Running on Empty (Mending Hearts, #1)

by L. B. Simmons

  With the memories of the last day of summer that Blake and I shared still lingering in my mind, I start to really allow myself to think honestly about the past. I feel completely…well, I feel at a loss. Had I been so completely callused to not even acknowledge Blake’s gift to me? Did I even bother to discuss the charm with him? Ask him what it meant? What he was trying to say?

  No, I didn’t.

  My lip starts quivering as I begin to remember how much Blake was actually involved in my life. Time that I chose to dismiss. It’s weird, because now that I think about it, Blake was always there. Blake and I had been best friends. We grew up together. We did everything together. But after I met Derek in junior high, I just left him behind…without even a second thought. No more phone calls, no more fishing, no more movie nights. Nothing.

  No wonder he wants nothing to do with me.

  I start to feel anger rise in my bloodstream, but not at Blake this time. This anger is reserved for me. I had become so wrapped up in Derek and the infatuation that started the day I met him, I completely disregarded any prior history with Blake. Thirteen years worth of history. And I continued to do it through high school. I never attempted to make contact with him during college or even to call him when we moved back to Waco. What kind of person does that make me?

  No wonder he never mentioned me to Trace. And here I was convinced that he came back to Waco to save me. To be my hero. To fix my life…

  Utterly disgusted, I walk into my house knowing that the first thing I’m going to do tomorrow is go to Blake Morgan and apologize for the person I was. And the person I have evidently become.

  The drive to Mr. and Mrs. Morgan’s house is a familiar one. And it’s a good thing it is, because I’m finding it extremely hard to concentrate on where I’m actually driving at the moment. I am, however, breaking down every possible scenario that could happen when I knock on that door. Good news is, as each and every scenario plays out in my head, they all end in one of two ways. He either speaks to me or he doesn’t.

  That’s a 50% success rate. Not bad when considering my actions last evening…that and those many years I spent dismissing Blake entirely.

  Memories begin to flood my mind as I drive up to the red brick two story house I spent so much time at while growing up.

  …Blake and I climbing the huge oak tree in the front of his house to get to the tree fort we built together when we were seven years old.

  …Both of us playing hide-and-seek in the garden by the side of his house with me yelling at him for cheating...there’s no way he could count to one hundred that fast.

  …The time we made a bike ramp and tried to jump the fence…definitely not one of our best moments. I find myself grinning widely at that memory. Mainly because Blake couldn’t make the jump, ruined his bike, and had to ride his sister’s very pink Barbie bike until he learned his lesson (as his parents put it). I tortured him with that one for years.

  Parking my car in the drive, I look at the front door and breathe a heavy sigh. I glance down at my hands as I remove them from the steering wheel – they’re slightly trembling. I shake them in an effort to get rid of the obvious nervous energy and wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. I run my hair over my ponytail to smooth any fly-aways and exit the car. Looking down while straightening my “Goonies Never Say Die” t-shirt, another memory surfaces.

  Blake and I used to make homemade t-shirts all the time together. Mine were always way better than his, of course, but at least he tried. My favorite one of his was this army green, G.I Joe “Knowing is Half the Battle” t-shirt. He wore it all the time. So much so that the iron on letters started falling off and it eventually read “Koin is alf Bat.” God, I would laugh every time he would wear it. I think that’s why he wore it so much.

  I look back at my hands. They are still shaking. It seems that even with the comfort of old memories running through my mind, I still can’t shake off my nerves. Making my way to the front door, I mentally chastise my anxiety. “This is ridiculous, Alex. You’re a grown woman. Act like it,” I mutter while walking up the porch steps. I note there’s only a motorcycle parked in the driveway, which bodes well in my favor. This is going to be difficult enough without having a parental audience.

  Approaching the door, I raise my fist to knock, pausing for another second to take in a cleansing breath. Breathing out, I say a prayer and knock loudly.

  I hear his heavy footsteps coming towards the door, followed by the sound of the deadbolt unlocking. I watch nervously as the handle turns, but when I look up, I’m completely unprepared for what is standing directly in front of my face.

