Beautiful Disaster

by Laura Spinella

  “Not if you want to give him a stroke,” Roxanne said, arms folded on the tabletop. “I can’t even think where you’d begin . . . ‘Gosh, Michael, remember the guy you used to see me around campus with—rogue, rough, and ready? He rode into Athens on a motorcycle, hung around for a year—just long enough to devastate me, and left.’ ”

  Mia shook her head, snickering at Roxanne’s slanted point of view. “He doesn’t even know that much. Michael was a grad student, more your friend than mine. Athens is a big, busy place. Back then he barely knew I existed.”

  “Don’t be so sure, Mia. Maybe the details about Flynn were more than he wanted to know.” She hesitated, shifting in her seat. “Regardless, I should think you’d like to skip ahead. You know, to the parts of Flynn’s existence that are most disturbing—I mean, beyond devastating you.”

  For a moment she only stared, amazed that Roxanne was still beating a twelve-year-old drum. “You’re not seriously going to start with that again?”

  “Mia, I haven’t mentioned Flynn since the day I swore not to. But don’t think I’ve forgotten. I have a good mind to call the authorities. Surely there’s some sort of DNA test they can run. Nothing’s ever been solved; it’s still an open case.”

  Mia’s body tensed as an old anger sparked. It was a subject that had nearly ended their friendship. “Same rules as last time, Roxanne. Nothing’s changed. You pursue this conversation—DNA, or any other CSI scenario, and I’ll never forgive you.” Mia spoke with more conviction than she had on most any occasion, including the day she married Michael Wells. She had to; Flynn was sacred ground. “It’s a wild theory you’ve concocted about a man you hate, tying him to a series of despicable acts. It’s insane.”

  “Maybe he’s insane,” Roxanne said, sounding like she was still offering a medical opinion. “Let me run the facts by you one more time. Six college girls die, broken into more pieces than a box of winter kindling. From New Mexico to Texas, Arkansas, Iowa, and Minnesota,” she said, beating a finger into the tabletop. “They die all the way from Albuquerque to Birmingham, Alabama—places he admitted to traveling through,” she offered as if it were evidence. “Flynn has no ties, no life, no explanation for his existence. Then he gets sidetracked, thinks he’s found absolution while sleeping with you. Surely, after everything, you’ve reconsidered the timeline. What are the odds that someone else was in those same states, on those same campuses?”

  “What are the odds that I’m going sit here and listen to this crap again?” Mia challenged. She rose from the chair, tapping into a strength Flynn had instilled. It was one of many intangible things he did leave behind. “Let me be clear, Rox. We’re not going to do this. Flynn is two doors away, fighting for his life, and all you want to do is color outside the lines of your overactive imagination.”

  “Imagination has nothing to do with it,” she said, her face more serious than the last heart attack she’d sent up to the ICU. The pause was palpable, a terrific standoff of opinions. “Horrible, unimaginable things do happen, Mia.”

  Years later and it was still an impossible point to argue. “True. But they didn’t happen to me,” Mia said, holding out her arms as if to demonstrate her well-being. “And Flynn isn’t what you think; he certainly had nothing to do with those murdered girls.”

  Roxanne sucked in a breath, gathering a chart tighter in her arms. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have brought it up. Flynn’s one thing we’ll never agree on.” Mia nodded. Now that she thought about it, she’d be more amazed if Roxanne had given up on her conclusions about Flynn. “It’s my theory and I’ll keep it to myself,” she said, repeating an old understanding. She firmed up her stance, segueing to facts she could prove. “But regardless of anything else, Mia, I do know what Flynn did to you when he walked out on you. And I don’t want to see history repeat. I . . . I don’t think I could stand it.”

  Me either . . . Eyes wide, a shaky breath blew out of Mia, that feeling of abandonment regrouping like an offshore storm. “I know, Rox,” she said softly. “It’s like you said before. You just want me to be okay, twelve years ago and now.”

  “More than okay, Mia.”

  “More than okay,” she agreed, forcing a smile. “This is, um . . .” Mia’s arms swung even wider, shaking her head. “This is all a bit unexpected,” she confessed, a tear pushing forward. “It’s been so many years. I never thought he’d . . .” She stopped; it was a thought better kept to herself. But she saw Roxanne nod, as if reading her mind. As much as they disagreed about the man in the bed, Roxanne was the only person who could understand how unexpected it was. “I, um, I know it wasn’t easy for you to call me, that it went against instinct.” There was a hard hum from Roxanne’s throat. “Listen,” Mia said, her voice softer. “I’m going to sit with him. When you have time, I’d like to know what else they plan on doing for him, any tests they plan on running, any changes. If there’s anything he’s not getting because of his . . . his status, with no obvious insurance, arrange it. I’ll pay for it.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Roxanne said as Mia walked toward the door.

