The Last Goodbye

by Sarah Mayberry

  A waterproof chair was in the shower stall, ready for his father’s return, and a handheld showerhead was fitted alongside the regular one. The safety rails were good-quality chrome, their surface cross-hatched for grip. He noted with approval that the installer had fixed them into the stud instead of relying on plaster fasteners. Over all, a good job. He made a mental note to send a thank-you email to the contractor.

  He returned to the living room, feeling restless, and yes, frustrated.

  He’d driven to Woodend this evening with an idea in his mind about the way the immediate future might pan out. Useless to pretend that Ally hadn’t featured prominently. He’d anticipated getting to know her. He’d hoped to sleep with her, to act on the tension and attraction that crackled between them every time they met. He hadn’t gone much beyond that in his mind, but there’d been a sense of potential around his feelings for her.

  But Ally wasn’t interested. What had she said again? I like you. Us getting involved would be a mistake. Then she’d held his fingers to her pulse so he understood that she was as aroused and fired up as he was.

  Yet she’d turned him away. Because—and he still couldn’t quite get his head around it—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a one-night stand.

  What did that mean? That she only slept with “slam, bam, thank you, ma’am,” kind of guys? That she wasn’t interested in liking or getting to know the person she was naked with?

  He collected his toothbrush and toothpaste from his bag. He thought about the other thing Ally had said as he returned to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

  I don’t know about you, but that doesn’t happen for me every day.

  It hadn’t happened that way for him for years. Not since he’d been a teenager, wild and horny and needy. One touch of her, one taste and he’d been on fire, game for anything. The odds were good that if she hadn’t called a halt he’d have gotten her naked right there on the deck, he’d been so carried away.

  And now he was hard all over again, simply from thinking about her.

  Better get over that quickly, mate, because it’s not going to happen.

  He was disappointed. More so than the situation probably warranted. Rationally, the world wasn’t going to end tomorrow because a woman he’d met a few times didn’t want to explore the attraction between them. Life was full of small missed opportunities.

  Suck it up, big guy.

  He spat toothpaste into the basin, rinsed his mouth and dried his face. Then he took himself back to the couch and another bad night’s sleep.

  AFTER TOSSING AND TURNING for nearly two hours, Ally got out of bed and had a cold shower. Embarrassing to admit to herself how unsettled and aroused she was after a few hot and heavy moments in Tyler’s arms. They’d pressed against each other and kissed for no more than five minutes, ten tops—and hours later her body was still humming with need.

  This is why he’s dangerous. You’re always attracted to men you can’t have.

  She let the cold water hammer the back of her neck, the place where she could still feel the imprint of Tyler’s hand against her skin.

  The way he’d kissed her…

  The extraordinary thrill of need and desire that had rippled through her when he’d slid his hand onto her breast…

  In that small breathless moment her imagination had rampaged ahead. She’d seen Tyler peeling off her clothes. Seen herself stripping him of his. She’d imagined him on top of her, big and strong, her legs around his hips. The welcome, masculine weight of him pressing her down. Then, the push of him as he slid inside her, filling her…

  She’d wanted it all so badly. Too badly. Too much. An alarm had sounded in the back of her mind, a warning that this was too intense, that he was too much. That if they took this to the inevitable conclusion, it would be much more than a quick roll in the hay with the sexy guy from next door.

  Ten years ago, when she’d been in her early twenties, Ally would have thrown caution to the wind and dived headfirst into whatever developed between her and Tyler. Sex, or more than sex, or something in between—her younger self would have been up for anything and everything, heedless of the consequences. She’d prided herself on being a bohemian like her wild, freewheeling artist mother, on being open to experience. And yet it was experience—bitter, sad, shameful experience—that had taught her that some things were not for her.

  Daniel had been broken when she’d left him. He’d dreamed of a future for the two of them, and she’d let him. And then, as always, she’d started to feel suffocated and smothered and she’d chipped away at their happiness until Daniel had finally told her to go if she wanted to. And, God help her, she had.

  Daniel hadn’t been the first man she’d walked away from, but she’d promised herself he would be the last. Unlike her mother, she wasn’t willing to toy with other people’s emotions in exchange for temporary happiness. And if that meant she was destined to be essentially alone, then so be it.

  For the past five years, she’d done her damnedest to stay away from men who made her feel and think and want too much. Men who had the potential to become important in her life. Men, like Tyler, who she sensed she could care for, and who might come to care for her. Men she could hurt and disappoint when she inevitably packed her bags and left. As she always, always did.

  She’d had two lovers in those five years, both of them younger than her, both fellow nomads. Good, safe choices, lovers who had offered her the comfort of human contact for a few weeks without the risk of strings.

  Not very emotionally satisfying, perhaps. Some might even say empty. But it was better than letting people down.

  She turned off the water and stepped onto the bath mat. For a moment she simply stood in the quiet darkness, letting the water roll down her body.

  Absurd, but standing here like this, the memory of what had almost happened tonight still resonating within her, she felt an echo of the panic that had dogged her in the last days of her relationship with Daniel.

