Just Love

by Prescott Lane

  I didn’t let her love me in those ways. I’m the man. That’s the way it is. We don’t cry. We don’t ask for directions. We provide. We are doers, problem solvers. We want to take care of our woman, our family. Be the man, that’s what we are supposed to do. Damn it, I still want to do all those things.

  She’s let me see her at her worst and at her best.

  That’s letting me love her.

  At my worst, I pushed her away.

  That’s not letting her love me.

  She trusts me to help when she needs it.

  That’s me loving her.

  I didn’t let her help me when I needed it.

  Denied her love again.

  And she’s not the only one. When Brody needed my help when his parents died, I was there. But he’s been reaching out to me for months now, and I haven’t opened one single letter.

  Opening my desk drawer, I pull out the stack, knowing they are basically in order from the latest to the oldest. I start at the bottom, pulling out the first letter he ever sent.

  Rhett,

  There are things I need to say to you, but things I’m not going to write in a letter. They need to be said to your face. I owe you that. I’m not going to stop writing until I hear from you, so your stubborn ass better get used to trying to read my doctor’s handwriting.

  Your desk is right where it’s always been. I’m not looking for a new partner. I’m waiting for my partner to come back. I don’t care how many hours I have to work to keep the place going. It will be here when you come back. Until then, I’m going to give you weekly updates on all the patients, so when you do come back, you’ll be ready.

  The letter goes on to describe Mr. Burgess’ crazy cat, a new Macaw patient that swallowed a whole cotton ball, and a myriad of other tales.

  Each letter reads like a summary of the patients charts for the week. Occasionally, he throws in some anecdote about Skye, but rarely is it anything personal, keeping his word to only say some things face-to-face.

  Flipping the page, I give Sadie a scratch, realizing how much I’ve missed it, working with Brody, helping sick animals. My life is waiting for me.

  This whole time, I’ve blamed the chair for holding me back, but it’s such bullshit. People in wheelchairs work, have families. I could’ve gone back a long time ago. Only I got stuck looking at all the things I couldn’t have anymore, instead of looking at all the things that were right in front of me.

  My parents, Brody, and Skye, they’ve all been waiting for me. I wonder if that’s true for Ainsley. From the sound of things, Brody will wait forever, but will his sister?

  I made a terrible mistake with her earlier. We started off our relationship with sex last time. This time has to be different. This time, I have to let her love me in other ways. This time, I have to let her love the broken parts.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THIRTEEN MONTHS AGO

  I was prepared to love you my whole life.

  A. Rose

  RHETT

  I hate the door. Yes, the God damn door. I hate it. I hate the door to my hospital room as much as I hate this wheelchair.

  That’s the door Ainsley walked out of. Granted, I kicked her out, but I still hate that door. Staring at it, day after fucking day, knowing she’ll never walk through it again. I could change that, but I won’t. I had to let her go. It was the right thing for her.

  But the worst pain I’ve ever felt is what I’m left with, and it has nothing to do with my injury.

  Pissed or self-pity—those are my only two moods these days. I’m either pissed at the world, or am too busy feeling sorry for myself to care about much of anything.

  Why?

  Why the hell did this happen to me?

  I’ve never done anything to deserve this. I’m basically a good person. Work hard, contribute to society, pay my taxes—isn’t there some psychopath terrorist this could have happened to?

  Everyone acted like it was a major victory that I transferred myself into my wheelchair unassisted for the first time today. Big fucking deal. I didn’t cure cancer. I’m literally sitting up. Guess this is how my parents reacted when I was a baby and sat up for the first time, clapping and carrying on. That’s when I asked them to leave.

  I need a minute alone.

  I need a minute when someone’s not asking how I am, or if they can get me anything. How the hell do they think I am? And unless someone can bring me legs that work, there’s nothing anyone can do for me.

  Turning away from the door, my eyes land on another door, the bathroom door, complete with a full-length mirror attached. It hits me. I will never stand in front of a mirror again. I will never see my whole body upright again. Never walk. I will never stand under my own power again.

