by Jamie Beck
So, Rob’s her fiancé and, apparently, a cheating lowlife. I shouldn’t rush to judgment, though, since I’ve never committed to any relationship and don’t know how long I could be loyal. But based on my own experience with Lindsey, I’m certain she doesn’t deserve to be deceived.
She puts up a brave front, but she’s basically a little girl lacking sufficient confidence to manage her own life. How does someone so privileged, pretty, and smart end up with such insecurities?
It hurt my heart to see her curled up on the floor in a hot mess of hair and tears. Comforting a teary woman was a first for me. Oddly, I could’ve stood there for a long time, stroking her hair, if she hadn’t broken free. She felt good in my arms. It’s disquieting. Neither of us should get attached in any way. She’s rebounding and I’m not boyfriend material. No strings—it’s the only safe way for me. Lindsey’s not a no-strings gal.
I shut down the laptop and consider her sorrow—her non–wedding day. Selfishly, I’m grateful Rob’s a jerk. Otherwise, Lindsey and I wouldn’t know each other at all. Also, I’d be completely alone in my compromised condition.
Of course, I realize the loss would be all mine. She’d likely be better off having not moved next door to me.
I haven’t met many truly unselfish people in my life. She’ll be a lovely bride for someone, someday. She won’t find him, though, pampered girl, until she knows herself better. She’s got a ways to go before that day arrives.
Enough about Lindsey, for Christ’s sake. Switch topics, Levi. I’ve never been so preoccupied with another person in my life.
Yearning to sit outside after too many days indoors, I stare through the glass doors at the lounge chairs on the deck. They look comfortable enough for my back. I take my book with me as I lumber across the living room. Each step causes serious discomfort, but at least I’m walking. Could be worse.
When I push open the heavy slider, my back spasms in response to the muscle movement in my core. Damn. I couldn’t move a muscle without screaming if I weren’t taking pain meds. Maybe I should take the full dose, but I’ve read too many horror stories in those spinal surgery chat rooms. I’d rather suffer the pain than end up an addict.
Gingerly, I lower myself onto the chaise and open my book. The high winds have blown out the waves, so at least I’m not missing out on decent surf. However, it’s impossible to read the flapping pages, especially since the narcotics make me drowsy. I rest the book against my chest and close my eyes to daydream under the tent of a clear, blue sky.
“My God, Levi!” Lindsey’s admonishment startles me out of a deep sleep. “How long have you been out here?”
“What time is it?” I squint up at her, barely able to move my stiff body.
“Two o’clock.” Her hands rest on her hips, a sight that’s become quite common this week. “You’re as red as a lobster. Did you wear any sunscreen?”
She lifts the book off my chest and gasps, wide-eyed, before bursting into laughter. I glance down to see a square white patch of skin inset in my now ruby-red chest.
“Aw, shit.” I touch the delicate skin.
“Oh!” She revels in my error and reaches out to touch my sunburn, but pulls back just in time. “If you want to nap, why not sleep in bed?”
“I haven’t been outside since Monday. I wanted some fresh air.” I’m sure my face is burnt, too. “Didn’t intend to fall asleep. The damn painkillers make me woozy.”
“Sorry, you’re right.” She stifles her laughter. “I didn’t mean to laugh. It looks funny, though. Do you have aloe?”
“In the bathroom.”
“Actually, you should probably wash your hair and take a sponge bath, too. How should we do that? You can’t get the incision wet.” She’s frowning now, contemplating the options. Paying absolutely no attention to whether or not I agree, she jabbers on. “I guess I could bring hot water out here and use it, and the hose, to shampoo your hair for you. If you lie on the lounge chair, your back won’t bend or get wet. I can sponge you down the back and hard-to-reach places, like your feet. You can do the rest on your own. It’s perfect because all the soapy water will evaporate. No mess!” She’s nodding and surveying the deck, still ignoring me.
“You’re not giving me a sponge bath.” The mere thought makes me twitchy and sets my mouth in a firm line.
