by J. Saman
His mouth comes down to my cheeks, drinking up my tears. I want to cling to him. I want to take his words and hold on to them. I want to drown in his promise.
But I can’t, because hope and trust are not synonymous.
26
Ivy
* * *
My phone rings in the middle of the night, blasting me out of a very sound sleep. My head whips around my room, still hazy and disoriented as I fumble around on my nightstand in search of my phone.
This is never a good thing. That’s sort of the universal rule about calls after midnight. They’re always bad news.
My first thought is that it’s about my father, though he looked well and good when I saw him today, but things can change quickly with kidney issues.
The phone stops ringing right as my finger is poised to answer it. It’s a number I don’t recognize and that alone sets me on alert. Swiping my finger across the screen, I sit up in bed as I bring the phone up to my ear. It rings once, and then a familiar male voice answers.
“Ivy?”
“Yes?” I’m so confused right now. I know this voice, but for some reason, I can’t place it, and the simple fact that he didn’t address me as Doctor Green tells me that it’s probably not work-related.
“Hey, sorry to wake you, I realize it’s late.” There is a long pause when I don’t say anything. “It’s Ryan, by the way.”
“Oh,” I rub a hand over my face, clearing the sleep from my eyes. “Is it Kate? Are the twins all right?”
“Yes,” he rushes. “Yes, oh shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you like that. The twins are awesome. Baking away. That’s not why I’m calling.”
“Okay?”
“I need your help. I wouldn’t call or ask you of all people, but Katie is away at a nursing conference, and he’s refusing to go to the emergency department.”
“I’m sorry, I’m missing something here. What are you talking about?”
“Luke,” he says like I should have already guessed that. “Who the hell else would be stupid enough to punch a brick wall?”
“Ryan, back up here for a minute,” I say, but I’m climbing out of bed, flipping on the bedside lamp, and pulling on my jeans. “Luke punched a brick wall? Why?”
Ryan sighs out, sounding tired with everything.
“Because the stupid bastard told you he’d let you go and he’s in love with you, so he punched a wall thinking that would somehow solve all his problems. It didn’t, Ivy. Let me tell you, it really didn’t, and I need that hand. I need him to be functioning and able to work, and with his hand like this, he can’t.” Then I hear a muffling sound before Ryan says something that sounds like “shut up and stop bleeding all over the place.”
“What do you need me to do? Because if you’re asking me to tell him that I’ll give him another go, I’m hanging up on you,” I tell him, but I’m brushing my teeth as I speak. I say that I want him to leave me alone, yet at the first sign of trouble or him needing me, I fly out of bed in the middle of the night. Even when he does something as asinine as punching a brick wall.
I should be fractious at this imposition. I should be overwhelmed with rage for this intrusive call, but I’m not. I’m worried about Luke’s hand and about him, and I hate myself for that. I hate myself for being weak where he’s concerned. I know now I’ll always be, despite telling him to sod off.
“No, I’m not saying that,” Ryan continues. “I’m saying that the dipshit may have broken his hand and might also need stitches. I’m saying that he won’t go to the hospital, and I’m saying that his hands are worth a lot to me. So I’m asking—no, I’m begging, for your help.”
“Where are you?” I sigh out, standing in the middle of my living room, looking at my reflection in the window.
I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t get involved. I should let him figure this out on his own. Nothing good will come of me seeing him and helping him. I should say no.
“His place.”
“I’ll be there in ten.”
I disconnect the call and go over to my bag of supplies, grabbing what I think I may need. I’m going to help him. I’ll clean up his hand and make sure it’s not broken, but that’s all.
I stare at myself for a moment through the eyes of the window again. “You’re right stupid, aren’t you?” I glare at my reflection.
I won’t get sucked in. I won’t.
“Right,” I mutter to myself, lacking any and all conviction as I throw on my jacket and head for the door.
Fifteen minutes later—instead of ten—I knock on his door. I spent those extra five minutes sitting in my car, deliberating the sagacity of my decision-making when it comes to Luke. But I’ve thought this out and through, and came up with a game plan.
I am icy. I am Ivy ice. Cold and impenetrable.
God, I feel so bloody foolish.
The door opens, and an exhausted Ryan fills the threshold. He offers me a tight grin as he pushes his dark glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“Thank you, and I’m sorry. He’s not drunk or anything, but he’s ornery as hell.”
“It’s fine,” I shrug, feigning indifference, relieved that he’s not drunk. Nothing about this is fine. Nothing about being here is fine. I should go. I need to go. Dammit!
“Is that him?” I hear Luke call out from inside his flat, and I furrow my eyebrows at Ryan.
“I, uh . . .” He shrugs sheepishly. “I may have told him that you were a friend of Katie’s.”
I sigh, my shoulders deflating, seriously contemplating turning on my heels and hightailing it out of here. The look in Ryan’s eyes is what’s keeping my feet grounded firmly in place. He’s silently begging me, and for whatever reason, I like Ryan enough to want to help him.
“Let’s just get this over with.”