  As the door flies open, so does my mouth. Blake is standing in front of me, shirtless, wearing only his red and navy plaid pajama bottoms, bare feet on the floor. His light brown hair is all over the place, but incredibly sexy as it falls messily over his forehead and flips out from behind his ears. One look at this man’s stomach renders me momentarily speechless, and I have to fight to keep myself from running my hands over every single hardened ridge of his abs. So instead, I place my hands over my open mouth and start giggling like a ten year old little girl.

  Mid-giggle, I notice the door starting to close. I quickly jump into action. I immediately put my foot in the doorjamb and my hands on the door, using all of my weight to keep him from being able to close it – a trick he taught me by the way.

  Shaking his head at me through the opening that I’m desperately trying to maintain, Blake emphatically states, “Nope. Mmm-mm, Alex. It’s too early for this right now. Go home.”

  I start to say something when he cuts me off. “There can’t possibly be anything left for you to say after the drunken tantrum you threw last night. You remember? The one you decided to throw in the middle of a bar? The one in which you embarrassed the shit out of yourself? Very classy by the way…”

  Jeez…obviously I wasn’t the only one who got zero sleep last night.

  “Blake, ple–” I start to say, but as I try to push as hard as I can to keep the door open, he shoves the door making progress in his attempt to shut it and I’m thrown backward a bit, cutting off my words. “I don’t want to talk right now, Alex.” I push back with all of my might.

  “Well…too bad. You need to hear what I have to say, Blake!”

  Quickly turning my back to the door, I push as hard as I can, using my legs for strength. I extend my arm and wrap my fingers around the side, to get a better grip. Unfortunately, at the same time, Blake finally manages to slam it shut.

  I swear I hear four separate crunches before I can get the words out of my mouth.

  “Blake! My fingers! Damn it, open the door! Now!” I’m sure my fingers have fallen straight to the floor. I don’t even want to look.

  The door jerks open and I hastily pull my throbbing fingers to the safety of my chest. Moisture gathers in my eyes as I move my hand in front of my face to examine the now very red, very flattened sections of my fingers where the door caught. My whole arm is shaking as the pain pulsates clear up to my shoulder. I pull it back into my chest and protectively cover it with my other hand, and turn to glare at Blake through the tears.

  “Shit, Alex. Let me look at ‘em,” Blake says angrily. I’m not sure if he is mad at me or at himself for hurting my hand. But just in case, I continue my glare. He whips open the door and steps out onto the porch.

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  He looks even more gorgeous in the sunlight. Almost like that day on the lake, with the sun peeking through his messy hair. If I wasn’t in excruciating pain right now, I would be really enjoying the view.

  Alex, control yourself.

  I attempt to clear my mind from all potentially naughty thoughts. Then I remember my situation and gather my wits.

  “Really, Blake? What the hell?” I ask in annoyance. “I get that you’re pissed, but can you at least act like an adult about it? Slamming the door in my face? Real mature, jerk.” I try bending my fingers. They’re stiff, b
ut I can bend them a bit. I grimace and suck in a breath as pain shoots up my arm.

  “Really? You want to talk about mature right now? After last night? You want to go there?”

  I have no witty retort, so I just look at him.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he says, holding out his hand. His voice softens. “Just let me look at them, Alex.”

  I timidly hold my hand out for his inspection. He’s surprisingly gentle as he takes my hand and holds it in front of his face, looking closely at my fingers. I can feel his warm breath hitting the palm of my hand. I let out a small breath of air and briefly let myself look at his eyes while he examines my fingers. I forgot how beautiful they were. A cross between very light brown and olive green. As I stand, staring at him…he looks up, catches my gaze and holds it. Determined not to lose this battle, I continue to look at him until he breaks away.

  “You need to get some ice on them. Come on. I’ll get you something,” he says, stepping aside so I can enter his house, still holding my hand.

