by Libby Austin
“Thanks, but you really don’t need to.” She moved to get up, but I held out my hand.
I called over my shoulder, “It’s not a problem,” as I kept moving, hoping—rather than believing—she would listen and remain in the chair.
You can learn quite a lot about a person by looking at the stuff they buy. Such as, Layna had a serious thing for ranch-flavored anything, cinnamon streusel muffins, kosher dill pickles, frozen dinners, Dr. Pepper, and wine, not to mention the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Picking through Layna’s grocery bags felt almost as invasive as rummaging through someone’s medicine cabinet.
I finished gathering up the groceries and made a couple of trips to the kitchen to drop everything off before I put the cold stuff away. Unsure what to do with everything else, I left it on the counter and went back into the living room to check on Layna.
“How’s the foot?” I asked, trying to make conversation while I contemplated if I should make the effort to persuade her to get her foot checked, or hightail it out of there as fast as I could.
Startled, like she forgot I was there, Layna looked up from the phone in her hand and sputtered, “Ugh … umm … it hurts.”
“You should go get it x-rayed.” The decision was made; I was going to try to talk a virtual stranger into going to get her foot checked.
“I looked up how to tell if you broke your foot.” She held up her phone to show me the highly suspect webpage she’d been reading to ascertain her diagnosis criteria.
“Yeah, you go get an x-ray,” I argued, not sure why I cared if she got her foot x-rayed, but I could sympathize with being alone. Needing to validate my conclusion that an x-ray was in order, I hurried to get out an explanation, all but shouting and running the words together. “You could get some weird infection that spreads throughout your system and kills you. There’s no remedy for death.” Embarrassed by my outburst detailing such a farfetched worst-case-scenario medical situation, I focused on the view outside her window.
“I’m not going to die from a bruised foot.” Her quiet voice caused me to turn back to her.
“It could happen. I saw it on an episode of House.” Okay, so my medical advice came from a source just as dubious as hers, but my dubious source told me err on the side of caution while hers said the opposite. “But you don’t know if it’s just bruised or broken because you need to get it x-rayed.”
“How long are you planning to harangue me about going to the doctor?”
“As long as it takes,” I asserted with confidence. For some reason, I decided she wasn’t going down on my watch.
“Fine. I’ll go to an urgent care clinic if it’ll make you feel better.” She slid to the edge of the chair and tentatively put weight on her foot, causing her to wince.
“Stay there and let me grab my wallet and keys. I’ll be right back.”
“Why are you going to get your wallet and keys?”
Thinking my intentions were obvious, I was surprised at the question, so I turned back to look at her. She couldn’t even stand. How the hell did she think she was going to walk or drive? “I’m going to take you to urgent care.”
“Why are you taking me to urgent care? I’m a big girl. I can get there on my own,” she began to argue as she attempted, and failed, to put weight on her injured foot.
“You can’t even stand. How are you going to walk or drive?” I retorted. Why the hell I was bothering to argue with someone I didn’t know from Adam’s house cat when I should be grateful to be let off the hook of good-Samaritan responsibility, I had no fucking clue. Maybe it was because I sensed that she was as alone as I felt. “Besides, do you even know where an urgent care clinic is, let alone the closest or most reputable one?”
Holding up the phone clutched in her hand, she said, “Google knows all.”
“How do you plan on getting there?” Then realization dawned on me. “You weren’t going to go, were you? You just said that to get rid of me.” I didn’t like the hurt that crept into my voice. Rejection was something I was all too familiar with, not that I tried getting to know people all that often. Based on the guilty look she wore, my assumption was correct. “I’m going to go get my wallet and keys, then I’ll be back. If you don’t answer the door, I’m going to call an ambulance.” With the threat hanging in the air, I turned around and marched out her door.
I quickly gathered my wallet and keys, slid on some flip-flops, and was back across the hall in less than two minutes. Without hesitation, I walked over to where Layna sat and extended my hand to help her stand.
After she got her balance by holding on to my arm, we began the slow process of making it to the door. We didn’t make it two steps before I knew this wasn’t going to work. “This isn’t working,” I informed her of the obvious.
“Yeah, don’t worry about it. I’m sure it’s fine,” she assured me—or tried to—and made like she was going to sit back down in the chair.
“Nice try. You aren’t getting out of going to get an x-ray. Do you have a phobia of doctors or something?” That would make sense, given her reaction and hesitance.
“No,” she said without looking at me, but didn’t say any more. Aversion, now there was a tactic I was fluent in.
“Okay, I have an idea. I’ll give you a piggyback ride.” It was a perfect solution.
“Ugh. I can’t exactly jump right now.”
She had a point. “Wait here.” I walked the few steps back to the ottoman, picked it up, and carried it to where she stood. “I’ll put you on this. Then I just have to bend a little and grab your legs. If you help by pulling yourself up, it should work.”
Things went pretty much like I thought they would, but I hadn’t anticipated the reality of having a warm, sweet-smelling female body pressed against my back, with her breath tickling my ear and my hands holding her firm thighs. This was my punishment for trying to be the hero. I wasn’t a hero, and I definitely wasn’t the guy for her or any other woman. My dick just needed to remember that fact. It seemed the opposite of smart was true for that part of my anatomy; when the blood rushed in, rational thought ceased.