“Why not? You haven’t cleaned up well all week, Levi. Trust me, your hair’s never looked worse.” She’s smirking now. “Don’t be embarrassed. I promise, I’ve no ulterior motive. As you know, my heart’s otherwise engaged. Let me get shampoo and aloe. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
She bolts off the lounge chair before I can lodge another protest. Her earnest lack of interest should elate me, but truthfully, her comment has the opposite effect.
I remove my back brace and lie on the chaise. She returns carrying the products, two towels, a large pot of hot water, and an empty Tupperware container.
“I’m jealous, Levi. I love when someone else washes my hair. That’s the best part of going to the salon.” She covers my chest with a towel to protect me from further sunburn. “Stay on your back, but scoot up here so your head’s a bit above the end of the chaise. Close your eyes.”
In a Tupperware container, she mixes hot water from the pot with cold water from the hose and then empties the warm contents over my head. Her free hand combs through my hair, evenly wetting it all. The sensation strips away my tension.
Once her hands are lathered up with shampoo, her fingers glide through my hair. She applies the perfect amount of pressure to my scalp, sending tiny currents of energy down my neck. I’d gladly stay in this paradise for hours, but, too quickly, fresh warm water rinses over my head. I’m so tranquil I could fall asleep again.
“Can you roll over, Levi?” She mixes another soapy batch in the Tupperware and wrings out a washcloth. Starting at my neck, she gradually works her way down my shoulders and back, steering clear of the bandaged area. “We should get these sweats off you.”
I’m enjoying this blissful process too much to protest. She carefully removes my sweats and scrubs the backs of my legs and my feet. A startling erotic shock jolts through me, suddenly making me uncomfortable.
“Okay. See? Not so terrible, right? Let’s get you up now. You can take care of the rest inside. I’ll get you some clean clothes. Any preference?”
Using the extra towel, she quickly pats down my legs and towel dries my hair. It takes an effort to stand up—like I’m an arthritic old man—but once I’m up, I wrap a towel around my waist. When her fingers unknot the tangles from my hair, my reflexes kick in and I grab her wrist. Jesus, I may need her help, but I’m still a guy whose body reacts when an attractive woman’s touching me.
“I can take it from here.” I hide the evidence of her effect on me by turning toward the door. “Thanks.”
“Okay. I’ll clean this up.”
I wave my arm in the air to acknowledge her remark. Must get away from her right now. Of course, it’s no easy feat for me to get fully undressed, clean myself, and put on fresh clothes. I take my time, opting for a robe rather than ask for help with another pair of pants.
When I return downstairs, she’s got her hands on her hips again.
“What now?” I can’t imagine what made her mad when I wasn’t even in the room.
“The doctor said steps only once each day. I said I’d get you some fresh things. Now you’ve already come down twice, and gone up once. Don’t you want to heal?”
I roll my eyes. “Hey, you ain’t my mama.” Damn, grammar slip. Darkness settles inside me now that I’ve reminded myself of Mama and of Pop’s letter. My attitude shift must be visible, because Lindsey blanches slightly before shrugging and ordering me to lie on the couch.
“How about turkey with some of this pink cranberry mayo?” she asks.
“Fine.” I’m uneasy with her growing familiarity in my space, but am equally unwilling to surrender the benefits of her care and attention. She must’ve acquired this k
nack from her own parents. But I suspect all this fuss can make one soft.
I won’t allow myself to become soft.
Lindsey sets my lunch on the table and promptly leaves the room. I assume she went to fix her own lunch, but then hear her climbing the stairs. She descends more slowly, like she’s carrying something heavy.
“What’re you doing?” I call out.
She appears, hoisting a laundry basket to her hip. “Laundry.”
“Put it down.” I scowl. “You’re not doing my laundry.”
“You can’t lift anything, Levi. Do you want it to pile up?” She scowls right back at me. “I know how to do laundry. I won’t ruin your clothes.”
Next thing I know, she exits the room with the basket in hand. When she returns, I’m pissed.
“What?” She collapses in the chair opposite me. “Why’s it a big deal?”
