I Know What You Did Last Summer. Much to Jorgie’s dismay, Michael only had eyes for Ava.

  Unable to dampen the inane jealously that always swamped me when men paid attention to Ava, I spent the entire month of my summer vacation acting as if I was Michael’s new best friend. Putting it bluntly: it was a fucking hard month. Being slapped with a cold fish would have been more entertaining than hanging out with Michael, but I did it. I gritted my teeth and spent the entire month talking about how dragonflies mate and the difference between the Harry Potter books and their motion pictures. It nearly killed me, but I would have done anything to stop him from getting close to Ava. My dedication paid off the final night at the cabin.

  Every year, a bunch of local teens and a handful of college visitors held a final hoorah to summer down by the water’s edge. It was generally held in a tiny pocket away from the prying eyes of gawking locals and the parents of the underage teens. After pretending to celebrate a little harder than I actually did, Ava aided me in returning to the cabin.

  Cackling like the teenage boy I was over the excited gleam in her eyes when we made it up the two flights of stairs without incident, I stumbled on my monstrous feet right outside my bedroom door. In slow motion, I tumbled to the floor. Since Ava had her arms wrapped around my waist, she came crashing down with me. I was frantic, certain I’d crushed her to death. After rolling off her, I raked my eyes over her face and every inch of her body.

  She remained silent, staring up at me wide-eyed and slack-jawed. When she spotted the mortified expression etched on my face, she laughed hysterically. Not the dainty, girly laugh I was used to hearing, a belly-crunching, full-hearted chuckle.

  Like every time I heard her laugh, any hang-up I had about her being my little sister’s best friend unraveled. Before I could blurt out that I’d been crushing on her for years, Ava leaped forward and planted her lips on mine. Fuck she tasted good. She was the perfect combination of sweetness and the watermelon punch she’d been drinking. Unlike our first kiss, I let Ava control the pace of our exchange. That kiss was just like Ava: sweet and tender.

  We sat on the floor kissing for hours, like we were never going to get the opportunity to do it again. We didn’t. Only a few short weeks later, Ava walked out of my life with a stream of tears flooding her cheeks and a one way ticket to San Diego. That was by far one of the hardest days of my life.

  My attention reverts to the present when my hospital door unexpectedly swings open. I inhale a quick, sharp breath as my eyes roam over the man standing in the doorway. Even though nearly five years have passed since I last saw him, time has been kind to him. He’s barely aged a day.

  “Anyone would swear you
just saw a ghost,” Rhys mutters, pacing further into my hospital room. “I can understand your surprise. The only difference is, I have seen a ghost. A man who vanished without a trace five years ago. Missing, presumed dead.”

  Rhys walks to the end of my bed as he roams his vibrant hazel eyes over my body. “Imagine the shock of arriving in surgery to discover the patient you're there to save is already dead. Has been for years.”

  A smirk curls on his lips. “Well, dead on paper anyway.”

  “You’re the surgeon who saved my life?” My voice comes out heavily drawled as fragments of my past crash into my present.

  Although the full extent of my injuries hasn’t been shared with Izzy, the bullet that entered my chest and exited through my left shoulder blade managed to not only nick my left lung on the way past, it also rocketed through a vital artery. From what Dr. Jae has informed me, it was the combination of the medical treatment received at the scene and the hands of a gifted surgeon that saved my life. I remember the events leading up to being shot, but everything after being knocked onto my ass is a complete blur.

  Rhys nods. “I did everything in my power to save you… just like I did for Jorgie and her baby.”

  His words slam into me harder than his back hit the wall during our last exchange. When he told me he’d done everything in his power to save Jorgie and her baby, but he’d exhausted all avenues and had to let her go, I lost all rational thought. Even though Jorgie’s death was over five years ago, I’m still grieving.

  The smirk on Rhys’ face fades as his eyes bounce between mine. “You have the same look on your face Ava did when she collected your death certificate two years ago.”

  My heart freezes at the mention of Ava’s name, but fortunately, my outward appearance doesn’t give any indication to the treason of my heart. I'm also flabbergasted by Rhys’ admission. Normally, when a person disappears, they have to be missing for seven years before they will be declared dead in absentia. I’ve only been missing for five years. So why did Ava collect my death certificate?

  My head shifts to the side when Raquel enters the room. “Next time you decide on a three AM shower, can you at least--”

  Her words stop when she detects an additional presence in the room. A vibrant grin stretches across her face when her eyes lift from the drenched hospital gown in her hands to Rhys. Although Rhys is discreet, I don’t miss his eyes running over Raquel’s body.

  “Hi, Dr. Tagget,” Raquel greets, her tone higher than normal.

  Rhys nods in greeting at Raquel before shifting his eyes back to me. “My employment contract clearly stipulates the utmost diligence is to be given to any patients I serve in this hospital, giving me a clear conscience to pretend I’ve never seen you.”

  Raquel’s brows scrunch as her eyes shift between Rhys and me. The tension in the air is so thick, it is palpable. After dipping his chin farewell to Raquel, Rhys spins on his heels and ambles to the door. Just before he exits, he cranks his head back to look at me.

  “My conscience is clear; is yours?”

  Not giving me the chance to reply, he walks out of the door and closes it behind him.

  Four

  Ava

  “Thank you,” I say through gritted teeth, sliding in the backseat of a taxi.

  The coolness of the leather as I slide across the bench seat does nothing to simmer the fiery rage burning out of control inside of me. Keeping my gaze planted on the flow of dense traffic, I secure the seatbelt buckle and attempt to latch it into place. A silent squeal bubbles up my chest when my rough yanks on the seatbelt latch cause the safety mechanism to lock in, meaning I can’t move it an inch from my shoulder. I stiffen when Marvin leans over my shoulder, gently pulls on the seatbelt strap and clicks it into place.

