Undertow

by Alessandra Torre

  I barely notice when he steps away and out of the door.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  The mechanical breaths are the only sound in the room until I sob, crawling on my knees over to the bed and gripping the bars, heaving my weight up and leaning against her bed. “Please wake up,” I plead. “Please, baby. Please. I love you and need you so much.”

  I need her fierce grip around me. Her playful gaze. The scrunch of her sunburnt nose. Her presence makes me feel invincible, as if all we have is golden time. No worries, no regrets. Two people running through life with our arms outstretched and the sun on our back. We don’t need much. We have love. We will make everything else work. Fuck Stewart. Fuck him and his speech and his intensity.

  How many women who I love are you going to hurt with that casual attitude that lets everything important slip through the cracks?

  I love her.

  I need her.

  I need her.

  I need her.

  I sob and pray reverently—for forgiveness and for her.

  Madison. My heart.

  42

  STEWART

  I cannot go back in there. I cannot go back after the words I just said. I cannot face him after I saw the way his face crumbled. He’s stood up to me so rarely in his life. And in there, in his anger and accusations, I saw the man he’s become.

  He was right. Without me and my selfish need to have her in my life, they could have had a normal relationship. Whether it had been him, or someone else, she would have found a normal life. Someone a hundred percent devoted to her rather than a job. Someone whose entire focus was making her happy, and who didn’t divvy up her passion between two dicks. His words had hit home, and I’d pushed back with every pissed off bone in my body.

  I can’t go back in there. But she’s in there, so I have to go back. I can’t leave her alone, but I also can’t face him again.

  I am an asshole.

  He is my brother.

  She has my heart.

  Fuck.

  43

  DANA

  I am sipping artificially-sweetened strawberry lemonade and debating between a Caesar salad or tuna roll when my phone rings. I consider ignoring it. It’s an unknown number, probably the office, and I don’t feel like dealing with numbers and IRS regulations right now. I let it ring three times before my OCD gets the best of me, and I slide my finger across the screen. “Hello?”

  “Dana. It’s me.” The catch in Stewart’s voice has me instantly alert, and I push aside my excitement at hearing from him as panic grips my chest.

  “What’s wrong? Is it Paul?” I feel a tightness in my stomach I haven’t felt in ten years, not since I was woken up by my mother and heard the news that broke apart our world.

  “No. Yes.” He inhales deeply, and I can suddenly see him, pinching the bridge of his nose as he struggles with whatever is about to come out of his mouth. “Paul is fine, but I need you. Can you come to Venice Regional?”

  “The hospital?” I am on my feet and moving, my purse in my hand, abandoning my drink. I plow into the corner of a table and yelp at the stab of pain in my hip.

  “Yes. How soon can you be here?”

  Here. He’s at the hospital. “Is it Paul?” I’d asked. No. Yes.

  “Fifteen minutes. I’m in L.A. I moved back a year ago.” I feel guilty saying the news, but it’s not like he’s answered any of my calls. It’s hard to share information with a brick wall.

  “I’ll be in the ER lobby. Please hurry.”

  The phone goes dead in my hand, and I jog the remaining distance to my car, my heels clipping on the sidewalk as I stuff the phone into my purse. There is a moment of adolescent irritation that he didn’t comment on my move, the slight replaced immediately by a sense of purpose. With his lack of availability, it didn’t matter if I lived fifteen minutes or fifteen hours away. What is important is that he needs me, and that makes my heart beam. He needs someone, and he called me. He said Paul is fine. Whatever is wrong, both of my boys are safe.

  I get to my car and toss my purse into the passenger seat.

  I see him as soon as I enter the lobby, his tall frame tense and hunched into a chair by the vending machine. He strides toward me and we collide, his arms encircling me, a tight kiss pressed to the top of my head.

  “Let’s step outside.”

  He speaks to the receptionist, who regards him with disdain, an odd reaction to Stewart’s looks and traditional charm.

