Reaction

by Jessica Roberts

  I ignored his sarcasm and continued, “I know that I wanted to tell you, and I tried, so many times. I kept postponing it until I felt it was the right moment. But that moment came too late. Again, some of the memories are a little bit fuzzy.”

  “That’s convenient.”

  Couldn’t he cut me any slack? I had planned to wing it once I got here, but now I was wondering if that was such a good idea since I wasn’t explaining myself very well.

  “Maybe you should learn how to tell the truth from the start,” he said, and my eyes narrowed.

  “I’ll work on that.”

  “Good. And if you’re here to talk about us, you’re wasting your time,” he informed me, but not without a slight stiffness in his voice. “It’s not going to happen.”

  My heart took an irregular thump. “Actually, I did come here to talk about us.”

  “The bottom line is, you’re complicated, she’s not.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, the unpleasant pressure spreading in my chest.

  “With her it’s easy. I don’t feel like my world’s going to end if I don’t talk to her for a few days. I can go a week without even seeing her and be fine.”

  “And that’s normal?” I questioned, stunned by the way his rationalization was so obvious and logical to him. “I was under the impression that a good relationship was just the opposite.”

  “Calm down, the neighbors can hear you.”

  “Sounds fun, though,” I interrupted, my words punctuated by sarcasm. “Sign me up.”

  “Will you relax,” he instructed. “Listen, it’s not important that you understand.”

  “No one would understand!” I yelled. “You’re not making sense.” I took a deep breath to diffuse the flames. “You know what? Why do I even bother with you?” I crossed over several emotions, finally deciding I wasn’t ready to leave yet. It felt so alleviating to be getting it all out. “You know what I can’t believe? I can’t believe you just accepted it. You didn’t even attempt to come after me. You just let me go, without even finding out for sure.”

  “The message you left on my phone the night before you left, told me what I needed to know.”

  I was stunned he remembered a phone call from so long ago, a phone call that was more current to me through my reflection-dreams. “Nick, that phone message was about my family! I wanted to tell you the truth about them, not break up with you! You know what, it doesn’t even matter. You still let me go, without a backward glance.”

  “False. I came to your apartment. I watched your friend—” he paused, and then swore under his breath. “I watched him move all of your stuff out. For two hours I sat and watched him carry out your things, doing everything in my power not to get out of my truck and smash his head into the gutter.”

  “But I never showed up, did I?” I fought back.

  His hand rubbed down his face; the room remained still. During the silent lull, a brief memory pressed to mind, a memory from the day before the phone call and my fateful evening jog. Quickly, the memory unfolded; quietly, I suffered through it:

  Lounging on a bed in a familiar apartment, hands tangled together, talking about the car accident that took his brother’s life.

  He continued, “I didn’t even get the chance to tell him I loved him. One second we were laughing in the car, the next second his body was lying in the road, his head on my lap gushing blood on my jeans. I couldn’t get it to stop. I pressed so hard, and his blood was everywhere, and it wouldn’t stop.”

  She clutched his hand, wanting to cry for the boy who lost his older brother that day. “You don’t have to tell me any more, unless you want to.”

  “I probably should have cried,” he went on after a time. “Gotten it all out. But for some reason I couldn’t. I didn’t cry once. My mom doesn’t think my body produces tears. I guess I never cried, even when I was younger.”

  They laughed about that, because there was nothing else to laugh about.

  When the humor died, his finger stroked her face. “I hate thinking about it.”

  She turned her body into him and wrapped her leg around his. Something significant had changed in their relationship. There was a bond now, like the links of trust forged by family ties. One that would weather ups and downs, and happy and sad times. Her hold tightened; she promised herself to never let him go; to take care of him; make all the sad go away, and make him happy. He deserved her honesty, too. She would open up tomorrow night and tell him about the pain of losing her mom. But not right now. Tonight was his moment, not hers. And as promised, she would make him happy.