“Don’t you have other things to do today? Quit using me as a distraction from doing whatever you came to Malibu to do.”
She sits back, mouth agape. “I liked you better this morning. You sure can run hot and cold, can’t you?”
“Don’t turn this on me. Why’s it so hard for you to be alone? If you hadn’t moved in the other week, I’d be managing. Not that I don’t appreciate your help. You’ve been real sweet, but I’m not comfortable with you all up in my business—or in my laundry.”
She folds her hands in her lap and averts her eyes. I notice a subtle slump in her posture. When she finally looks up, her eyes are dewy.
“Jesus, Lindsey, don’t go crying on me.” I inhale and count to ten in my head. “Why are you crying? I said I appreciate your help. Look, I’m not used to taking orders from anyone, or giving anyone free range in my home. You’re coming and going, getting in my drawers and closets. It’s freaking me out a little, okay?”
She nods. “I’m sorry, I’m only trying to help. As you’ve gathered by now, my life’s a mess. Helping you gives me a purpose, and I need a purpose now or I’ll really lose it. But it’s not your problem. I know you’re very private. I’ll back off.”
She’s piqued my curiosity.
“What’d you do in New York?”
“What?”
“Did you have a job, or did you spend your days taking care of your boyfriend or your family or whatever? What was your purpose there?”
Lindsey’s demure expression is almost apologetic. “I wrote fashion magazine articles.”
“So why don’t you do that here and now?”
She shrugs and frowns. “I could, but I’m not inspired. I didn’t care about it very much.”
“What do you care about? What drives you?”
Her forehead creases more deeply. Oh no, more waterworks.
“I don’t know. That’s the problem. I don’t know what I care about—what I want.”
Unfortunately for her, my patience for whining is limited.
“Hey, stop it. If you want to moan and groan about being unfulfilled, take it someplace else. Don’t ask for sympathy from me. You have everything and always had everything. Plenty of people out there got nothing but real problems. They worry about how to feed their kids or overcome an illness or significant loss. Don’t sit around wallowing in self-pity. You have an education, money, parents who care, a boyfriend who wants you back, and friends. Stop analyzing everything and quit trying to please everyone else. Just take a step, and then another. Eventually you’ll be walking on your own.”
Her face stills in shock. “Gee, Levi, don’t hold back. How do you really feel?”
“Go ahead and deflect. But I’m not the one who doesn’t know what I want in my life.” As I say the words, I’m struck by the hypocrisy, considering, only two weeks ago, I’d begun to wrestle my own feelings of boredom and dissatisfaction. “I’m not perfect, God knows, but I don’t let other people dictate the terms of my life, dictate what I should do or how I live my life. Consider what you enjoy and then build your purpose around that pleasure. No one else can determine it for you.”
She’s staring through me now. My sharp tongue probably wasn’t the most effective approach, especially today, when she’s vulnerable because of the wedding that wasn’t. I’m about to apologize when she snaps out of her funk.
I brace for more tears, but her eyes are dry.
“You have a point, Levi. Something to consider. For now, however, I’m doing your laundry. I’ll continue taking care of you until you can fend for yourself. I’m good at it and it makes me happy to be helpful. So, for now, you’re my temporary purpose.”
She nods in affirmation of her own statement, stands up, and stalks out of the room. Ten minutes later, she informs me she’s leaving and will stop back later with dinner.
I surrender to her will. “Okay, Nurse Ratched.”
Lindsey stops short and shoots me a wry look, one brow raised. “Interesting reference. If you’d prefer Nurse Nightingale to Nurse Ratched, then adjust your sour attitude. See you at dinner. Try to stay flat on your back for most of the afternoon, please.”
She tilts her head slightly, awaiting my retort, but I leave her hanging. She smiles, pleased by my silence. I shake my head and wave her off.
Her emotional spectrum exhausts me. Today I’ve played counselor twice to her tears. Sandwiched in between those events, I endured an arousing sponge bath that left me horny and frustrated. Ultimately, no matter what I say, she does whatever she wants anyway. I may as well not talk, because it makes no difference to her. Jesus, she’s challenging.