  The need to go. To put him and the mess she’d made of them behind her.

  She took a deep breath, then another. She needed to rein herself in. Get a grip—and some much-needed perspective.

  She’d kissed Tyler. Pressed herself against him. Fantasized about doing more. And then she’d called a halt.

  They’d had four encounters altogether—five, if she counted the time in front of the hospital when she’d seen him break down in his truck. That was it, the sum total of their interactions to date.

  So what if the man had brought her ice cream all the way from Melbourne? In an ice chest no less? So what if she found him magnetic and compelling in the extreme? There was absolutely no reason for her to be carrying on like an overwrought and histrionic damsel in distress.

  Nothing had happened. Nothing was going to happen. She’d made that clear, and she knew Tyler had heard her.

  She combed her fingers through her hair, scattering droplets. Then she grabbed a towel and blotted away the last of the water from her arms and breasts and belly and legs.

  Naked, she walked through the silent house and back to bed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  HIS FATHER WAS SITTING on the edge of the bed when Tyler arrived at the hospital the following morning. He was dressed in a wrinkled white shirt and a pair of track pants, and his good black leather loafers sat beside the bed. His hair had been combed flat across his head. A small overnight bag was at the ready on the visitor’s chair.

  “You’re on time,” his father said.

  “I said I’d be here.”

  Tyler had been calling the hospital every other day during the week to stay informed on his father’s progress, but he hadn’t once spoken to his father, and his father had made no effort to contact him.

  No surprises there.

  Now, they eyed each other silently before his father dipped his head in a small, grudging nod.

  Tyler glanced at the overnight bag. “Is this yours?”

  “Who else would
it belong to?”

  Tyler ignored the goad and hefted the bag. “Do we need to sign you out or anything?”

  “The head nurse, the gray-haired one, said she had some instructions for you.”

  “Right.”

  He left the bag on the bed and exited the room. Sister Kemp was working at the computer when he approached the nurses’ station.

  “Mr. Adamson,” she said as he approached. “You’re here bright and early.”

  “My father is pretty keen to get home. He said you had some instructions for me.”

  “Yes. The doctor wanted us to be sure to go over your father’s medication with you.”

  They spent the next few minutes reviewing his father’s medication, then she handed him some information sheets and a list of numbers.

  “If you have any questions or feel out of your depth, call.”

  “Thanks, Sister.”

  “It’s Carrie. And I mean it about calling. It can be a daunting business, taking care of a loved one.”

  He didn’t bother explaining that he’d hired a nurse for the task. “Thanks for looking after him,” he said instead.

  “It was a pleasure,” Carrie said. “He’s a gruff old character, but once you get him chatting he’s got a lovely sense of humor. He’s had us all in stitches more than once.”

  “Yeah, he’s a real old charmer.”

  It had always been that way. The teachers at school, his friends’ parents, they’d all thought his father was an affable, easygoing guy. When he wanted to, his father knew how to lay on the charm.

  He’d simply never bothered to expend any of it on his sons.

  Tyler walked back to his father’s room.

  “Let’s go,” he said, as he collected the bag.

  His father shifted to the edge of the bed, wincing a little. Tyler watched as his father slid his right foot into the loafer, only to frown impatiently as his heel got caught on the back of the shoe. He tried again, but succeeded only in depressing the leather beneath his heel.

  “Stupid bloody thing,” his father muttered. Then he stuffed his left foot into the other shoe until he’d achieved the same half-assed result and slowly stood.

  “You can’t walk out like that. You’ll trip,” Tyler said.

  “I’m fine.” His father took a couple of shuffling steps to prove his point.

  Tyler put down the overnight bag and dropped to one knee in front of his father. “Lift your foot.”

  “I said I’m fine.”

  “Do you want to go home or not?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Then lift your foot so I can fix your shoes and we can walk out of here safely.”

  Probably there were better ways to handle the situation, kinder things to say. His father’s pride was clearly stinging at the idea of appearing so helpless in front of the son he once dwarfed. But Tyler wasn’t about to pander to him. Not now, not ever. It was enough that he was here. More than enough.

  His father muttered under his breath, but he lifted his left foot out of the shoe. Tyler unfolded the leather, then held the shoe at the correct angle to allow his father’s foot to slide inside. He repeated the move with the second shoe.

  Despite his irritation, it was impossible not to be aware of how profoundly the small act reflected the reversal of their roles.

  He pushed himself upright, avoiding his father’s eyes. “Let’s go.”

  He knew from his consultations with the nursing staff that his father had been walking the corridors each day in a bid to recover his strength, but his father’s steps were still slow. Tyler hovered at his side, one hand at the ready in case his father faltered.

  When they reached the entrance, he turned to his father.

  “Wait here. I’ll go grab the truck.”

  “I can walk.”

  “Wait here,” Tyler repeated.

  It wasn’t until he was unlocking the door that he noticed his father had ignored him and was slowly shuffling his way across the parking lot.

  Stubborn old bastard.