  She said, “When we get married can we sleep in on the weekends and cuddle totally completely naked and eat cold pizza for breakfast in bed and do all the kinky things those stupid romantic couples do?”

  “Did you say pizza?” he said with a mischievous glint in his eyes, and she broke out in laughter.

  The memory was too tender, and it yanked my heart painfully. “I never would have let you go,” I whispered into the hush, holding back my tears. “I was young and stupid, and too immature to admit the truth. But I would have come after you. I would have fought forever.” My hold weakened, and something trickled down my cheek. I wiped at it quickly, angry I was such a wuss. “I can’t do this anymore.” I turned and walked toward the front door. “It’s pointless.”

  “You know what’s pointless?” He was right behind me then. “Seeing you again.” I wiped away another stray and faced him in the entryway. “Do you know what that does to me? Can you even understand?” He wiped away another one of my tears, an odd gesture while losing one’s temper. “Do you realize what I’m going through? Having you here again? When I forced myself to accept that you were gone?

  “Heather, you left me. You walked away. And it made me crazy. It made me hate that I ever loved you. I couldn’t stand thinking about you. Your face, your laugh, all the memories. You just left, and I hated you for it.

  “And now, here you are, back in my life, and you’re still you. And I hate that you’re making me feel again. For the way you made me laugh at the park that day, for stealing my composure at the banquet, for making me want to commit murder when I walked into your apartment and saw you laying there with another guy. For making me second-guess every decision I’ve made the past year, and hurting innocent people in the process. For coming into my normal, ordinary life like a tornado and messing up everything all over again.”

  “Nick, I—”

  “You’re a plague, a sickness, a dangerous, addictive drug—” His eyelids narrowed and his voice was deeply low and dangerously measured.

  “Please, just let me—”

  “And no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop thinking about punishing you intensely, forever, tying you up and dragging you to the most remote part of the world and having my way with you, for everything I feel and everything you are.” I knew the lid of his temper had completely blown off when I caught the blaze of fire in his eyes.

  Drawn like a lost butterfly to a burning flame, I moved toward him.

  “Stay where you are,” he demanded in almost a whisper, his anger bubbling far too close to the surface.

  Though frightened by the feral look in his eyes, I didn’t stop. Some part of me needed to push him, send him toppling over the edge.

  His restrained expression turned murderous. “Back away, now.”

  “No,” I said defiantly.

  That did it.

  In the next breath, he grabbed me, taking my arms in a crushing grip and pushing me back against the front door. His touch, though rough, brought on an incredible heat that coiled in my belly.

  My back hit the door hard and the breath flew out of me. In the next second he surrounded me, his hands pressed against the door, his shoulders lifted, caging me in, bracing himself. I wanted to touch him somewhere, anywhere, but my arms wouldn’t work. My body was trembling, and all I could hear amid the rush in my head was our breaths, hard and fast, mingled in the air betw
een us, our mouths being pulled together by an invisible string that tightened and tightened with each second. Our eyes burned into each other’s, mine laced with equal parts desire and fear. He must’ve noticed the latter since his forehead pressed into mine, his eyes pinched shut, fighting against sheer need, agonizing with the ache of it.

  “Heather,” he could barely get the words out, “I’m going to hurt you. Please,” He was battling, the war raging inside of him, his voice desperate. “I can’t let myself…”

  “I…” So many thoughts were swirling inside of me: death, love, hate, lies, remorse, the coma. I have to fix this, I told myself. I can fix this. I was so close; I was in his arms. And yet the regret was excruciating.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered, and then my hands held to his waist and my eyes closed as my forehead collapsed deeper into his.

  I heard a heavy breath, and felt his head shift to the side. His face turned and leaned into my hair. Lower, lower, until his face nuzzled against my neck in a safe, intimate embrace.

  His lips were touching my neck, not in a kiss because they weren’t pressed against me.

