Puzzled, Emily held her ear against Mac’s door. Not hearing any activity, she knocked softly and pushed it open. Mac sat reclined in the hospital bed, facing the window, where bright morning sunshine streamed in, illuminating the dust motes dancing on the air above the heating vent.
“Mac?” She approached, stopping herself from sitting next to him on the bed when his cold gaze met hers. “Sean said that you were upset…” About what, she didn’t know, but she’d have to find a way to soften his icy mood.
He stayed silent, mercilessly letting her words dangle, giving her no hint as to what was going on.
“He said it was over something he said…” she added, trying again to spur him into conversation.
“Tell me something,” he said finally, assessing her with his glacial gaze. “Are you one of those women who only wants to be with a man she thinks she can fix?”
She laughed, surprised by his question. “No. I don’t actually believe I can fix people. So no, I don’t want a man that I can fix. Why are you asking me this? Is that what Sean told you? That I need to fix people or something?”
He ignored her question. “Do you get some kind of charge out of manipulating people?”
“No! What are you getting at?”
“I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on between us. Am I your favorite patient? A bit of challenge? A personal pet project?”
Her pulse quickened at the accusation in his tone. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I had a feeling the night we met that Sean was trying to set me up with you. I just didn’t know it was because he thought I needed counseling.”
Emily’s stomach dropped. She could only imagine what her idiot brother had said and how it must have appeared to Mac. “Please, you have to know I never went along—”
“Didn’t you?” His voice took on a falsetto quality. “It helps to talk about what’s bothering you, just saying it out loud can help,” he mimicked, throwing her words back at her. “Isn’t that the kind of talk therapy you do with your clients? Was my supposed psychosis just too tempting for you to pass up?”
“Stop! Stop it now.” She’d be damned if she was going to let him twist things around, making a farce of what they’d shared together. “You’re right. Sean did ask me to talk to you.” She stepped closer to his bed. “He was worried about you, and he thought I could help. But I told him to get bent, that his plan was asinine, and that I would never go along with it.”
“Except that you did.” He stretched out an arm for emphasis, his movements pulling on the tubing and making the IV bag swing on its perch above his head. “You got me talking about the shooting, telling you things I’ve never told anyone else—never even fully admitted to myself. What do you call that?”
Her throat tightened and her words came out as little more than a whisper. “I call that loving you.”
He stared back at her, his entire body rigid with tension, mistrust evident in his narrowed gaze.
“God, you’re such an idiot,” she said, a nervous laugh escaping even as her eyes began to burn from the frustrated tears she held in check. “Do you think I tell my clients the things I told you that night? I confided in you too, you know. I turned to you for comfort just as much as you turned to me. That’s called being in a relationship. If you can’t tell the difference between that and counseling then I feel sorry for you.”
“You lied to me.” The words came out slow and gruff.
“I never—”
“Yes, you did,” he said, speaking faster. “You sat there and let me tell you the whole fucking story about the shooting when you’d already heard it all from Sean.”
“I—”
“And do you want to know what the best part is?” he asked with a bitter laugh. “I wasn’t as fucked up as you two thought. You guys probably had some crackpot theory that I froze up the night of that domestic dispute, that I couldn’t draw my gun because of what happened before, that I was—what? Suffering from PTSD or something, right?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer, but continued, somehow enunciating his words despite his clenched jaw. “I didn’t draw my gun that night because—much as I hate the son of a bitch—I didn’t exactly relish the thought of shooting my own fucking father.”
Emily gasped. She ached for him, knowing that he’d faced his own father at gunpoint and how awful that must have been. She wanted to reach out to him, but she stayed rooted to the spot, knowing instinctively that he would reject her comfort.
“Sean didn’t piece it together because my mother and I didn’t keep his last name, and Martin was too drunk that night to put together two sentences, but he damn well knew I was his son. And I’d like to think that even he wouldn’t shoot his own son.”
“That’s why he came that morning,” she whispered. “That was the weapons charge he was talking about.”
Mac nodded. “So, you see? Sorry to disappoint you Em, but I don’t need fixing. I have no problem doing my job—except apparently—when it comes to shooting my father, which I’d like to think is a pretty normal reaction and not indicative of some type of psychosis.”
His sarcasm made it obvious how much it irked him to think she and Sean had plotted some elaborate scheme to save him from himself. She understood his feelings of betrayal, but her own frustration at not being able to make him understand was quickly squashing any patience she might have had. “I don’t know how many times I can say this. I wasn’t trying to be your counselor, Mac. I wasn’t trying to fix you or change you. I only wanted to be there for you, to love and accept you, the same way you were there for me.”
He was silent, his brown eyes so cold and dark they appeared obsidian.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” she asked.
“I think you should go.”
She froze at the sound of cold determination in his voice, unable to move, or even breathe.
“Besides,” he said bitterly. “I’m sure you’d lose interest in a few weeks anyway. Once I’m up and around and don’t need you to nurse me back to health, there’d be no reason for you to stay, would there?”