I close my eyes and relive the pleasant sensation of her hands in my hair. Man, I’m in trouble.
Lindsey
Since Levi and I argued last week about his laundry, we’ve stopped bickering at every turn. We’ve fallen into a bit of a routine with meals, mail, and errands. He’s more agreeable outdoors than when he’s cooped up, so I’ve taken him to local parks for short walks each day. I even coaxed him to go to the Adamson House, which was always one of Aunt Sara’s and my favorite places.
He continually eyes the sand and surf, but he’s not ready for the strain they’d cause. He’s still recuperating and hasn’t even started therapy yet. Sometimes his body is wracked with throbbing back spasms after overexertion, but each day he seems to improve a little. Of course, he could be lying just to be rid of me sooner.
One thing I shouldn’t have tackled is his laundry. He’s very particular about proper folding technique. His method takes longer than mine, but I’ll concede his clothes and towels stack more neatly.
I’m getting sick of seeing that robe, but he refuses to allow me to help bathe him or wash his hair again. It’s too bad, because I enjoyed toying with his hair, and he actually relaxed when I did, which was a first.
Surprisingly, I’ve overheard calls from some of his friends. He’s not quite the loner I originally surmised. Not surprisingly, he skirts the truth about his current circumstances and simply puts off “getting together” until some future date. Once or twice I overheard him speak in a soft, gentle tone of voice—playful—and it left me feeling curiously disgruntled.
I wonder about what kind of woman he’s attracted to—physically and emotionally.
Not me, that’s for certain. Not at eighteen and not now.
I tread on his every nerve.
That aside, there’s been some upside to our situation. He’s taught me how to prepare a delicious mussels-marinara sauce, as well as a mustard-maple glaze for pork chops. I know I did a decent job because he was complimentary and ate everything. Although cooking’s not relaxing to me, I enjoy eating the final product. He’s a proficient tutor, even from the sofa, though he’s confounded by why I can’t master the proper use of a knife.
At any rate, caring for him keeps me busy and, at times, even entertained. As I initially suspected, he often maintains an opposing viewpoint and holds nothing back out of kindness. He’ll be excellent at administering tough love if he ever becomes a parent.
Levi’s quite a conundrum. He lives in a space protected
by a hardened outer shell, but then his odd charm impresses me when I least expect it. Every once in a while, I catch him studying me and smiling. Of course, he can whisk it all away in a flash.
We might be enjoying a discussion of an inspiring book, debating a current event, or drinking a glass of wine, but when I ask anything about his family, he’ll shut down.
There’s also a storm shift in his eyes whenever my mother’s calls interrupt us. He’ll abruptly withdraw and remain distant after I hang up with her. I think he doesn’t like her, which seems silly since they’ve never met. All my friends love my mom, especially my male friends. She’s beautiful and charming and has a way of capturing the attention of most men. I didn’t inherit that gene.
Midmorning, I stop in to check on Levi and am surprised he’s not on the deck or in the living room. I creep upstairs and gently knock on his bedroom door. His failure to respond raises concerns. It’s unusual for him to sleep this late.
When I peek in his room, he’s sprawled across his bed. The rumpled sheets are kicked to the floor. My first thoughts have nothing to do with his health, and everything to do with a growing infatuation. From a distance, I admire his practically naked physique, his sleepy face at rest amid the pillows.
Sunlight spills over his body, illuminating the sculpted contours of muscle in his shoulders, torso, and thighs. My God, he sure hit the DNA jackpot. I lick my lips, then feel the heat rush to my face. But I can’t take my eyes off him. A wicked part of me envisions jumping into that bed. . . .
Good God, I shouldn’t be standing here staring at him while he’s passed out. Guilt spoils my lusty daydream and I begin considering the situation.
He mustn’t have slept well last night. He’s slightly ruddy and sweaty but his room is not particularly hot. Perhaps the sun beating on him is too warm. I tiptoe to the windows to close the blinds before I exit his room and descend the stairs.