by Lia Riley
“I’m not sure.” She exhales hard. “It’s a lot to consider.”
“For now keep the focus on recovering. Rally.”
“Rally?” She crinkles her nose like the word smells. “That’s what I always do. Throw on a happy face and march into the world.”
“I know, I know you do.”
“But the world doesn’t care.” Her voice cuts like a knife-edge. “No matter what I seem to do, how much effort I make, the world face punches me and says ‘Screw you, Talia.’”
This time when she rolls away, I let her go. Give her some breathing space. It can’t be easy, getting so sick, finding out you’ve been in a fucking coma. She’s all over the place, moods crashing together like waves after a storm. She survived a nightmare. If she needs time and space to settle, that’s a small thing for me to give. I’m taking her home. Afterward, I’m not sure what will happen. No matter what her dad says, I’m not leaving her side unless she tells me to.
It’s not that I don’t give Scott Stolfi respect for wanting me out of Talia’s life. If I were her father, I’d want me gone too. I’m the wanker who hurt his little girl.
And somewhere inside me, the guy who did that is still there.
I love Talia more than my next breath, and I hurt her worse than any enemy.
I can’t do that again.
Her place is in the sun. Am I enough to bring her there, or will I only cock this up and make everything worse? Drag her down a slippery slope the way I always manage to do despite my best intentions.
My whole life I’ve fought love.
Fuck it.
Some battles deserve to be lost.
Chapter Three
Talia
Time blurs in a hospital until it becomes impossible to determine a break between days; each hour gloms to the next. I would never have described myself as a person who can’t bear to sit still, but after two weeks cooped up in a bed, resting except for physical therapy appointments and the occasional bathroom visit, my muscles plead for movement.
That’s why when Bran disappears after we land in San Francisco Airport, I shake my head when he returns pushing a wheelchair. “Nope. Nuh-uh. No way, home-skillet.”
“Sit.” He dials up his signature fierce look, the one that causes our fellow disembarking passengers to rubberneck. Fine, so his eyes are insanely mesmerizing. And when he channels his force of will through them? Yeah, a mite hard to resist, but if I yield to his overprotective act by an inch, he’ll overwhelm me with attention. My weakness needs to end. We’re here, segued in this unexpected California detour. It’s important to face this moment on my own two feet—literally.
“I’m walking.”
“Captain.”
I stiffen even though he doesn’t mean anything mocking by his old endearment for me. I’m not Captain America. My only superpower is a bottomless ability to fail.
That’s not what I say though. People want to hear the positive even if you don’t mean a single optimistic word. My need to keep others happy traps me in a prison of false enthusiasm.
“Come on, lighten up, mate.” I flash my best fake smile, accompanied by a little hip wiggle. “My legs are seriously warped after that hellish flight.”
“I’m not messing around.” He slouches and balls his fists into the pockets of his red zip-up hoodie. With Bran there is a negative correlation between his lazy demeanor and his ratcheting temper.
“I can’t ride in that thing.” My legs wobble in a silent counterpoint.
His eyes hood and his cheeks twitch like he’s biting the insides. He’s been doing that a lot lately.
The atmosphere quivers. Tension drapes an invisible arm around my shoulders, the cool weight sending pinpricks down my spine. The silence spreads until it’s huge, restless, an uncaged lion pacing in the corner.
What if—what if we can’t work? What if he’s going to find out that I’m nothing but a—
“Let me in, please, sweetheart. I’m trying…I’ve…I’ve got to do something to help.” His soft accent falters, pushes over my rising panic like so many dominoes.
I hurl into the stupid chair with a heavy sigh like a total brat.
“Thank you.” A stiff little word but I know what it costs him, trying to keep control. Maybe his exhausting confidence of late is an act too. What if he’s faking as hard as I am? He might not know what to do either.
I’m not sure whether the idea is reassuring or terrifying.
I want to be the kick-ass girlfriend, spurring my guy on to chase impossible dreams. Instead, I’m sick, weak, and terrified that maybe malaria’s not done with me.