  “It’s fine, Blake. I’m just going to go. I think enough damage has been done,” I say, knowing I mean this in a way that doesn’t pertain to my fingers. I extract my hand from his and turn to walk to my car, lump forming in my throat. I don’t know what I was thinking coming here. Some things just can’t be repaired. I know this better than anyone…I should be the poster girl for irreparable damage.

  I take a step to leave when I feel Blake’s hand hook my good hand. “Alex, don’t. Let me get you some ice.” I feel an electrical pulse pass through my body as his fingers slide up to wrap around my wrist, pulling me into his house. I follow him as he leads me into the kitchen. He pulls out a bar stool from under the counter and motions with his hand for me to sit down. Not until I’m seated does he let go of my wrist to walk into the kitchen. He grabs a plastic bag out of a drawer and starts to fill it with ice from the freezer. I can’t help but watch the muscles in his back working as he deposits the ice into the bag. He turns, disrupting my insane thoughts, and brings the ice back to where I’m sitting. He takes my hurt hand, tenderly placing it in his own, and sets the bag on top of my fingers.

  We sit in silence, probably because we’re both too stubborn to be the first to break. But, knowing I came here to make amends for some things, I willingly, for the record, break first.

  “Listen, I just wanted to come by to say I’m really sorry about last night, Blake. Things have been a little stressful over the last couple of days and I’m dealing with a lot right now. And seeing you the other day…well, it just threw me. Then you helped me and… honestly, it’s been a long time since someone has helped me like that. Except Harlow of course, but that’s kind of her main job right now.” I laugh softly at my joke. Blake does not. So I keep going.

  “Blake, you have to understand that it’s hard for me to accept help sometimes. It isn’t easy for me to admit that I need help, but I needed help that day. So, not only were you incredibly blessed with having the opportunity to help me that morning, I’m sure ruining whatever plans you had for the day, but you were also the victim of my misdirected anger last night simply because of the help you provided.”

  How many times did I just say help? One hundred?

  “I guess you can say that I have issues with help in general,” I joke to him. I decide to just stop talking. I know I’m completely rambling; I do that when I’m nervous.

  I make sure I look him directly in the eyes during my explanation. Unfortunately, there is absolutely, positively, no response that I can read on his face.

  Um, I guess my apologies need upgrading too? I decide to give it one more try.

  “I’m sorry Blake. Do you think we can just start over? Forget the last couple of days?”

  I continue to watch his expression. He lets out a deep sigh.

  “Listen, Alex. You need to know something. I didn’t come here for you. I didn’t come back to help you, or save you, or take care of you. I feel that I need to say that. I didn’t come here to be your hero or to carry you away on a white horse. I came here solely to help my family.”

  Sarcasm duly noted.

  “My father’s retiring and I need to decide what I’m going to do with his business. I might take it over, I might sell it, I haven’t decided yet. Regardless, my coming back had nothing to do with you. ”

  Jeez– Alright already.

  “Okay, Blake, I get it!”

  Using the only working hand I’ve got left, I immediately push myself up to get off the stool, because for some reason, those words take all of the air out of my lungs. When I start to stand, he holds me in place and forces me to look at him. His face softens.

  “No, you don’t get it, Alex. I need you to know that so you can get over whatever dumb ass, anger projecting issues you have going on regarding being helped, saved, or taken care of in any way. I don’t plan on doing any of that for you.” He smiles and continues. “So that means we should be able to be friends, right? If I promise not to help you?”

  Choking back a laugh he adds, “But you do realize how backwards that actually is, don’t you?”

  It’s impossible to describe, but the relief I feel at that moment is like one thousand pounds have been removed from my shoulders. I don’t know if it has to do with no longer feeling the pressure of any possible expectations from Blake, or if it’s the fact that I know that with that one smile, he’s forgiving me for my treatment of him all these years. But whatever the reason, I can physically feel the release of pressure from my body.

  Friends. Yeah, I can do friends I think.

  Friends would be really nice actually.