Brushing past Ryan, he graciously steps back to allow me entrance. I spot Luke, sitting on one of the bar stools in his kitchen with his hand wrapped in a cloth and a giant bag of frozen peas over it.
Remember seconds ago when I said I was ice? That was laughable, because ice melts—and that’s exactly what I just did all over the goddamn floor. Seeing him wounded and broken is a little more than I can bear. He did this to himself. Sucking in a deep, resolved breath, I continue on through the dark expanse.
“So, Ryan here thinks it’s broken, but I—” he stops abruptly as he glances up, noting that I’m not this other bloke he was expecting. “You called her?” he snaps at Ryan, looking away from me with something close to regret in his eyes.
“I did. We needed a doctor to look at your hand, and since you’re too fucking stubborn to go to the hospital, your ex is what you get.”
“Asshole,” Luke points at Ryan. “I would never have done something like that to you after the Duchess left.”
Ryan laughs out. “Bullshit, man. You were on me for weeks to call Katie, or stalk her down and go find her. You would have absolutely done this, so shut up, take the help, and be done with it.”
Luke grumbles something unintelligible under his breath, and I take that as my cue to proceed. I pull in a fortifying breath and walk further into the apartment, refusing to look around, and move over to where he’s sitting. My bag drops onto the counter next to his injured hand with a heavy thud as I sit down, not touching him.
“What did you do?” I ask calmly, directly, not wanting to come off like I’m scolding an insolent child, though frankly, I’m dying to.
“I’m sure Ryan already filled you in.” Why does he sound petulant with me?
“And you’re not drunk?”
“No, Mom,” he says with a condescending note as he stares down at his hand. “I’m not drunk. Promise. Not even a drop of alcohol since last night at the bar.”
I sigh. His ungrateful tone is irksome. I move to stand, not at all in the mood for this. I could be at home sleeping instead of helping this wanker. “Do you want me to leave?”
He pauses for a moment, noting my new position standing next to him, bef
ore slowly shaking his head, and then nodding, and finally shrugging like he doesn’t care either way.
“Okay then, that’s rather unhelpful. I should go.”
“No,” he and Ryan say simultaneously.
Sighing out again, I sit back down, just wanting this to be done already. “Remove all of that so I can take a look,” I clip out.
Reaching into my bag, I pull out gloves, sterile water, and gauze. I don’t bother getting anything else out until I see the damage.
As he does this, trying to contain his wince, Ryan saunters over to us. “Well, kids, I’d love to stay and watch this little moment play out, but I’m tired and have to work tomorrow. I’m leaving.”
“You can’t leave,” Luke and I say in unison.
“You see, actually I can, and I am. It’s been fun.” Ryan gives us a wave and saunters off without another word.
This is not what I was expecting.
“You don’t have to stay either. I’m sure my hand is fine. Believe it or not, I am capable of taking care of it myself.”
I ignore him, walking around the island and pouring two mugs of coffee from the pot that was apparently just brewed. I don’t like coffee, and I never drink it, but right now I need the distraction from being in Luke’s apartment in the middle of the night after everything he said to me earlier.
I turn around and Luke’s forehead is resting against the cold stone of the counter, his hand resting uncovered. Though the only lights on in his flat are coming from the sitting area directly behind him, I can see that his hand is swollen and bleeding.
I slide the mug over toward his good side, but he doesn’t even stir, and I wonder if he’s fallen asleep when he asks, “Is it poisoned?”
“Poisoned?” I reply, not grasping his meaning.
He raises his head, giving me a smarmy grin, looking to the steaming black mug and then up to me. “Yeah, you know, with arsenic or Clorox, or something else equally as toxic.”
“Oh,” I puff out a laugh. “No, but maybe it would be an improvement if it was.”
“Ha,” he grumbles, but I see humor dancing in his eyes. “Thanks for the coffee,” he pauses, “and for coming tonight. I’m sure Ryan woke you up. I feel really stupid about all of this.” Luke’s eyes abandon mine in favor of the mug, blowing off the rising steam before taking a sip and returning his head to the counter. “You can leave. I’d rather not suffer this embarrassment in front of you.”
I hesitate, debating if I should say something or not.
“What, Ivy?”
His tone is only mildly sullen, so I decide to proceed. “Your hand is not only horribly swollen, but it’s oozing all over your counter.”
“And your point is?”
“Just checking that you were aware of it.”
“I am aware of it.” He doesn’t lift his head or even move to cover up or dab at his hand that’s bleeding onto the stone. I can’t stand it.
I can’t.
Maybe it’s the doctor in me—it goes against our nature to leave a wounded patient—or maybe it’s the fact that despite my better judgment, I still care about the arsehole. But whatever it is, I know I won’t leave him like this.
I round the counter, heading for my supplies that are still sitting out and begin to open what I need, looking down at his hand.
“Please leave, Ivy.”
“No,” I snap, beyond done with his rubbish.
Luke raises his head, his weary eyes pinned on my movements, but not my face.
It’s like he can’t look at me. For some reason, that hurts. I hate that he punched a wall out of frustration or anger or whatever it was he was feeling. I hate that Ryan said I was the cause. I hate that I care either way.