Who was I when I first fell in love with Bran?
A person who had courage to stare down an unfeasible situation and say, Sure, I’m up for the challenge.
Who was I when Bran threw himself at me like a wounded animal, all claws, abandonment fear, spit, and fang?
A person who accepted that the moon has two sides, light and dark.
Who am I now?
I feel like a lost soul rocking in the corner, fresh out of ideas.
Bran pushes me through the long line until it’s our turn at the passport desk.
“How long do you plan to stay in the United States?” The customs official glances from Bran’s face to his passport photo and back again.
My stomach squirms like a writhing snake. We’ve avoided any discussion about future plans, focused instead on the short term. I had to accept the reality that I couldn’t return to the Peace Corps, even with the medical separation. I was too sick, too shattered. Our discussions about the logistics of leaving Africa were easier to concentrate on than the looming issue of what we were going to do with each other. I treated the topic like an abandoned lot, filled with weeds and rusting cars, a subject to walk past and pretend to ignore.
Now a stranger is forcing the issue.
“Until this one gets better.” Bran cocks his head in my direction.
The woman scoots forward, peers at me with a faint frown. “May I see proof of a return ticket, sir?”
Bran digs out the photocopy of his itinerary. When we bought the tickets, he had to borrow money from his dad. He hasn’t said much, but I know the fact must eat at him. Add another bitter drop to my guilt bucket—soon it’s going to overflow.
“You’re on a temporary tourist visa.” The customs agent flips the passport to a blank page and stamps with obvious relish. “You have three months, starting now.”
Here we go again.
Visa issues.
Ticking clocks.
People imagine international romance is excitement, hot accents, and adventure. They don’t want to hear about the bureaucratic drudgery that threatens to harden the arteries of even the most passionate hearts.
I thought I was going somewhere.
Nope.
I am an idiot Icarus who flew too close to the sun.
Bran leans forward, his lips hover an inch from my ear, his breath a hot caress on my cool skin. “You okay, Captain?”
“Fine.”
“What are you thinking, thinker?”
“I’m just sitting here, a sitter.”
We roll past an American flag overhanging a framed photo of the president. His smile seems smug, as if to say, You really thought you’d get away?
Yes, sir. I kind of did.
“We’re up next.” Bran hands a final customs form to yet another officer who waves us toward big silver doors that open and shut like gnashing teeth. On the other side is California. I can’t shake the disorienting sense we’re heading in the wrong direction.
“Ready?”
Nope.
Bran crossed an ocean for me. I have to find the way out of this black swamp, but I’m manacled to an island of self-doubt, and the tide is rising.
The airport terminal is vast and airy. Eager strangers lean over the metal partition rail, clutch flowers and balloons. One familiar gaze locks with mine. I know those eyes—the same ones that stare back from the mirror.
“Peanut.” Dad slides under the rail, drops to one knee, and hugs me close. I wrap my arms around his broad shoulders and breathe in the spicy aftershave he’s worn since my earliest childhood memory.
“Daddy.” When I was little he was the one I went to when things broke. Toys. Shoelaces. He could always fix it. Growing up is a bitch at stripping away the illusions of safety. He couldn’t fix my sister’s broken body, his disintegrating marriage, or my defective brain.
He’s a good guy, my dad, one of the best, but he can’t fix everything.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
“For what?”
“This mess.” I wanted to become something amazing and fell on my face.
“You’re going to be fine, Peanut. Just fine. Let’s get you home.”
I start to push myself to standing, when Bran rests his hand on my shoulder.
Dad snaps to attention, his gaze narrowing over the top of my head. He’d focused on me so hard it was like he forgot Bran was there.
Dad rises to his full six foot five inches. Bran’s got his own sexy, lean muscular thing going on, but he’s also around seven inches shorter.
“Mr. Stolfi,” he says, stiffly.
Mr.?
“Brandon.”