  We step into the afternoon heat, and he stops by a bougainvillea and leans against a column of the overhang. “You got a light?”

  “A cigarette?” I stare at him for a long moment before digging in my purse for a pack of Marlboros and a lighter. “What happened to your decade-long health kick?”

  “It just ended.” He taps one out and lights it, cupping his hand around the flame and inhaling deeply.

  I take the pack from him and shake out another, stuffing the box back in my purse. “What’s going on? As delighted as I am to hear from you, it’s been three years.”

  He blows out a stream of smoke. “I know. You know what life’s like. Time is gone before you even know it.”

  “Whatever.” I snorted, lighting my own cigarette. “I don’t think you have any idea what life’s like. You know what work’s like.”

  He’s silent for a moment, staring out at the parking lot. Before us, a family of five barrel toward the door, faces grim, the youngest tripping over the curb beside us. I ignore the little girl, my attention taken by Stewart’s turn toward me. He hasn’t lost the intense gaze, that stare that cuts through any bullshit, managing to protect him while invading your soul.

  “I need your help.”

  “Then talk to me.”

  He looks back out on the street, the whine of an ambulance coming closer. “It’s about a girl.”

  Reality hits me like a fifty-pound wrecking ball, and I curse my own stupidity. Duh. I only know one fact about his current life. One blonde fact who prances between him and Paul. Of course, this is about her. How did it take me this long to see it? “Is it Paul?” No. Yes. I should have known the minute I got his call. “Go on.”

  “I’m in love.” He brings the cigarette to his lips and sucked on the end, then flicked it to the ground. “She’s amazing, D. She’s amazing and beautiful, and I’ve screwed it all up.”

  I clamp my mouth shut, and hope that I look innocent.

  “I was too busy. Working—you know my schedule. She wouldn’t give me an exclusive relationship, not when I could only see her once a week or so.”

  I arch a brow and study his handsome profile, a sliver of respect reluctantly wedging its way into my hatred for the blonde. “Good. You don’t have time for a house plant, much less a woman.”

  He stubs the toe of one glossy dress shoe on the cigarette. “I know. So, I told her to see someone else. I told her I’d share her. Told her to date him and me at the same time.”

  I almost blow my cover and say Paul’s name. Almost. I swallow the words and aim for a casual tone. “Share her? With who?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t know and didn’t care. I just told her to find someone who made her happy. Someone who understood that I wasn’t going anywhere.”

  “And you thought that would work out?” I stab the end of the cigarette onto the column and cross in front of Stewart, planting my feet and staring up into his face. “You thought what? She’d date both of you? Forever?”

  He meets my stare solidly, and he’s gotten some wrinkles around those eyes. They’re faint but there, sandwiched in the lines of stress he always wears. “It was that or lose her. What was I supposed to do?”

  I scoff. “Work a normal schedule. Cut back to sixty hours a week. Enjoy life. Have an actual relationship with someone, not timeshare her out!”

  His face hardens, more lines forming. “I regret it now. I know I fucked up. But at the time—I didn’t love her then. I h
ad just met her. I didn’t know where it would go.”

  I examine his face. “You love her.” I test the words on my tongue, knowing, as my gaze moves over his features, that he means it. My big, strong, only-cares-about-work brother has fallen in love. The ambulance wail grows louder and I remember where we are standing. My blood chills. “Why are we here, Stewart? What happened?”

  His face crumbles on the edges, a flash of weakness before he straightens, his defenses back. “There was an accident,” he says. “A surfing accident. They don’t think she’s gonna make it.”

  A surfing accident. This situation suddenly has taken a nosedive into hell. I don’t need to ask if Paul was there. I don’t need to know the many parallels that must exist to tie this incident to the one ten years ago. I swallow hard, and my heart aches for my boys.

  He wipes at his face, pressing his fingers against his eyes, and my desire to comfort him is overridden by my understanding that I should give him space. “Paul,” he chokes out. “Paul was who she found. Talk about God fucking around in our lives. And when I found out… God, Dana. The things I said to him.” He drops his hands and falls back against the column, staring out at the road, his eyes bloodshot, mouth grim. He suddenly looks old. Haggard. “How did this all happen?”

