Recompense For Love: Book Three of the Against All Odds Series

by Gemini Jensen

  He holds the black and neon green helmet above his shoulders, waving the round object around. “What the hell is this?” He growls out, finally coming to a stop in front of me. His emerald eyes pierce through me, distracting me and leaving me momentarily speechless. It shames me to admit, even to myself, it takes more than a few moments for me calm the pattering of my heart.

  I clear my throat, tossing him a clueless shrug. “Looks like a helmet to me…Isn’t that the one you had marked in your catalog?” My brow arches as I feign being oblivious.

  “Lyra, don’t fucking play games. I know you sent it. My parents said I didn’t need a new helmet and you were the only one who knew I wanted this particular one. So, all that being said, care to enlighten me as to why?”

  I shrug again, eyes narrowing at the obvious irritation in his tone. “Because I wanted to. Because I felt like it.” I drag my tongue over my lower lip wetting it, my nervous habit when something makes me antsy—which is precisely what the intense and brooding stare he’s giving me is doing. “Maybe because I was struck with the need to do something nice for my friend after he did something nice for me when I was down and out. Take your pick. It’s not a concept that’s too freaking hard to understand, Nash.” I huff, rolling my eyes and crossing my arms over my chest as I shoot him a stern look that dares him to argue.

  He glares back at me, nostrils flaring. No words are uttered for the longest time from his end as his lips settle in a thin line. My stomach does a little flip as I stand here anxiously awaiting the apology I know is to come, the one that always follows his random and prideful outbursts.

  Suddenly, and forcefully, he slams the helmet down on top of the old metal trash can used to house the horse feed that’s beside me, and storms off back in the direction he came from. I stand completely still, shocked by the odd reaction as I watch his retreat. Then, just when he’s almost out of range to communicate, he calls over his shoulder, “You don’t offer rewards just because someone decides to be a decent person.”

  It took an entire month before I was able to convince Nash to take the damn helmet, and even after he finally took it, I never once saw him use it. The lighthearted memory causes the screaming anguish wracking my body to lower a few decibels, and I pull up his number to type out a text, suddenly remembering his older brother, Hayes, had some sort of Senior Basketball Night shindig at our school, then his family were going to eat in celebration afterwards. With that in mind, he should have only just arrived home within the last thirty minutes.

  Me: Dad’s been in a wreck and I’m freaking. Please tell me you’re awake.

  A few minutes go by, and my text remains unanswered, so I send out another one in hopes of waking him up.

  Me: Nash. I NEED YOU.

  I stare at the screen, waiting for a response to come through, but nothing happens. By the time I’m able to extract my attention away from my phone, we’re pulling into the parking lot of the hospital. No sooner is the key turned and the engine off, am I out of the car with all my belongings in tow, sidling up to Nana Rose as we make our way toward the entrance.

  Cold fingers loop through mine, squeezing strength into me, and I offer it right back to her. This is my Dad in there, but he’s her son. She might be the adult, but I know she’s on pins and needles to receive a more extensive prognosis on his condition. Do those deputies actually think they’re doing something good by offering vague information? I’ll gladly march my happy ass down to the Sheriff’s office and offer them a crash course in using courtesy in their delivery of bad news to people’s family members.

  I pull eagerly at Nana’s hand, feeling like a child who’s ready to bust down the doors on their way into the circus. The hospital may be as hectic as the big-top, but it’s more of the shit-show variety than the Ringling Brothers. The sliding doors seem to take forever in opening as we approach. The desk clerk holds up her finger, finishing off her conversation like my Dad isn’t somewhere in this hospital in need of his loved ones. Nana Rose purses her lips, but waits patiently, glancing around the lobby of mauves, and pinks, and floral patterns decked out like an antique doll house.

  Pushing off the desk angrily, I make a beeline for the nearest rest room. Dropping down on the toilet, I jerk my airplane bottle of—I don’t care to look. I just unscrew it and drain it in less than a half-minute flat. I never drink unless I’m partying, but tonight seems like a more meaningful occasion. The stall door clacks against the wall when I open it, and I step to the mirror, avoiding my reflection like I’m afraid I’ll find someone I hate staring back at me.