  “You have the same, fruity smell,” his lips said, moving against my neck in a way that scrambled my brain and took the earth out from under me.

  “My shampoo,” I said in a ragged voice.

  As if responding to my words, his hand tangled into my hair. It wasn’t rough, but it also wasn’t gentle. It was desperate. I wanted so much more. I wanted his lips pressing hard on mine. My morals needed to disappear for only a moment. All I had to do was turn my head. His lips were inches….

  But my infuriating conscience nudged me and my thoughts stumbled. He was engaged for Heaven’s sake. What was I doing?

  I know exactly what I’m doing. I want him.

  We slowly pulled back in unison, and our eyes joined. When his hand fell to my cheek and his fingers swept across my chin, and even after all the gaps in my apology, the words left him.

  “I forgive you,” he said. Then he leaned in, and his lips pecked mine.

  It was the best peck-of-a-kiss I’d ever experienced. All I could think of on the ride home was the possibility of that being the first of many. How I would feel the euphoria of his lips on mine again. How his love would heal all my sorrows and injuries and weaknesses. That the bandage of his love would someday completely cover me again.

  Chapter 8

  It seemed I had a gift for designing refurbished jewelry. So far Liz had taken twenty-two pieces, and she’d sold every one of them from right off her neck. Six orders were pending, two as customs, and all in a ten-day period. It would have been unbelievable had she not brought the money back each night and taken a few more pieces.

  Vintage jewelry, who would have guessed something so frivolous could help keep me distracted?

  I was in the middle of these thoughts—having spent the last four hours making necklaces and trying to lose myself in exhaustion until I was too tired to think or feel—when I picked up my laptop with sore hands, found the white CD, plopped on my bed, and propped my back on two pillows.

  Yesterday I’d gone for my second appointment to see Doc. I’d remembered to tell him how tired I’d been lately—daily naps were no longer an indulgence, they were a necessity—and he’d given me a lecture on getting to bed at a reasonable time. He’d also reminded me that I wasn’t out of the woods yet since Persistent Reflective State Comas, or PRS as it’s commonly referred to, generally took a long time for a body to fully heal from. And then he’d given me a copy of a CD he’d received from a colleague on the aftermath of PRS. He thought it would do me some good to see how other patients “took special care of themselves” post PRS comas, with regard to nutrition, sleep, steady exercise, yada, yada.

  Last month, I had started jogging again. But lately I didn’t feel up to it. And every time I thought to go, the excitement was lost in creating more jewelry.

  Though I wasn’t too excited to watch the documentary either, I was interested to see people who had gone through the same thing I had. Comfort in numbers, there was something to that.

  As suspected, the documentary was slow, talking details about a condition I already knew too much about. And if I yawned one more time, I would possibly pull a muscle in my throat. Too exhausted to focus on the medical lingo of each specialist who came on screen, I nodded off to their mumblings…and a memory:

  An early California vacation morning, at Nick’s parent’s home, laying in Nick’s childhood bed in a tank top and cozy pajama bottoms, teeth freshly brushed, and a sleepy-eyed, messy haired hottie—whose principles slept him on the couch last night—having come into his room five minutes prior to say good morning with a brawny, warm, full-bodied hug.

  “Sorry you had to see it,” he continued the conversation about the other night.

  “You didn’t have to stick up for me,” she told him, wondering if he’d fallen asleep again the way he was face planted into the pillow. “I care what your dad thinks of me, but I care more that you guys get along. I didn’t want you to fight with him. And if I’d known he’d get so mad about our motorcycle ride—”

  “It’s inevitable,” his squashed lips mumbled into the pillow. “If there’s nothing to get mad about, he’ll find something.”

  “Well, I don’t ever want it to be about me, especially with your father.”

  “I don’t care who it is, it could be my father or the guy down the street; I’m always going to protect you. Get used to it.” And his heavy, protective arm lifted and then lay across her midsection.

  “Nick, people will say what they’ll say. I can handle it.” Well, I can handle most things, she thought disappointedly. Except facing my past.