  Tyler had a premonition of how the next few days were going to pan out—his father belligerently trying to do everything as though he hadn’t had major surgery and a life-changing diagnosis, Tyler playing umpire and trying to curtail his excesses.

  Fun and games, to be sure.

  By way of rounding off the experience, his father attempted to get into the truck on his own when Tyler pulled up alongside him, ignoring Tyler’s order to wait for assistance. By the time they were on the road, Tyler was grinding his teeth with frustration.

  “I’ve arranged for a nurse to visit you twice a day, starting tomorrow,” he explained as they drove into town. “She’ll check your wound and your medication and help you shower. And there’s a meal service I’ve organized to bring you your meals.”

  “Don’t need a meal service. I can still cook. I’m not dead yet.”

  “You can’t live on canned food.”

  “What do you think I’ve been living on?”

  Tyler bit his tongue on the observation that his father’s current situation was hardly an advertisement for his dietary choices.

  “Canned food is full of sodium and additives. The stuff I’ve arranged for you is fresh.”

  His father set his jaw. In the old days, it would have meant a flare-up was in the offing, and Tyler and Jon would have made themselves scarce in the hope of avoiding the inevitable fallout. Today, his father merely crossed his arms over his chest and sulked.

  When they pulled up in front of the house, his father peered through the windshield, frowning as he spotted the shiny new handrails on either side of the steps.

  “Where did those ugly things come from?”

  “The hospital wanted them installed before they’d let you come home.”

  “Nobody asked me.”

  Tyler threw his hands in the air. “Fine. I’ll rip the handrails out and you can go into the hospice.”

  He was so exasperated, he actually started the truck again, ready to follow through on his threat. He knew he was overreacting, that it was stupid to let himself get fired up by his father’s pointless objections, but this was new territory for him, too, and he was acutely aware of the contradictory emotions shoving and tugging at him every second he spent in his father’s presence. Pity, anger, guilt. And, as much as he hated to admit it, the echo of old fear.

  Perhaps that was why he responded so easily to his father’s small acts of defiance—deep inside, there was a part of him that still flinched when he saw those expressions of anger and impatience in his father’s face.

  Some lessons were impossible to unlearn.

  “You Adamson blokes don’t muck about, do you? I didn’t think you’d be home until the afternoon.”

  It was Ally, standing on the pavement, smiling through the open window.

  His father made a disgruntled sound. “Did you see what they’ve done to my place? Put a bunch of ugly metal all over it. Looks like an old people’s home.”

  Ally pulled a comically concerned face. “Oh, dear. If you don’t like those I don’t want to be around when you see what they’ve done to the bathroom.”

  “The bathroom?” his father said.

  “Oh, yes. Safety rails up the kazoo. A veritable forest of shiny chrome. You’ll need sunglasses every time you go in there.”

  His father frowned. Tyler waited for the outburst—the angry words, the insults, the quickly raised fist. Instead, his father’s mouth quirked up at the side. Then he gave a little chuckle.

  “Is it that bad?” his father asked.

  “Worse. And here’s the best bit—it’s partly my fault because I let the guy in and told him what to do.” Ally made another comic face, as though she was bracing herself for the condemnation about to rain down on her.

  His father chuckled again. “You’re a bloody cheeky thing. Come on, help an old man out.”

  Tyler watched as his father let Ally support him as he slid from the pickup. It was the first
time he’d seen them together and he noted the soft light in her eyes as she looked at his father, the gentle way she held his arm.

  He transferred his gaze to his parent, trying to imagine what she must see when she looked at him. But it was impossible for him to remove the filter of his own experiences from his perception. He might be older, frailer, but the man making his way up the sidewalk was still the same man who had filled Tyler’s childhood with fear and emptied it of certainty.

  He got out and grabbed his father’s bag from the truck bed.

  Ally and his father were standing at the bottom of the steps when he joined them. His father stared at one of the rails for a long beat, then reached out and rested his hand on it.

  “Might as well use the bloomin’ things, I suppose. Since you’ve wasted my money on them.”

  Tyler bit back on the correction that rose to his lips. He’d wasted his own money making the house safe, not his father’s. But this wasn’t about money.

  His father climbed the steps slowly, then waited while Tyler unlocked the house.

  “Why don’t I leave you to settle in and come back later for a cup of tea and some cake?” Ally said.

  She hovered at the top of the porch steps, ready to descend.

  “No, no, come in now. Tyler can make us something,” his father insisted.

  “Sure. I’ll whip up a batch of scones, maybe a pavlova or two.”

  “I have some cake at my place. Why don’t I grab that?” Ally suggested.

  For the first time that day Tyler looked at her directly. She was wearing a knee length white skirt with red flowers printed on it and a white tank top. She looked tanned and bright and summery. Her eyes were cautiously warm as they met his. As though she wasn’t sure of her reception, but was pleased to see him, anyway.

  Had he been that much of a bear last night?

  “That’d be great, thanks, Ally,” he said.

  She gave him a small smile. “I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”