  Taking a long stretch of cheap, brown paper-towels, I wrap up the empty bottle and dispose of it in the trash can. Then, I’m popping in three pieces of gum and heading back to the desk, where I reach for my grandmother’s hand again. I’m unsure whether it’s the alcohol taking effect, or the calming force of Nana Rose’s aura, but a warmth of calm washes over me in this moment.

  It’s almost like having an out-of-body experience, of taking a step back and assessing the situation at hand with a calculated rationale instead of being ruled by an array of emotions.

  As Nana Rose speaks to a nurse, I study the lines on her face intently, noting she has a lot of them—several that horizontally etch her forehead, and three smaller, vertical ones in between her brows. I’m conscious of ensuring I don’t ask the question out loud like I have the urge to do, but did they come with age, or did most of them just pop up all at once tonight? I’ve never noticed them before—at least, not that many of them.

  Somehow, while I’m focusing on any and everything else but the situation at hand, Nana leads me through halls of the hospital. Eventually, we make it to the ICU and it’s there I realize, I’m completely out of the loop. My bloodstream is swimming with tiny increments of alcohol that seem to affect me in a big way, and I know about as much of Dad’s condition as I did to begin with.

  “What’s going on?” I blurt, more loudly than I intend when we take a seat in the ICU’s waiting area.

  “Shh,” Nana scolds automatically. “He’s been x-rayed, and they’re running some tests on him. Both his legs are broken, and he’s got a few cracked ribs, but doesn’t seem to have any internal bleeding from what they can tell. Now they’re focused on possible head trauma. I, um, well…” she trails off, her brow fretting as she nibbles her nip nervously, before finally working up the courage to just spit it out. “I asked about whether or not he was drinking, but I don’t think they’ve gotten the BAC results back.”

  She looks me dead in the eye, I’m guessing because she wants to see my reaction. Or, it could be because she suspects I’m halfway lit myself. Fuck, don’t let her realize. How selfish can I be? It’s not like she needs something else to worry about right now.

  “I didn’t think you knew it was an issue,” I admit, hoping like hell she’s only caught onto his issues. Here I am, the sweet little freshman who’s got a wild side no one knows about, but it’s not like I’m ready to let the cat out of the bag just yet.

  Her eyes soften, and she wraps her arm around me, pulling me into her side securely. “Honey, of course I knew. He’s my son. Heck, at first I tried to be understanding because he’d just lost your mother, I just didn’t expect it to get so out of control. I never thought there’d be any serious consequences because of it.” Her words hang in the air, and I want to argue. I want to tell her there’s no way Dad’s drinking is the cause of this, but even though I saw with my own eyes he was sober when I went to bed, I can’t help but acknowledge the fact that Dad definitely has a drinking problem, and there’s definitely a fact he chugged down some liquor after he knew I was out for the night.

  “Where was he even going? It was late. He was sober when I went to bed at eight…”

  We both share a knowing look, the same words slipping from our lips in seamless unison as we draw the same conclusion. “The ABC Store closes at nine.”

  Suddenly, a couple goes rushing past the waiting area, straight up to the ICU desk, and
when I see their faces, I’m immediately on my feet and drifting toward them so I can hear. The woman is in hysterics, her face red and splotchy as she holds a tissue to her nose. The man has his arms around her like the two limbs are the only thing that’s holding her together—it’s like if he were to stop hugging her, she might literally break into a thousand pieces like a sand castle that’s begun to dry.

  “Hey,” the man’s voice booms, startling the nurse seated at the computer. “My brother’s family has been in an accident.”

  “Uh, yes, sir. Let me just call Dr. Gardner.” She jerks up the phone without pause, immediately stabbing her finger against one of the extension lines. I’ve drifted all the way behind the couple in my eagerness to hear what’s going on, and stand here silently hoping this is all a terrible, fucked up nightmare. The nurse mumbles something into the line, although I’m unable to hear the words she’s speaking due to the woman’s loud sobs in front of me. Her eyes continually flit over to the couple as she speaks with Dr. Gardner, and she swallows nervously before hanging up.