Three hours later, we were back at her condo. She was now the proud owner of a splint and a set of crutches. And, if possible, a surlier expression. I hadn’t gone back to the treatment room with her, but when she came out in a wheelchair, holding a pair of crutches, I felt vindicated that I was right. It was hard not to be smug.
The urgent care doctor had given her something for pain, which seemed to have taken effect based on her slurred words, and prescribed pain medicine for her, along with setting up an appointment with an orthopedist for the next day. Currently, Layna was talking to herself about what a great impression this was going to make. I figured she was referring to her new job, but it’s not like she could have predicted this shit. But what did I know? I’ve never had a real nine-to-five job. Maybe her new boss was a complete hard-ass.
When we made it to her door, she fumbled for her keys, so I reached for them, inserting them into the lock and opening the door.
Layna looked up at me with hazy, heavy-lidded eyes before she spoke. “Thanks,” she garbled less than enthusiastically. “I mean it. Thanks for helping me. I appreciate it, but I’ve got it from here. I’m just gonna go in and head to bed.” Her words were a dismissal. A polite dismissal, but a dismissal all the same. Actions and body language made it more than plain I wasn’t welcome to stay.
My brain had sort of detoured when she mentioned bed, which was very unlike me. “Yeah, all right, okay. Uh, if you need anything just let me know,” I managed to get out some semblance of a normal sentence then turned to open my own door.
“BRAND, QUIT BEING A FUCKING jackass and go check on her.” My brother Barrett’s words snapped me out of my meandering thoughts, not unlike the previous day’s verbal tirade by Layna.
“Why the fuck would I do that? She made it obvious last night that my help wasn’t needed any longer and she was capable of taking care of herself.” My argument sou
nded petty and immature, even to me. But what was the use in me attempting to establish some sort of friendship with someone who didn’t want to be around me, when the people who profess to be my best friends left me high and dry?
“Were you always such an idiot? Or did I just not notice you getting stupider as you got older? Mom must have dropped you on your head when you were a baby,” he claimed as a way to explain my apparent social deficits. Before I could argue, the asshole continued, “What the hell else do you have going on today? Another day of ignoring phone calls or working out by yourself between bouts of staring at the wall, or writing songs so sad and crappy that even that Adele chick would jump off a bridge not to have to listen to them—”
“I don’t always work out by myself. Mark comes over practically every day,” I argued in defense of my solitary lifestyle.
“How about somebody you don’t pay to hang around your lame, mopey ass? Hmmm?” Yet again Barrett continued before I could answer. “You have friends who obviously give a shit about you. Why the fuck are you shutting them out now?”
That was a question that hit a bit too close to the topic I didn’t want to discuss. In such instances as this, the best defense was a good offense, so I hit where I knew it would shut Barrett’s trap for a while. “You know why, but while we’re on the topic of people who care about us, why don’t you talk to Mom and Dad? They’d love to hear from you.”
Even though I couldn’t see Barrett’s face, I could sense the scowl twisting his features. “You know why I can’t. But while we’re on the subject of talking to people, go check on your neighbor before you do something else you’ll regret.” And with that parting shot, he was gone.
That was a really low blow from Barrett. The fact he went there showed me how frustrated he was with me. Maybe I should do as he suggested and go check on Layna. She probably wasn’t supposed to drive while on the pain medication the doctor prescribed. If she died of some rare blood infection because she didn’t have anyone to help her get to the doctor, I would feel guilty. And more guilt was definitely not something I needed in my life. Forcing in a deep breath, it came to my attention I was in need of a shower. The clock on my laptop read 6:04 A.M. There was plenty of time to take a shower before going to check on Layna.
Forty minutes later, I was freshly showered and dressed and making a quick sweep of my condo. Most everything was in its place, but there were signs of neglect in my normally very orderly environment. A quick mental reminder to restore everything to right—everything in its place always made me feel more at peace—and I walked over to Layna’s door.
Five minutes of alternating between knocking on the polished hardwood door and pushing the doorbell didn’t get an answer. I couldn’t recall if she had told me what time her appointment was today. Although it seemed unlikely she would have left this early, it was possible she’d already left for the doctor’s office. The thought filled me with relief and sadness in a strange equal measure. Contemplating if I should write a note and leave it for her, I was surprised by the door being jerked open.
“If you touch this fucking door or ring that damned doorbell again, you’re going to draw back a bloody stump,” was not the greeting I expected. Not sure Layna’s actual appearance was any better. There were lines from her pillow on one side of her face, her hair had a bad case of bed head, and I was pretty sure there was a line of dried drool from the corner of her mouth down her chin.
“Oh, sorry about that. I was worried you might have tried to drive yourself to your doctor’s appointment,” I explained my reason for being persistent in my attempts to get her to answer the door, even if worried hadn’t been the exact way I would have described my earlier thoughts. No need to expose her to the twisted inner workings of my screwed-up mind.