  His head shook into the pillow. “It’s like talking bad about an angel.”

  “Come on, seriously? Did you really just call me that? You’re still asleep, huh? I’m not an angel.”

  “What are you, then?” The hand that wrapped around her waist squeezed lightly.

  “A fallen angel,” she challenged.

  That got a sleepy chuckle from him. “I’m liking the sound of that.” He turned onto his side and yanked her close by the drawstring of her pajama bottoms. “I’m not sure I believe you, though,” he said when she giggled. “You might have to prove it.”

  She was definitely up to the challenge. Quickly, before he could stop her, she rolled him onto his back and straddled his torso. “Torture game time,” she announced. “But you have some rules to follow.”

  “I don’t play by rules,” he said in a sleepy, rasped voice that almost made her change her mind about what she wanted to play.

  She put his arms under her knees. “No moving your arms. I can’t hold them down and that’s not fair, so play fair.” He chuckled at her logic. “Okay, question one, on a scale of one to ten, how good of a kisser am I?”

  “If our kiss wasn’t good, that would be my fault, not yours.”

  “So, what’s you’re answer?”

  “Ten.”

  “Huh. Using your logic, that makes you a cocky dude.”

  He grinned against her appreciative eyes. “You’re not disagreeing.”

  Definitely not, she said to herself while looking down at his half smile. It just wasn’t right to have a face like his.

  Which made her think of her next question. “Question two, what’s my best feature?”

  “That’s easy, your feet.”

  “What?”

  He chuckled lazily again.

  “Torture time,” she announced, grabbing his arms to lift them over his head for some tickle torture. His chuckle turned into a genuine laugh, something she rarely heard out of him, and it warmed her to no end.

  “One more chance,” he said as they laughed, tugging and teasing on each other’s hands. Because he was the stronger one, straddling his chest quickly turned into their chests close together.

  “My feet are my best feature?” she repeated grudgingly.

  He tugged her the rest of the wa
y down. “You’re smile,” he quietly responded, capturing hers in his.

  “Isn’t it a little early for that, you two?”

  All in one motion, Heather jumped out of his arms, almost falling off the bed in the process. He caught a wrist to steady her and she lifted a red face to see his mom, Sue Ellen standing in the doorway.

  Nick muttered to Heather, “It’s not like we’re naked or anything. Unfortunately.” He mumbled the last word, but not very quietly.

  “Nicholas Harold Richards!” Sue Ellen rebuked.

  “I’m only being honest,” he teased with a grin.

  Sue Ellen shook her head. “Good morning, Heather,” she said, changing the topic to a proper one. “How did you sleep?”

  “Really good,” Heather smiled, shifting into a normal sitting position. “Thanks for asking.”

  “Nicholas, let the poor girl get some rest.”

  “I was trying,” he announced. “But she kept coming onto me and I couldn’t get her to stop.”

  Oh, he was going to GET IT!

  At that, Sue Ellen’s head shook again. “All right you two,” she smirked, and then walked out of the room.

  Heather’s hand slapped against his shoulder. “I’m going to kill you! Harold.”

  Sue Ellen yelled something from the hallway and Heather smacked her hand over her mouth, hoping to Heaven that Sue Ellen hadn’t heard her poke fun of the family name.

  “You two are going to be tired today,” Sue Ellen finished.

  I wasn’t sure how long I’d dozed off, but the documentary was still playing in my lap. The bright laptop screen featured a lady saying something about her work. Yet, instead of listening to her, I was thinking about the memory. It killed me to recall the times when I should have told him about my mom. Why hadn’t I? I wanted to shake the girl from my memory; she was so brainless and immature. I guess I would never know how I really felt inside back then. How much the loss of my mom affected me as a little girl, the little girl who bottled up her emotions in order to survive. And everyone has memories in their past that they feel severe regret about. Severe enough to torture the soul.