Searing, red-hot anger replaced the coldness in her veins. Did he really think so little of her? “So, that’s what you think of me, huh? That I have some unhealthy need to be needed? That I’ll only want to be with you if I think you’re broken in some way?”
His lips forming a tight line, he said nothing. She guessed his angry silence was answer enough.
“You know what, Mac?” She inhaled quickly, holding back a sob. “Go to hell.”
* * *
“Sweetheart, when will I get to meet that lovely young woman I spoke to on the phone? I thought she’d be here when I arrived.”
Five minutes. It had taken less than five minutes for his mother to get to the topic of Emily. She had, of course, taken a moment to hug him close, to thank God he was all right, to interrogate the nursing staff on his treatments, and to inspect the area where his chest tube had been removed to verify it was healing acceptably well, but then Amelia McAvoy had wasted no more time in getting to the subject that no doubt intrigued her most—Emily, the new woman in his life.
“You’re not going to meet her, Mom,” he said through gritted teeth, trying to rein in his irritation.
“Well, why ever not? She sounded quite taken with you on the phone. She’s your friend Sean’s sister, isn’t she?”
“Yes.” This was the last thing he wanted to discuss with his mother, or anyone else for that matter. He wanted nothing more than to put Emily and the false moments they’d shared in his rearview mirror. And then he wanted to take a bat to the damn mirror and smash the crap out of it.
He avoided his mother’s probing gaze, her brown eyes, so like his own, conveying her worry. “She told me you saved her life. She was so grateful for all you’d done to help her. She said you’d even taken leave from work to help protect her. I got the impression that the two of you had become close.”
“Well, impressions can b
e deceiving.” He shifted in the bed, adjusting the blanket, and avoiding his mother’s knowing gaze.
Her thoughtful silence extended so long that Mac began to hope she would drop the subject until she said quietly, “I can see you don’t want to discuss this—which just confirms my suspicion that something more is going on between you two—but I’m not going to force you to tell to me about it.”
Well, that would be a refreshing change—a woman who didn’t want to make him talk about his feelings.
“But I hope you won’t cut her out of your life too quickly.”
He raised his questioning gaze to his mother’s face.
She opened her mouth, paused, and closed it, seemingly indecisive about how to begin. Finally, she said, “You have a tendency, my dear, to be very unforgiving. Once you make up your mind about someone, you can be very inflexible.” She paused, inhaling deeply, her exhaled sigh full of regret. “It’s my fault, I’m sure. For too much of your childhood you watched me be too forgiving with your father. I put up with his behavior for far too long, mistakenly believing that I was the only one who suffered, and that it would be better for you to have two parents rather than just one useless mother.”
“Mom—”
“No,” she said, raising a palm. “Let me finish. I was wrong about that.” She reached out, her thumb gently rubbing the scar at his temple, as if she could somehow erase it, wipe it away as easily as a smudge of dirt. “I realized how wrong I was the day you got this.”
Her hand fell away from his face and covered his balled up fist. He felt the warmth of her grasp and looked down, surprised by the signs of age on the back of her hand, the faint brown spots and the thinness of her once vibrant skin.
She gripped his hand a little tighter. “But don’t learn the wrong lesson from that. Forgiveness is not always weakness.”
What his mother couldn’t understand was that forgiveness wasn’t the entire issue. He might be able forgive Emily for meddling in his life, for trying to help, for conspiring secretly with Sean, but what he couldn’t forgive and refused to accept was her loving him for the wrong reasons. If Emily’s affection came from pity, if she needed to be needed, needed to hold the upper hand in a relationship—as he suspected she did—then they could never be together.
He would not accept love offered on those terms.
* * *
“How about some coffee?” Julie asked.
“None for me, thanks,” Emily said, a touch resentful that memories of Mac could ruin this ritual for her. Now whenever she had coffee—or pretended to have coffee as it were—she was reminded of his teasing grin and thoughtful scented candle gift. Even just watching Julie pour herself a cup, seeing the steaming liquid brought to mind the rich brown color of his eyes.
Julie studied her from across the kitchen island where they were perched on wooden stools. Henry napped nearby, the gentle cadence of his mechanical swing interrupted occasionally by the joyous shouts of Hannah and Jamie playing upstairs.
“He still hasn’t called, has he?” Julie asked, not even needing to say his name. They both knew who he was.
“No.” Emily sighed. “And I’ll tell you what, I’ve about given up. I’m done making a fool of myself.”
She’d left multiple messages on his phone in the days after their blow-up, ranging in tone from apologetic to concerned to downright pissed. “I get that he felt like Sean and I went behind his back, and I feel bad that I wasn’t upfront with him about what Sean had told me, but I don’t know how many times I can say I’m sorry, especially when I didn’t do what he thinks I did.”
She made herself take a calming breath. She was getting worked up, and she didn’t want her ranting to wake Henry.