  Giving him a gigantic smile, I reach out and hug him, throwing my good hand behind his neck. “I would really like that, Blake.”

  He grins back at me while releasing me from our embrace. Then he looks directly at my hand.

  “Yeah, well, don’t come running to me when you figure out your fingers won’t be working right for the next couple of weeks.” He chuckles underneath his breath before continuing. “Oh, and by the way…It’s gonna be a bitch driving yourself to the emergency room to see if they’re broken. I would help you but…”

  Blake shrugs his shoulder and throws a piece of ice in his mouth as he saunters out of the kitchen.

  Well…

  Shit.

  “Stop laughing, Blake. It’s not funny,” I whine. “My hand hurts and your gloating is not helping.”

  I glance over at Blake. I can tell he’s trying to keep from smiling and can’t seem to control it any longer. He starts laughing…again.

  “Blake, seriously. Stop it. You’re starting to make me really mad. I’m in a lot of pain.” I huff and roll my eyes. “God, you’re ridiculous.”

  Blake starts gasping for air. Ridiculous.

  “I can’t help it Alex. That was the funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time,” he says, wiping the tears from his eyes. “You’re so stubborn. You should’ve seen your face…it was hilarious.” He stops to catch his breath. “It was all scrunched up in determination, like the little engine that could.” The mental picture must have sealed the deal because now he’s practically doubled over, grabbing his stomach and trying to catch his breath through the laughter.

  “Oh my God, did you just snort? How freakin’ old are you?”

  I did attempt to drive, but it was pretty much impossible. I didn’t feel that shifting with my wrist was in the best interests of the driving community…I have to be the only person in the world who has a Suburban with a manual transmission. (Great idea, Derek) So, I had to break down and ask Blake to drive me. In my car. After my huge anti-help speech. Typical.

  Now, as I watch Blake in his fit of laughter, I’m seriously regretting my decision. I should have just walked my ass to the hospital.

  “I’m glad that you find it so hilarious that your overreaction to me, wanting to have a simple conversation with you, ended up with my broken fingers. I find nothing funny about it; my hand is throbbing right now!�
� I reposition the ice pack on my hand.

  I guess my comment strikes a nerve, because his outburst comes to an abrupt halt.

  He looks at me with apologetic eyes. “Alex, I said I was sorry. I feel really bad. I would never hurt you on purpose; I hope that you know that.”

  Damn those eyes.

  “Yeah, well stop laughing or I’ll get out and walk. Seriously.” He once again focuses on the road.

  I eye him for a couple of seconds. Once I’m sure he’s finished his juvenile antics, I pull out my phone to make the necessary calls. First, I call Nancy to let her know that I hurt my hand and that I’m currently on my way to the ER, with one Blake Morgan. She wisely chooses to make no comment.

  She’s due to go out of town with John to a realty conference, so my next call is to Harlow. I ask if she can pick up the girls from Nancy’s for me since they need to get on the road. I have a feeling I’ll get an earful later. I think the possibility of having a broken hand trumps her sarcasm at the moment.

  She in turn lets me know that she’s going to have to bring the girls to the hospital because she’s going out of town with Trace to help him move some more of his stuff back to Waco. At this point, I choose to leave any of my sarcastic commentary out of the conversation as well, knowing that she will definitely be getting an earful later.

  So no Harlow or Nancy to help this weekend. Great, of all the weekends…

  We finally get to the hospital, the rest of the trip laughter free. After getting all the paperwork from the registration desk, I quickly find out that writing with my left hand is almost as impossible as trying to drive my car. I scowl at Blake. He’s still trying not to laugh, but this time it’s at my illegible handwriting.

  “Alex, give me the paperwork. I can fill it out for you. Just tell me what to write.”

  I don’t even bother to look at him because I know his face looks just like it did the majority of the car ride here. “No, it’s fine. I can do it. I have to do it. It’s not like you’re going to be around all hours of the day to write for me whenever I need you to. I might as well start working on it now,” I say with a sigh.