  I wrap my arms around his waist and hug him tightly as I sift through everything he’d said. I’d had the entire situation wrong, had never dreamed that they were willingly sharing her.

  I pull back and look up at Stewart. “Does he love her too?”

  “He’s Paul.”

  I understand instantly what he means. Paul loves freely and easily, accepting faults and unconditional in its strength. He wouldn’t be with her if he didn’t love her.

  “Will you go talk to him?”

  “I think you should,” I say gently. “I think you’re about ten years overdue.”

  His jaw tightens. “He shouldn’t have let her go with them. You know that.”

  And it’s back to Jennifer, the broken record that can’t seem to leave our family’s song. I glare at him. “He was fucking nineteen! And Jennifer’s not coming back, whether the relationship between you two is intact or ruined. You know what she would have wanted.” I pull at his arm and make him look me in the eye. “She would have wanted you to be close. To be what you used to be.”

  His shoulders drop. “I can’t do it. I can’t go back in there after the things I said. Just go find out what he’s thinking. I called you here because I need you.” His hand tightens on me. “We need you.”

  I can’t deny that request. Not when it is the first time one of my brothers has reached out to me in years. I give him a final hug and then square my shoulders and clip toward the sliding glass doors, anxious to see my baby brother.

  44

  PAUL

  I rest my head on her stomach, feeling the rise and fall of her chest and wonder how long they will let me stay. Will it be a doctor or my brother who will make me leave? I’m caught off guard when a soft female hand touches my arm.

  “Hey.” The woman tugs on my forearm.

  I take a final breath of Madd’s scent before I rise to follow the nurse.

  But it isn’t a nurse. I stared at her for a moment, confused. It’s Dana.

  I study her features, her cheeks pudgier, her eyes older, lips still dark red and pinched disapprovingly together. I haven’t seen her in years. After Stewart’s accusations and the guilt of Jennifer’s death—I couldn’t be around our family. Each interaction was a tainted reminder of the decision I made that killed her. And now Dana’s here. A damn family reunion in the middle of Madd’s hospital room.

  My jaw tightens at the intrusion, but I can’t help the wave of comfort and relief that pushed through me. Dana was our glue, our strength. She held us together until the point when everything fell apart. And in this fresh moment of hell, I want nothing more than to wrap my arms around her. “What are you doing here?”

  She walks over to Madison and glances at the monitors. “Stewart called me. He explained the situation.”

  I make it to the chair beside her bed, and sink into it. “He blames it on me. Again.”

  She shakes her head. “No, he doesn’t. That’s his emotions talking. Same as it was with Jennifer. He’s mad at the situation. You’re just the closest thing for him to take his rage out on. Brush it off.”

  “I don’t want to brush it off. It’s bullshit. Bullshit that Madison doesn’t need.”

  She tilts her head and studies me. “Don’t speak for her. You want to speak up for yourself—fine. I think you should. I think you should tell Stewart everything that you’ve pent up over the last decade. I think you should tell him exactly how you feel about her, and exactly how you want this to end. He deserves you to verbally kick his ass, and he deserves to know how you feel about her. But it’s a two-way street, and you need to be prepared to hear what he says.”

  “I heard what he said. He made it clear what he thinks of me.”

  “But do you know what he thinks of her?”

  Her soft tone makes me pause, makes me consider my next words. “No. But I saw his reaction when he saw her. It… it wasn’t what I would expect, knowing Stewart as I—we—once did.” I look up to see her nodding, her mouth tight. “He loves her.” The words rush out of me, words I’ve held back from myself, refusing to see what was so clearly laid out in devastating order before me.

  She takes the seat to my left and reaches out, looping her fingers through mine. “I know,” she whispers.