Julie wrapped her hands around her world’s-best-mom mug. “So, what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know that there’s anything I can do.” Just saying the words made her feel suffocated, hopeless. “I can’t force him to trust me. I’ve said everything there is to say. It’s his move.”
And every day that he didn’t make a move—toward her, toward reconciliation, toward love—her heart broke a little more. Pieces of it shattering again and again, leaving her wondering if there’d be anything left soon. The heartbreak left her cold, alone, and increasingly angry. How could he do this to her? To them? And all because of his stupid pride.
Julie reached across the table, placing a comforting hand on Emily’s forearm. “He’d be a fool to let you go. You know that, right?”
She tried to smile, but knew the effort was unsuccessful. “Well, at least I have you to lean on if he does.”
Julie gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “Yes, you do have me, and I’m glad you’ve finally realized that.”
And she had Sandra. The friends she’d finally allowed herself to open up to. She would need them now.
She’d thought she could protect herself by not relying on others, but if she’d learned anything, it was that a person had to let as many people in as possible. So there’d be someone to help pick up the pieces. When love was lost. And a heart was broken.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Feeling depressed? Stressed? Anxious? Talk to your doctor today.
Sitting shirtless on the exam table, waiting to be seen, Mac studied the poster hanging in his doctor’s office. It depicted a middle-aged man, his hair distinguishingly gray at the temples, seated across from a white-haired gentleman with a clipboard on his lap. The body language of the two men conveyed open communication, arms and legs uncrossed, facing one another, the psychiatrist listening attentively and the patient clearly relieved to have his every thought broadcast and dissected. It was a public service ad to encourage men to seek psychological services.
He looked away, unaccountably irritated by the ad. Why did everyone assume it wasn’t okay to feel depressed or anxious? Shit happened. Life was messy. Running to a shrink every time things got uncomfortable seemed like the new trendy thing to do. Enlightened people sought therapy. If you couldn’t talk about your feelings then you couldn’t be emotionally stable.
Bullshit.
He saw the value in what people like Emily did for a living, but it wasn’t for him. He needed to work through things on his own time at his own pace. And it rankled him to admit that Emily had helped him process his feelings in any way.
But talking to her had helped him. Yes, he still felt sorrow over the tragic loss of young life anytime he thought of Mitchell Swanson, but he no longer carried the burden of self-blame. Mitchell had made his decision, had set events in motion that Mac had had no control over and could never undo, and he’d begun to make peace with that. The nightmares had lessened, and the chest-crushing guilt had eased. And if he was completely honest with himself, the genesis of those changes came from Emily.
And that was the rub. The tiny grain of truth that irritated and caused him to spin a protective pearl around his heart. He didn’t like needing someone, especially when he might need Emily more than she needed him. It made him feel weak, inadequate.
There was a soft warning knock, and he turned toward the door, the paper beneath him crinkling on the exam table. His surgeon entered, glancing up from the pages he was flipping through in Mac’s chart.
“Well, everything is looking great. The report from your respiratory therapist looks like you’re practically good as new. How are you feeling?”
“I feel great, Doc. Ready to get back to work.” There could be no truer words. The last few weeks had been torturously slow, giving him entirely too much time to think about things. To think about Emily. To yearn. He needed to get back to work. Immediately.
“All right then, let’s take a look at this wound.”
The doctor took Mac through a series of exercises, asking about his pain and making little grunts of approval as they went.
“Okay. Well, I can’t see any reason for you not to return to work if you’re feeling ready for it.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose before jotting some notes on Mac’s c
hart.
“Great. I’m more than ready.”
There was just one more thing he wanted to do first. One last loose end that needed to be tied up before he got back to his old life and his old self.
* * *
He should have called first. This was easily the stupidest, most impulsive thing he’d ever done, but when you finally felt ready to do thing you’d dreaded, you needed to act—and act fast—before the motivation passed.
Mac knocked on the door of the modest townhouse and then buried his hands back in his jacket pockets. All signs of autumn were gone and winter was moving in fast, well before its official start date. Early November winds whipped past, so fast and cold it was hard to breathe.
The door opened, and he froze, watching recognition dawn over Ruth’s features.
“Hello,” she said, neither welcoming nor discouraging, but maybe a touch curious.
“Mrs. Swanson, I was wondering if I could have a few words with you.”
Before he’d even finished his sentence, she was backing up and motioning for him to enter. He stepped inside, and she quickly closed the door against the cold wind. The house was warm and smelled faintly of baked goods, something with pumpkin in it.
“May I take your coat?” she asked, her brown eyes assessing him.
“Thank you.” He handed her his jacket.
She hung it up in the front hall closet and then led him into the living room. He sat in a comfortable leather-upholstered wingback chair and Ruth took a seat in its matching counterpart. The room was comfortable, decorated with traditional looking furniture and two tall bookcases flanking the brick fireplace. Her home had a studious feel, like being in an old comfortable library.
Ruth leaned forward, her eyebrows raised, obviously curious as to the reason for his visit.
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