I swivel my head between them. They wear identical tight expressions. I swear, the same muscle twitches in the same place in their upper jaws.
“Um, what is going on?”
They both blink.
Dad speaks first. “Right, let’s get a move on. I’ll push. You got the bags, bud?”
“Yes, sir.” Bran’s words are polite but the tone is curt.
Their dynamic is all kinds of odd. It’s not that they were best friends last year when Bran came to visit, but they didn’t circle each other like posturing alpha dogs.
We head from the airport to the parking complex. The last time I was here, I was flying to Africa, uncertain, nervous about the next steps and ruined about Bran, but still, I had hope. Now my heart is a cracked, barren landscape.
Bran throws our two bags into the rusty blue 4Runner Dad’s driven since forever. He’s from working-class Monterey roots. Mom’s family comes from the opposite side of the peninsula in cashed-up Carmel. Dad earned decent money working for the U.S. Geological Survey and wanted to support us without all the old money bling. When Mom bailed, she ran straight back to the wealth. She currently freeloads full-time at my grandparents’ second home, an estate on the Hawaiian island of Kauai.
Did she know I was in the hospital? There’s no way I can ask Dad if they’ve spoken. I’m too afraid the answer might confirm my suspicions she’s really disowned me.
Dad maneuvers us out of the sprawling parking complex and into traffic. I almost call out that we’re going the wrong way. Santa Cruz is the other direction. Instead, he turns east, toward Sacramento where he lives with his new girlfriend—Jessie—a postdoc in wildlife biology at UC Davis. I’ve never met the woman, only seen an e-mailed picture. They met while working as guest lecturers on an expedition cruise ship in the North Atlantic last year. She’s leggy and blond, like Mom, except trade yoga wear for quick-dry pants and a Patagonia fleece.
I fiddle with the door lock. “How are you liking Sacramento?”
“Good. Real good.” Dad nods. “Great.”
“Excellent.”
He clears his throat. “I’ve got you booked in to see a top-notch doctor in Davis tomorrow.”
“Dad, I was at a perfectly good hospital in South Africa.” I swallow the edge from my tone, use the same neutral tone I’ve been giving Bran. All is great. No worries. Nothing to see here. “I received the best care possible.”
“I’m your father and want you checked from head to toe.”
I slide my hand to unlock and click the seat belt again for the fourth time, and it still doesn’t feel right. After a second, Bran takes my hand. The muscles in my stomach quiver; no butterflies today, only hornets. The urge to shake free from his grip and redo the buckle sets my teeth on edge.
After Pippa died, my health anxieties spiraled out of control, and seeking reassurance from doctors became a crutch. I’d go in with some phantom ailment, a lingering headache or mysterious twinge. They’d check me out and say I was fine. To get more sleep. Drink less coffee. I’d feel better for an hour, a day, a week, and then some other sensation would flare and start the whole gong show off again.
Things are different now. There’s no brief reassurance to be had in getting a checkup. Before departing Pretoria, the South African doctor informed me the strain of malaria I contracted could lead to all sorts of unanticipated repercussions like cerebral venous sinus thrombosis or cortical infarcts. Fancy-sounding names for terrifying outcomes like strokes or blood clots.
My prognosis is that I could be totally healthy…or a ticking time bomb.
The uncertainty is throttling any hope for inner calm, eats at me with a termite-like tenacity, leaves behind nothing but rot and carnage. None of my usual coping strategies are working. It’s like I’m sliding down a steep embankment, digging nails in the soil but the earth keeps crumbling.
Is my heart beating harder? Yeah, crap, my pulse is racing, but I’m just sitting here, not exerting myself. Is this panic or a sign malaria has destroyed my internal organs? Bran gives my hand another squeeze and his tenderness makes me want to cry.
We zoom past a billboard for medical marijuana. Hey, I wonder…not a bad idea, might help take the edge off—
“Earth to Talia, have you heard a word I said?” Dad says.