  “Thank you,” I say again, this time with less smear in my tone.

  “157 McAllister Street,” Marvin instructs the taxi driver. His flat tone doesn’t have a chance in hell of hiding his anger.

  The driver nods before cranking his neck to the side, seeking an opening in the thick flow of traffic. We’ve only merged mere inches from the curb before I lose the ability to rein in the aggravation scorching my veins with feverish heat.

  “Why did you do that, Marvin?” I ask, shifting my eyes from the back passenger window of the cab to him. “You bombarded me in there, leaving me with no other option than to say yes.”

  I thought having my impurity announced to a room full of spectators would remain my number one most embarrassing moment, but Marvin’s unexpected proposal is cutting it a close second. Not only was the room full of Marvin’s family and friends, it was packed with our work colleagues and important associates. People who can aid or destroy any dental career of their choice. Mr. and Mrs. Gardner alone are allies I can’t risk as I continue to strive for a prominent place in the notable dental conglomerate of Rochdale.

  I dig my nails into my palms, fighting to bottle up my anger, storing it to be used at a more appropriate time.

  “We are not ready for that.” I keep my voice low, ensuring the taxi driver isn’t subjected to the awkwardness of our argument. “I’m not ready for that.” The last part of my sentence comes out with a quiver when Marvin swings his furious gaze to me.

  “It’s been five goddamn years, Ava!” he roars, the veins in his neck bulging.

  Four years, nine months and three days, I gabble to myself.

  “For fuck’s sake, how much more time do you need?” Marvin yanks on the bowtie around his neck, unknotting it until it dangles around his heaving shoulders. “He's never coming back. He left you high and dry. Or did you forget that? He’s dead and you still can’t let him go.”

  My heart painfully squeezes, but I’m not surprised by Marvin’s outburst. He uses the same cruel words during every argument we have, not the slightest bit concerned about how the harshness of his words affects me. When my tearful eyes shift to the rearview mirror, my breath catches. The taxi driver’s dark eyes are staring right at me. His gaze is full of worry and empathy. I return the cabbie’s compassionate gaze as Marvin continues to unleash a torrent of vicious words.

  “Without me, you would have ended up homeless, without a career, without a fucking thing. I fed you, clothed you, have taken care of you for years, but all you care about is a guy who left you. He left you, Ava.”

  The impact of his words is like a knife being stabbed into my chest, but, unfortunately, everything Marvin is saying is true. Hugo did leave me. He choose to go. Marvin didn’t.

  Inhaling a deep breath to clear my body of nerves, I tilt my torso to face Marvin. “I know that, Marvin, and I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, what you still do for me,” I recount, saying anything to lessen his rambling tirade that always erupts when he drinks or Hugo’s name is mentioned. “I’m thankful for everything you've done, but you know as well as I do, marriage isn’t the solution for us. Neither of us are ready for that. I’m not ready, and neither are you.”

  He stares at me, his chest rising and falling with every breath he takes. It feels like hours pass, but it is mere seconds. Marvin’s gaze is vehement and has my pulse quickening. When he braces his hands on his knees and drifts his eyes back to the heavy flow of traffic, I know it is the end of our discussion.

  “Thank you,” I say quietly, handing the taxi driver a bunch of crinkled notes from my purse. “Keep the change.”

  His pupils enlarge when he notices the generosity of my tip. A big tip is the least I can do for exposing him to the daily drama of my life.

  I slide out of the taxi and walk up to my front door that’s been left open, exposing my home to the chilly midnight temperatures. After ambling into the foyer, I close the door and kick off my shoes. I hang my coat on the coatrack next to Marvin’s and pace further inside, seeking his retreating frame.

  I discover his dark shadow standing in the middle of my compact kitchen, clasping a glass of hard liquor. Liquor is Marvin’s go-to fix for any dilemma. Mine is a long, hot shower. Decidi
ng I don’t have enough strength for another argument, I leave Marvin to wallow in solitude and head to the main bathroom. Hopefully a good dose of scalding hot water can wash away some of the negativity choking my usually carefree attitude.

  Upon entering my moderately sized bathroom, I remove my dress and place it in a dry cleaning bag draped over the bathroom door. Slipping into a satin knee-length kimono, I pace to the vanity, deciding to make quick work of the heavy makeup suffocating my pores before having a shower.

  As I run a cotton cloth drenched in makeup remover on the dark shadow on my eyelids, I roam my eyes over the new ringlets sprouting through my hair. Since I had my hair chemically straightened over five years ago, my curls are returning stronger than ever. In the past six months, I’ve made three separate appointments to have my hair straightened again, but every time without fail, I neglect to attend my appointment.

  Although it was well over ten years ago, the memories of Hugo twirling my hair around his finger when we watched re-runs of Friends was in the forefront of my mind every time I was working up the courage to walk in my local hairdressing salon. It might have been the smallest memory, but it still has the greatest impact to my suffering heart.

  My reminiscing is interrupted when Marvin staggers into the bathroom. Whiskey and a cheap bottled cologne infiltrates my senses when he stands next to me and props his hip onto the vanity counter.

  “I’m going to head to my place.”

  “It’s past midnight, Marvin—”

  “I know,” he interrupts, his tone surly. “But I have some paperwork I have to take care of.”

  “It can’t wait until the morning?” I shift on my feet to face him.

  “No.” His reply swift and short.

  Keeping his eyes on the vanity, he leans in and presses a kiss to my temple. When he pulls away, his eyes drift down to the engagement ring nestled on my finger, shimmering in the bathroom light. I'll give credit where credit is due. The ring is beautiful, a princess cut three carat diamond of the highest quality, but just from looking at it, I know Marvin didn’t choose it. He barely has time to look me in the eyes, let alone pick out my engagement ring.