  I will spend the rest of my life looking up at everyone.

  The door I hate so much flies open. Brody’s got the nurses yelling at him, threatening to call security. I wave the nurses away.

  Brody and Skye are on my list of banned visitors, too, although I never told them that to their face. I simply told the nurses and my parents that I didn’t want to see anyone. It’s been a couple days since I threw his sister out. I’m surprised it took him this long to storm into my room.

  Brody and Skye have come to the hospital every day to check on me. They’d come all happy to see me, smiling, trying to encourage me, bringing me a stupid trinket or something. I really hate seeing people smile these days. I don’t have the energy to smile back, and frankly, there’s nothing to be happy about anymore.

  “You promised me you wouldn’t hurt her,” he says, his voice straining to stay calm when he obviously wants to kick my ass. “Ainsley’s sitting in the waiting room, crying. She’s been there for days and days. I’m not sure she’s left or eaten anything.”

  “Take her home,” I say. “Take care of her.”

  “You need to see her,” he says.

  “No.”

  He shakes his head at me in disbelief. “So that’s it? You’re just going to continue to refuse to see me, Skye, all your friends, our employees, everyone that cares about you? You’re going to break my sister’s heart?”

  “Don’t stand there now and act like you ever wanted me to be with her!”

  He releases a deep breath. “On the roof that night, you asked me to talk to Ainsley. You told me she was hurting and wanted me to talk to her. I’m standing here now, telling you the same thing, and asking you to talk to her. Ainsley doesn’t deserve this.”

  I wave my arms over my broken body. “I don’t deserve this!”

  Brody winces and runs his fingers through his hair. “Rhett, I know you’re going through hell, and this is terrible, unfair . . .”

  He continues for another minute or so, saying the same kind of thing with different adjectives. I can tell Brody is uncomfortable. Most people are uncomfortable around someone in a wheelchair. They don’t know what to do or say. There really is nothing to say. Wish Sadie was here. She’d give me a lick instead of a lecture . . .

  Shit. I’ll never walk my dog again.

  I interrupt his monologue, saying, “I did what I thought was right. It’s better to break her heart now. Look at me, Brody,” I demand. “You want this for her? Does it get any worse than your sister marrying a . . .”

  “It could be a lot worse,” he says.

  “That’s not possible.”

  “You could be dead.”

  “Better than a life like this,” I snap back.

  “You can’t mean that.”

  “I do,” I say, looking him straight in the eyes.

  A shocked breath of air leaves his chest. Maybe now he’s finally getting it. Maybe at last he has some sense of understanding of how I feel. I push myself towards him. “I won’t be able to stand at the altar and marry Ainsley. I won’t dance with her at our reception. I won’t carry her over the threshold. Don’t you get it? I won’t be able to . . .”

  “You need to learn the difference between won’t and can’t,�
� he says, looking down at me. “Because you can still marry her. You can still dance with her. You can still carry her. You can still love her. You’re choosing not to.”

  Here we go: Focus on the positive. Mind over body. Everyone from my parents, to the doctors, nurses, and shrinks all spouting the same crap at me. I don’t need to hear it now from Brody. Fuck all that. Go peddle that shit somewhere else.

  “Look, I feel so bad this happened to you. I really do,” Brody says. “Everyone does. I just think . . .”

  “You said all this before.”

  “I’m just trying to help,” Brody pleads.

  “I don’t need your pity.”

  “Of course not,” Brody bites out, “because you’re doing a damn good job of feeling sorry for yourself.”

  In all the years we’ve known each other and lived together, through all the horrible things we’ve been through, we’ve never spoken to each other like this before. These are the last words we will ever say to each other.

  “Get the fuck out of here.”