“Lay your hand flat here,” I command softly.
He does as he’s told with no argument for once, grimacing only slightly as I clean the open abrasions, pressing as gently as possible on the tender flesh.
“Why are you doing this?” he asks gruffly.
“Because you’re going to get an infection if I don’t, and then you’ll lose your hand, and then you won’t be able to use your computer, and then you’ll get sacked and will be out of work, and I’ll blame myself, and guilt is not an emotion I particularly enjoy.”
He chuckles softly. His brown eyes, impossibly dark in the limited lighting, finally make the journey up to my face. I’m concentrating hard on his hand because now I’m the coward who can’t make eye contact. The air between our close proximity is tense and maybe a little charged. Chock-full of broken promises and a litany of unsaid words. It’s tangible and crushing, pressing down on my chest and hindering my ability to take in a deep breath.
“So, you tending to my wounds is really about you?” he whispers.
“Yes,” I whisper back.
“So none of this is for my benefit?”
“No.” I bite my lip to hide my smile as I apply the ointment to the now-clean abrasions, which surprisingly enough don’t require sutures, only a few butterfly bandages, before I cover them with gauze.
He leans in closer to me, feigning like he’s watching my handiwork, but his face is mere inches from mine. So close that his breath brushes across me, causing me to inadvertently close my eyes.
“I always knew you were a selfish woman.”
“Yes.”
I swallow back the nervous ball forming in my throat. The fingers on his good hand brush the hair out of my eyes with painfully slow movements, before they skim around the shell of my ear to the sensitive flesh of my neck. My heart is picking up its pace, my body hyperaware of his closeness and touch.
“There,” I whisper, unsure of the strength of my voice. “All finished. Can you wiggle your fingers?” He does easily, which is good, so I lightly press on the metacarpals and phalanges. “There is some point tenderness, but no obvious deformity. You may have a small boxer’s fracture, but I can’t tell without an x-ray.”
God, does my voice have to sound like that whenever he’s near?
“Thank you.”
His breath brushes my cheek again, and I realize just how close he actually is. He’s right there, and as I take in a reluctant breath, I’m bombarded with his scent. Mint toothpaste, fabric softener, and his cologne—which I swear I could bathe in happily.
I draw my head back, hoping to create some distance between us.
He’s stifling me.
He’s everywhere.
Surrounding me, invading me, and I suddenly can’t remember why I hate him so much.
Without warning, he grabs my cheek with his now bandaged hand, averting my escape and luring me back to him in a surprisingly affectionate motion.
I gasp at the zing of electricity his hand produces on my skin, and his mouth instantly covers mine. Luke groans out his pleasure and frustration, like he’s been deprived of my lips and this kiss for the last year and has finally hit his limit. He groans like nothing has ever been so right or felt so good.
His lips move against mine, slowly at first, tasting and exploring, rediscovering me as if I’m the most exotic, delicious thing he’s ever had. He licks his lips against mine before delving back in, our tongues dancing, more demanding and urgent than the first.
Dragging me closer, I melt into him.
It’s impossible not to. I’ve missed his kisses just as much as he’s missed mine.
He threads his good hand through my hair to angle and position my head as he wants. Coveting me in his embrace, coaxing my mouth and body into full submission of his unrelenting kiss. Luke moans into me, and I swear my closed eyes roll into the back of my head as my toes curl.
“So sweet,” he whispers against my lips, before taking another taste and pulling away, leaving cool air in his wake and a feeling of loss on my humming lips.
He’s never kissed me like that. Never made me feel so loved.
In the year we were apart, his kisses might have been one of the things I missed most about him. They were like phantom limb pain. I knew they were go
ne. That they weren’t coming back, yet I still felt the agony their absence produced on a nearly daily basis. My downtime was severely limited, but in the darkness of night, or the quiet beat in between traumas and patients, I thought of Luke and the kisses that always managed to liquefy my insides.
I have no idea what this kiss means, if it even means anything—whether it’s a thank you for his hand, or another attempt at reuniting us.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he says with regret, his eyes closed tightly.
“Right,” I snap out, my kiss-induced fog instantly gone. “Yeah. Clearly a mistake.”
I turn my head to hide just how truly angry I am at myself. Just how hurt I am. What am I thinking?
I pack up my stuff and run out of his apartment as fast as my feet will take me.
And he does nothing to stop me.
27
Ivy
* * *
My phone rings the moment I reach the bottom step, but I don’t answer it. By the fourth call, I’m done with this as I furiously press the button on my steering wheel, answering the call.
“That’s not what I meant,” he says through the speakers of my car.
“I’m not following.”
“Sure you are, but you can pretend all you want.”
“What’s your point, Luke? Despite what you say, you didn’t even acknowledge I was alive until I came back.” I wipe at a tear that has decided to fall, because this all still feels like a fresh wound. “I’m the girl you cast aside when things get too serious and pull toward you when the moment strikes your fancy. I’m done with these games! So I’ll ask you again, what the bloody hell is your point?”