  “If you’ll just have a seat in the waiting area, Dr. Gardner will be out to speak to you as soon as he has a moment…”

  “The Hell you say? Call him back right now, and tell him to make a moment. If he’s not here in thirty seconds, he’ll need to look for a place to transfer. I have friends on the board here,” the angry man snaps, slamming his palm down against the counter so hard he has to be feeling the sting.

  His wife rubs the small of his back, whispering something in his ear that seems to settle him down, and I take that as my cue to return to my seat. My phone is once again in my hand, as I check desperately for an incoming text from Nash, when they enter the waiting room and take a seat directly across from mine and Nana Rose’s position.

  Why are they even here, and what are the odds of them being here, completely distraught, on the same night as Dad’s wreck? I try my best to avoid eye-contact as I stare unblinkingly at Nash’s name, silently willing his face to light up my phone. For something—anything but radio silence. I glance up at the couple across from us now, finding the woman’s eyes squeezed shut, though it does nothing to keep the tears from rolling down her cheeks, and the man’s expression stoic, his skin an ugly shade of red. My heart sinks further than I ever thought possible, my chest constricting like I can’t breathe.

  Fed up, I hit send, groaning when it goes straight to voicemail.

  “Please call me back. I’m scared. I love you,” my voice cracks at the end. I don’t hang up, even though I say nothing else, allowing the voicemail to run its course and click off in my ear once the time is up.

  A flash of white enters my line of sight, and I turn slightly, glimpsing Dr. Gardner as he comes into view. Unsurprisingly, he’s fixated on our town Mayor alone, not paying any mind to the other people sitting about the waiting room—not that there’s anyone other than me and Nana, save for one man who’s conked out in the corner.

  Dr. Gardner comes to a stop just in front of the Mayor and his wife, unconsciously slicking his hand through his hair before greeting them. “If you would, lets step over this way,” he motions to short corridor that’s divided by the waiting room wall, his eyes finally sliding over toward us for the first time since he walked into the room, albeit very briefly. The couple seems to take forever to stand, the Mayor being the first one on his feet so that he can offer his wife a steadying hand, before shuffling along behind him, rounding the corner out of sight. As soon as their backs are to me, I’m slow-walking to their newly vacated seats, desperate to catch some of the conversation with the Doc.

  Maybe they just aren’t thinking, or maybe they just assume because they’re on the other side of the wall now, no one else will be able to hear them, but the Mayor cuts straight to the chase.

  “Don’t sugar coat this, Doc. I want you to give it to me straight. How bad was it, and what’s everyone’s condition?”

  My heart begins to thunder, the blood whooshing in my ears as a wave of nausea slams against the lining of my stomach, only to recede out and do it all over again.

  “I’m so sorry to be the one who has to tell you this, Mayor Hudson, but your brother and his wife were killed instantly when Mr. Knightley’s truck collided with their car. Your nephew…”

  And just like that, the hammer pounding against my heart, drops—stops altogether. Shock blooms through my bloodstream, leaving nothing but numbness in its wake. For a minute, it’s like I’ve left my body and lost all control. I can’t even comprehend the rest of the conversation, other than latching onto bits and pieces, such as, “died on the way to the hospital,” and “unconscious.”

  Blackness seeps into the edge of my vision like a poisonous fog, growing in its intensity with each passing second. My eyes meet Nana Rose’s, finding her brows are dipped in concern, her mouth moving but no noise coming out. The only sound I can focus on are a woman’s sobs, but they seem to be moving further and further away from me, probably retreating from this situation the way I wish I could.

  Except, my wish is granted.

  Like the warm, affectionate arms of my mother sheltering me from the last traces of a terrible dream I can’t find my way out of, the blackness drops over me like a veil, enveloping me and promising shelter from this genuine nightmare. And I smile. Just like my name suggests, I’m most at home floating within a space devoid of light and sound.