  PART TWO

  PRESENT DAY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  AINSLEY

  My cheeks are hot, but this time it’s not from tears. I’m pissed. I drove five hours to see him. Five hours for him to make a pass at me. What the hell did he think? I’d just straddle him in his wheelchair, and we’d go at it? A new song starts playing through my radio. Fittingly, it’s Kurt Cobain singing, “Where Did You Sleep Last Night?”

  It’s funny how songs do that. How you can hear a song at the exact moment you need to hear it. Kurt is taunting me, and I remember a quote of his, “Nobody dies a virgin. Life fucks us all.”

  Dude might have had his demons, but he hit the nail on the head with that one. I crank up the song.

  We want to believe that people change. Maybe some can. But movies, romance books, love songs all depict the hero changing for the “right” woman. Maybe women need to take that as it is—Fiction.

  I mean, if I had a daughter, and she brought home a guy like Rhett, would I want her to marry him? Or would I tell her to run screaming for the hills? And my advice would have nothing to do with his broken back, but everything to do with the fact that he’s a big ass jerk deep down.

  I’m sick of men and their moods. Women get a bad rap for being moody, but men can give us a run for our money in that department. I read a whole article on it. It even has a name: Irritable Male Syndrome. IMS is the male version of PMS. And Rhett seems to have an extreme case at the moment.

  Damn him! All the times I imagined what it would be like to see him again, I never imagined him asking me to take his paraplegic virginity. I mean, is that even a real thing? Or did he just make that shit up?

  Honestly, up until that point, things had been going well. I guess they were going well enough that he expected a little nookie to top things off.

  Does he really think that’s what I need from him?

  He’s really bad at the whole feelings thing. I was never a big science person in school, preferring literature and history, but if I recall correctly, the heart is a muscle. And muscles need to be used or they atrophy. Rhett may have been doing tons of physical therapy at the rehab center to get his body back in shape, but he’s probably been snoozing through whatever therapy programs they offer, or skipping altogether. His heart needs to pump some serious iron.

  I left, got in my car, and started driving. The open road hasn’t been good for my mind. Nothing ahead of me but stretches of highway, too much space and time to think. Distracted by my anger and grief, I smell the ocean air before I realize that I haven’t driven back to Charleston, but to Kiawah Island—our secret escape.

  I haven’t been back here since the last time I came with Rhett. I’m not sure what led me here now. Maybe this is the final step for me to let him go, to finally accept that what we had is over.

  Parking my car, I don’t open the door or roll down my window. I don’t want to smell the ocean any more than I have, or be kissed by its breeze. It’s dark out, making it impossible for me to see the water. There’s only a vast void of darkness. Perhaps that’s fitting.

  In the morning, it will give way to a majestic blue. The promise of a new day is ever-present. I haven’t lived with that promise in a very long time. The life I wanted was shattered. Truth is, I may have stopped sitting on his parents’ porch, but I’ve still been waiting. Yes, I opened my shop and business has been good, but personally, I’ve been in a holding pattern.

  I used to want to fall in love, get married, raise a family more than I wanted anything in life. I wanted what was stolen from me as a child. The thought of having those things again used to make me so happy, but now I can’t even imagine them.

  Maybe Rhett was right after all. Maybe we should’ve stuck to his original plan for us. Maybe it’s time I just have fun. There has to be a bar and a hot single man around here. Turning around, I look for neon lights, the telltale sign of some mischief. I don’t see any, but find I’m parked right next to a hotel. They must have a bar.

  Checking my reflection in the rearview mirror, the lip-gloss and mascara I put on before I saw Rhett has all washed away. My strawberry blonde hair isn’t brushed, and my bloodshot eyes look like I’ve already tossed back a few. Let’s hope there’s dim lighting.

  Hopping out of my car, I head into the lobby. The smell of fresh cut flowers fills the air. In that instant, I realize I’ve been here before. My body freezes as memories flood back, like Rhett kissing me right outside the elevator door, the king size, four post bed he playfully tied me to.

  I have to stop doing this to myself. It’s time to make new memories, erase Rhett from my psyche, permanently.