  I lean into her, smelling smoke mixed with perfume, the scent different than what she used to wear. Her hair is now dark, a chocolate brown that suits her, and she’s wearing a suit. I study the dark pinstripe of her pants. “What do I do, Dana? This whole thing is so fucked up.”

  “You talk to him.” She pats my hand. “Go out and talk to him, away from her.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not leaving her. Not when any moment—” My words break. I swallow. “The doctor says she’s still unstable.”

  She grips my arm tightly. “You don’t need to fight over her body. Talk outside and give her a moment in peace to heal.”

  “No.” I face her, hoping she’ll see the resolve on my face. “Bring him here. She’s as much a part of this as we are. I’m not leaving her side until they drag me away. Please.”

  Her body wilts a bit, and I can see disappointment in her eyes. “Fine.” She lets go of my arm. “I’ll go talk to him.”

  “Hey,” I call out, a moment too late, as the door is swinging shut behind her. I make it to my feet and reach for the handle, but her foot kicks back, holding the door, and she raises her brows expectantly. “I missed you. Thanks for coming.”

  She steps backward, and I move forward, and we meet in a tight embrace that reminds me of what I’ve missed out on. “I love you,” she whispers.

  “I love you, too.”

  45

  STEWART

  I walk down the hall and the nurses barely glance up, the drama of earlier gone. They’ve now accepted the fact that Madison has two boyfriends, and that we are both present, the additional female regarded as a non-issue. I pocket my phone, ignoring the six new voicemails that all urgently demand a callback. They aren’t important, yet are tapping on the back of my mind with annoying persistence.

  Madison has never asked me to cut back my hours. She accepted my schedule, my obligations. She was fine with it, as long as we were non-exclusive.

  I’ve always been exclusive to her. Partly out of necessity. Adding another factor to my life—either flings or consistent fucks—would be exhausting and unwarranted. And partly—most importantly—because I’ve never met a woman who compares to her. She got under my skin from the first moment I met her. I can’t find that with anyone else, which is why I decided to propose to her on the breakneck drive to the hospital.

  Change my life.

  Make room for a marriage.

  Move her higher up on the priority list.

  A
part of me wonders if I’ll be able to cut back and work less. Delegate more?

  Six voicemails.

  Critical decisions need quick and decisive action. My current deals affect hundreds of employees, millions of dollars, and the futures of companies. I’ve never ignored calls or not returned voicemails, but I shouldn’t—can’t be thinking of them now.

  I hesitate outside her door, taking a deep breath and steeling myself for the image of her, plugged in and supported with cords and machines. For the image of him, my baby brother with stars in his eyes and all grown up, ready to fight me over the woman I love.

  I enter the room and his chin tilts up, his eyes steady on mine. He stands on the opposite side of her bed, and I step forward until the only thing separating us is her body. His eyes are damp but steady, and this is not the same man who crumbled under my words an hour earlier. This man has fight in his eyes, strength in his shoulders, and I am suddenly hit with a burst of pride in him.

  We stare at each other for a long moment without speaking, two bulls squaring off for battle, the beat of her heartbeat a sick background harmony.

  “You can’t have her.” His voice is strong, resolute.

  I glance to the monitors. “Neither one of us might get that opportunity.”

  Anger lights his face. “She’ll make it. You don’t know her. She’s strong.”

  I want to respond, to put him in his place, but the truth hits me hard. I don’t know her. I know her body, every last inch of it. I can close my eyes and draw out every curve of her skin, freckle on her face, and flex of her muscles. I can tell from her breathing when she is about to come, can describe the moan she makes when she needs it harder, the gasp when my length has hit the place where she likes it. But her?

  I’ve spent too little time with her. I love her, but I need more time to know her. I don’t know what time she wakes up in the morning, don’t know her favorite ice cream flavor, or what caused the small scar on the back of her knee. I don’t know her mother’s name, her favorite author, or how she likes her steak. But I do know that Paul is right. She has fire. She has fight. If there is a way, her mind will make it happen.