“Sorry, I didn’t sleep much on the plane.” I snap to, realizing I’m unconsciously running my tongue along my teeth, counting each incisor, bicuspid, and molar. Losing it, you are losing it.
He meets my gaze in the rearview mirror. “You’re going to the doctor tomorrow. Not up for debate.”
“Fine.” I cross my arms and glare out the window. Soulless strip malls fly past the window. Up on the hill, white concrete words spell out: SOUTH SAN FRANCISCO THE INDUSTRIAL CITY.
“You miss the ocean?” I ask after a few minutes of awkward silence. My dad has always lived and breathed surfing. His new home is in a Sacramento suburb smack-dab in central California.
He shrugs. “There’s a river.”
“O-kay. Not exactly the same though, is it?”
“I paddleboard most days.”
Looks like I’m not the only one making the best of a subpar situation.
“And the new job, you liking that too?” He’s adjunct faculty in the geology department at Sacramento State.
“The job? Good, good. Yeah, it’s all good.”
I fumble for my water bottle and flip off the cap, take a long sip. “How does Jessie feel, you know, about us staying?”
“She’s excited to meet you.”
The fact he doesn’t include Bran in that statement doesn’t escape my Spidey sense. They haven’t spoken a word to each other since we left the airport. We turn onto the Bay Bridge. Dad taps a beat on the steering wheel the whole way across.
He only does that when he’s stressed.
Crap.
Despite his words to the contrary, I am a hassle. He’s set up a new life, a sweet little love nest, and got stuck with a twentysomething failure-to-launch daughter barging in with her boyfriend.
“Hey, so I’ve got news.” He rumples his thick hair, the first traces of gray at the temples. He didn’t have those the last time I saw him. “Jessie and I…”
I’m hit with an unexpected adrenaline rush. Oh God, he’s getting married. Got to suck it up, be happy or at least fake it convincingly.
I lean into Bran and he wraps his hand around the back of my neck, responds with a hard squeeze that delivers a dose of courage straight to my heart.
“We…well, we’re…”
“Hey, it’s cool. You can share the good news. I really am happy you met someone.” That sounded believable, I think.
He cracks his neck. “It’s hard to actually s
ay the words out loud.”
“Let me make this easier, are congratulations in order?”
“Yeah. I guess so. Wait, I mean, yes! They are. Of course, they are. Jessie’s expecting.”
My mind blanks and the muscles in my back go rigid. I should grasp something important, but I’m all thumbs and fumbles. “She’s expecting what?”
“A baby, Peanut.” His smile is all goofy and sheepish.
“Wait, what?” Does not compute. “A baby baby? Like a baby human?”
“I sure hope so.” Dad does his forced nervous laugh. The one that goes heh-heh-heh like a misfiring machine gun.
My thoughts slam together like a bunch of cars hitting an unexpected red light. A baby, a new child? “But you’re like what…” I do the calculation. “Forty-eight?”
“Yep.”
“And Jessie? Oh, God, she’s not my age is she?” She was kind of blurry in the photo. My dad is my dad, but I’m uncomfortably well aware that my friends harbored little crushes on him over the years. He’s a big, strapping man who tells dumb jokes and surfs like a beast.
“No! What do you think of me? She’s thirty-five.”
“Oh.” My throat reopens. “So kinda old.”
“Not really.” He laughs for real this time.
“Does she have other kids?”
“No.”
“Psycho ex?”
“She’s never been married.”
“Former lesbian?”
“None of the above. She’s been focused on her career. This…uh…development is a surprise for both of us.”
All of us.
“Are you okay, Peanut?”
“When’s the big unveil?” I ask faintly.
“August.” He shifts in his seat. “She’s seven months along.”
I do the math. What the actual fuck? “Wait, did you know before I left for Africa?”
“Uh, yes, but only for a few weeks. I—we—didn’t want to say anything while it was still so early.”
“Are you kidding—”
“It was touch and go the first trimester and a half…lots of intermittent bleeding.” He coughs into his fist. “After that, you and I played phone tag—”