  I welcome the darkness.

  ~~~

  It’s a few hours later when I finally open my eyes again, and I can only tell the amount of time that’s passed because of the stiffness in my limbs. For some reason, I’m still groggy—more so than I usually am upon waking—so I choose to slowly shift just a little at time. That’s how I realize I’ve somehow managed to find my way into a laying position, a stiff and less than comfortable mattress with crisp linens beneath me. My top half is slightly inclined, an over-stuffed pillow tucked under my head and the late-night new plays softly in the background.

  Placing my hands flat on the mattress, I push myself up until I’m sitting, still startled by how wonky I’m feeling. It could be that I’m not going to bed early enough, and the late nights are beginning to catch up to me, but this feels more like my body is undergoing forced relaxation rather than its own natural response to needing sleep. My knuckles rub vigorously at my eyes as I attempt to clear the haziness from my vision, huffing irritably.

  “You fainted,” Nana Rose’s offered explanation startles me, causing me to jerk slightly, before I turn to find her perched in a rocking chair in the corner.

  “I feel like I was dead to the world.” The words slip out of my mouth, and I wince just as the minutes leading up to my blackout come racing back to me.

  “When the hospital staff learned you’d blacked out in response to learning of the Hudson family’s deaths, they went ahead and gave you something to help you rest. I explained to them the severity of the situation, that you are,”—she pauses, her eyes turning regretful as she corrects herself—“were close with their family.”

  “No…” my voice cracks, and my eyes well with tears. I thought I had remembered everything leading up until the moment I fainted, but my mind apparently chose to block those thoughts for my own good.

  “I’m so sorry, Sweetheart.” She stands, making her way and sliding onto the edge of my bed.

  “NO!” I yell angrily, sliding as far back as the bed will allow, not wanting to be close to her—for her to touch me, because I know the minute she touches me I’ll lose it. “Please,” I beg, my hand drifting up to nervously pinch at my earring until it punctures the pad of my thumb. “Please tell me it’s not true.”

  Tears begin to build in her own icy-blue eyes, and she reaches for my hand. With a sniff, her eyes tear away from mine as if she can’t stand to see the pain she’s about to administer to my heart, giving a curt nod. “Your father’s truck hit the Hudson’s sedan head-on. Becky and Jonathon were killed instantly. I know someone else from the family died on the way to th
e hospital.”

  She’s still talking, but this voice in my head keeps asking me, how can I survive this? It’s too much. Everything the past two years, it’s too much for me to handle. I’ve lost my mom. I still don’t know that much of Dad’s condition, and although he seems to be stable for now, that doesn’t mean something terrible will spring up unexpectedly.

  And now my second family is gone…I press my thumb hard against the back of my earring a second time, relishing in the pain. If I can’t have Nash—if I have to suffer through the loss of my best friend, too—then I can’t do this whole life thing. Because without the people you love, life is meaningless.

  “That’s as much as one of your father’s nurses would say. They won’t tell me too much about their family because it goes against hospital policy, especially since one of the Hudson’s is still alive.”

  I instantly snap out of it, perking up excitedly as hope reenters my heart. “Who, Nana? Who?” My hand lands on her knee, shaking her like crazy as if I can force her to spit it out sooner this way.

  “I don’t know, honey. Like I said, they won’t say anything else.”

  “Well that’s too fucking bad.” I leap up off the bed, my socked feet nearly causing me to slip against the smooth tile of the hospital floor. It only takes me a second to grip the cold metal handle, to push it down and let myself out into the hallway.

  “Lyra, what are you doing?” Nana’s voice reaches my ears, but it reeks of exhaustion, lacking the insistency and ferocity it usually has when she scolds me for something. The bright lights overhead cause me to squint as I wonder aimlessly down the hallways, every now and then checking the signs on the walls as I head toward the ICU—assuming that’s where Nash is; assuming he’s the one who’s still alive, and I’d almost swear he is. Not because I desperately want to believe it right now, but because I’ve always been a little spiritual. When Mom died, it was like I could feel her spirit leave the earth. Like my soul was comprised of individual fires representing each person I care for, and one of those—one of the larger ones—was snuffed out forever, never to be lit again. Part of my soul was severed that day, and even if it wasn’t a physical part of my body breaking away from me, the pain was just as intense.