Her eyes narrowed even farther, and she grumbled, “I was sleeping, and I had to find something to put on before I could answer the damn door—” My brain stopped listening when she said ‘find something to put on’ and it didn’t pick back up until, “—it’s not even seven o’clock. Why would I be at the doctor’s office?”
Insecurity caused me to stutter out a jumbled answer. “I di-didn’t think you were at the doctor’s office—I mean, I didn’t think that at first. I wanted to check on you early enough that if you had an early appointment, I could help you—”
“My appointment isn’t until nine-thirty.”
I hesitated, still trying to get my brain off the fact that she was wearing nothing but a hastily tied, thin, silky-looking robe, as I tried to get some semblance of a rational reason for me to help her to come out of my mouth. “Well, with traffic, you’ll probably want to leave by eight-forty-five. I mean, it’s not that far, but there’ll be paperwork and stuff.” I managed to end my disjointed reasoning before I veered off into a diatribe.
Her mouth twisting in irritation, Layna said, “Yes, I’m quite familiar with the procedure for going to a doctor’s appointment.”
“Oh, okay.”
“And my alarm was set for seven, so I could have plenty of time to get ready, since it will take me longer—”
“Do you need help?” I asked. Before she answered, I finished saying, “Getting ready, I mean. I could help you.”
At my assertion, her eyebrows scrunched together tightly. “You can help me get ready?”
What was so shocking about that? Unable to come up with an answer, I shrugged. “Well, yeah, I could get the shower ready for you.” Glancing down at her foot, I amended the shower suggestion, “Or a bath.”
“You want to help me get a bath?” she asked incredulously.
“Well, not actually help you get a bath, but I figure you might need to shave or whatever it is you girls do to get ready—”
“I don’t shave,” she interjected, stopping my train of thought again.
“You don’t shave?” I asked, my eyes traveling to her bare legs.
“No.”
“Ever?” I asked inanely. Her legs had been smooth when I took off her sandal last night.
“Yes, ever,” Layna answered.
“Everywhere?” Okay, the stupidness kept spilling out of my mouth, and there seemed to be no way to stop it or the images filling up my brain at the moment.
Layna’s face completely screwed up, and she sort of recoiled from me.
“Sorry, scratch that. I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about right now. My brother tells me I need a filter.” I balled my fingers up in the pocket of my loose-fit jeans, where they had, thankfully, stayed in control of themselves, unlike my wayward thoughts and mouth. If I had been paying attention, I would’ve noticed her slight jerk at the mention of Barrett. As it was, I was too hung up in my social foibles to see her reaction.
A calming breath flowed across her lips, and she said, “I would appreciate it if you would take me to my doctor’s appointment.
WITH THAT STATEMENT, THE DISHEVELED Layna turned and hobbled back into the condo on her crutches. It took me a second to realize the door not being slammed in my face meant I was supposed to follow her, and I did so as if I were being pulled along on a direct track in her wake.
Layna suddenly stopped hobbling and twisted her upper body around. “You stay here. Have a seat.” She pointed with the pointer finger of her right hand, which stayed curled around the crutch handle. “Watch TV—or something—the remotes are in the drawer in the coffee table.” Then she turned and continued making her way down the hall to the master bedroom. I watched every time that flimsy robe fluttered around her thighs, admiring the curve of her hips down to her trim calves.
My physical reaction to her was probably more shocking to me than it would have been to her if she could hear the thoughts running through my head. It wasn’t that I didn’t find females attractive—I wholeheartedly did—but I’d learned the hard way early on that women weren’t to be trusted. That knowledge had always tinted my view of relationships. Over the years, I hadn’t seen anything to change my way of thinking.
Slowly, one
by one, my bandmates—my brothers in all but blood—had been picked off, like tin cans sitting on a fence rail. They’d all paired up, and now the decisions about what was best for the band were being made based on how they affected my friends’ other halves. No touring because they needed some time to themselves. No music writing or days-long jam sessions because they had more important people to spend their time with. Having my life fucked up again … FUCK! I’m not going there. It just pisses me the fuck off.
Seeking a distraction from my wayward mental shit, I sat on the weird orange-colored couch and opened the drawer Layna said held the TV remotes. There were four of them. The cable remote was easy; it was the same as mine. As for the rest, I started pushing power on all of them. Figured that was a good place to start.
Music came through the speakers, and then an image of a woman in spandex appeared on the TV screen. The two were strangely in sync, though the music was fast and heavy and the woman’s movements slow and deliberate. Watching the woman contort herself into some weird pretzel-like shape, my head leaned to the side in an attempt to follow her movements. How in the hell does she do that? The longer I watched, the more dumbfounded I became at the positions this woman could contort her body into without screaming in pain. There were a few times I grabbed my junk while I winced in fear of the damage such poses would cause to the family jewels.
So lost in observing the ductile woman, I didn’t hear Layna coming down the hall. “Why in the hell are you watching my yoga video?”
The question snapped my attention from the television screen. “Huh—what?” Shaking my head, I said, “Oh, umm, it was what came on when I turned the TV on. I got distracted and didn’t think to change it.”
“Distracted,” she repeated, her eyes flickering between the TV and me. I felt guilty, like I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t, and a blush I was unused to filled my face with heat.