  Taking a deep breath, I stop at the doorway of the bar. There are no neon lights to be found. Instead, the barstools are covered in leather, the tables and chairs a deep, rich wood, and the staff all attractive. Time to make some new memories. I’ve never had sex with a bartender. I hear Rhett’s voice in my head . . .

  And you never will.

  “Fuck you, Rhett!” I say under my breath.

  Making my way to the bar, I glance at the bartender’s hand, a gold band on his finger. All right, I guess Rhett wins that one, but there are plenty of other men in here. Glancing around, I have no idea how to do this. Sadly, I’ve never picked up a man in my life. Two serious boyfriends, that’s my number. I’m not even sure how to give off the I’m available vibe.

  I’m in jeans, so I can’t hike up my skirt higher, and my shirt doesn’t have buttons, so I can’t even show cleavage, not that I have much. Potentially, I could sit here all night alone. It’s up to me to make a move.

  Suddenly, a drink slides in front of me. The bartender grins, motioning to a man at the end of the bar, who raises his glass to me. I guess a woman alone at a bar is enough to give off the available vibe. My next bedfellow isn’t bad looking, either. Probably early thirties, he’s wearing a dress shirt, the top few buttons undone. A man’s version of cleavage. His sleeves are rolled up, and most importantly, there’s no ring on his finger.

  There’s no point in wasting time or pretending this is something it isn’t. I push the glass back toward the bartender. “Ask him if he has a room.”

  The bartender doesn’t seem fazed at all. He’s probably heard and seen it all. I watch as he walks to the other end of the bar and leans in to relay my message. Smirking, the guy raises one eyebrow at me. He hands some bills to the bartender then gets to his feet, grabs his jacket from the back of his chair, and makes his way toward me. He’s broad shouldered and tall.

  My heart starts to pound. This isn’t like anything I’ve ever done in my life.

  “The answer to your question is yes,” he says, looking down at me. His eyes are a deep brown, his voice rough.

  “Good,” I say.

  He reaches into his pocket and lays down a twenty-dollar bill for the bartender, like he’s paying for my drink, only I didn’t have it. Guess he’s paying him for relaying my message. The
n he casually takes my hand, intertwining our fingers like he’s known me forever.

  His hands are smooth, so he must not do manual labor for a living. I hope he’s not one of those guys that gets manicures. That’s just too weird. Leading us over to the elevator, he pushes the button. “What’s your name?” he asks.

  It takes me longer to answer than it should. “Skye.” Sorry, Skye, I’m using your name as my one-night stand alias.

  “You didn’t have to lie,” he says as the elevator door opens, and we step inside.

  “I’m a terrible liar,” I admit.

  “I see that,” he says, grinning.

  “I don’t usually do this type of thing,” I say.

  Good Lord, why do I feel the need to explain myself to this stranger? The plan is to fuck him without apology.

  “I can tell,” he says, leading us out of the elevator and down the hallway.

  “How?”

  “You’re not exactly dressed like you’re on the hunt for a man.”

  “So when you sent that drink over?” I ask. “This isn’t what you wanted?”

  “You’re not stupid,” he says. “Make sure to thank him for me.”

  “Thank who?”

  “Whoever the bastard was that hurt you enough that you came to the bar tonight, alone.”

  My legs stop moving. He’s figured me out in less than three minutes. Am I that transparent? This isn’t going to help me get over Rhett. I could fuck the entire eastern seaboard and not forget Rhett.

  What am I thinking? Having a fling isn’t going to heal my broken heart. I’m not doing this for me. I’m doing this to Rhett. That’s the opposite of what I want to do. I don’t want to do anything for him anymore, give him any more of my time. I’m doing this to hurt Rhett, and that’s just not good enough.

  As soon as I release his hand, he knows I’ve changed my mind. He simply gives me a nod, understanding.

  Who knew a one-night stand could be such a gentleman?