  She stopped, turning back around. “There, um, there was one more thing.” Roxanne looked up from the chart she was studying. “You said when you called that you ‘owed me that much.’ I’d like to know exactly what you meant.”

  Rattling off words about mending past transgressions, Roxanne eluded the question with a timely beeper. As she watched her rush off, Mia made a mental note to revisit the remark. Roxanne didn’t owe anybody a thing—at least not that she would ever admit to anyone. For now she let it go. Getting back to Flynn was all that mattered. Being in the same room was imperative for a million reasons, but mostly to assure herself that it wasn’t a hallucination.

  Before returning to the ICU, she stopped by her car, in part to quiet the memories Roxanne had ruffled and also to retrieve her portfolio. While the present situation couldn’t be more surreal, the timing also couldn’t have been worse. Deadline was fast approaching on Aaron Hough’s design proposal. It was the most intense project she’d ever undertaken and the chance of a lifetime. Riding in the elevator, Mia choked back something between nervous energy and hysteria; the sentiment suddenly had multiple applications.

  A nurse who appeared to be all business nodded as Mia passed by the desk and entered Flynn’s room. He was still there. Her heart skipped a beat as monitors and medical equipment tended to his. For a long moment she just stared, the wake of twelve years bursting like a bad dream. Sitting in a chair, Mia pushed the portfolio aside. She didn’t know what she was thinking toting it up there. She’d stand a better chance planting a kiss on Flynn, thus righting his comatose state, than she would have accomplishing any work. Contemplating the fairy tale remedy, Mia’s gaze traveled his broken body. With a wish, a prayer, and her whole heart, she leaned over and brushed her lips on the only patch of unmarred cheek. Eyes shut tight, her nose pressed into Flynn, breathing him in. “I know better,” she whispered. “You’d never let me get away with anything so easy.”

  The nurse who came in to check on him never inquired as to who Mia was. That was good, since she wasn’t particularly sure of the answer. She scrutinized the nurse’s every move, then Mia rose from the chair, inching closer each time the nurse touched him. She needed to make her presence clear. Someone was watching over him. “How . . . how is he doing?” she finally asked.

  “He’s stable, no changes.” Though busy with her patient, she did glance at Mia’s anxious face, at the hands wrung in a squirming knot. “Think of it this way—the human body has an incredible ability to heal itself. Right now, it’s his sole focus. And that,” she said, continuing her protocol, “will take time and a tremendous amount of patience.” Mia nodded, curious if the instructions were getting through. Flynn could be wildly stubborn. “So you’d better find some.”

  Mia’s gaze flicked to hers. “Oh, you mean me?” Wringing hands was nothing. She unknotted them, tried to unclench her body, then sat as the advice and
a sense of uselessness sank in.

  “Do you draw?” she asked, adjusting his IV.

  “Draw?” The nurse pointed at the portfolio. “Oh, that. No . . . well, yes. I’m an interior designer. Offices. I specialize in commercial interiors, holistic design,” Mia mumbled, wondering if anything could sound less relevant. Yet random thoughts continued. “I was at a dinner meeting, working on a big . . . huge project when this, um, happened.”

  “Always the way,” she said, capturing Flynn’s vitals on a monitor. “Interruption is an inherent part of catastrophe. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you kept at it. In fact, it might even help.”

  “Help? How could it possibly help?” Mia asked, sure that the nurse was now patronizing her.

  “I’ve handled my share of coma patients. He’s more likely to respond to your presence than a room full of strangers.” Finished with her tasks, she offered Mia her further insight. “Surrounding them with voices they know, conversations they’re used to, people they love . . . It can facilitate the healing process, and it might just be the enticement he needs.”

  Mia nodded, consciously disregarding any people he might have encountered—never mind loved. She didn’t want to think about any significant conversations Flynn may have had in the last twelve years. Fingering the edge of the black portfolio, she made the gutsy assumption that her voice was the one he’d want to hear. The nurse edged toward the door. “Your big project—he must have had input.”

  Mia’s head snapped up as the nurse bull’s-eyed a guarded secret. Flynn was her catalyst, the silent encouragement for every design risk. “You really think it could help?”

  “He’s in pretty bad shape—there’s no guarantee.” The raw observation caused Mia to pinch back another wave of tears. “But I do think the power of positive energy is limitless. For him, that can’t happen soon enough.” A second nurse appeared in the doorway.

  “Margaret, if you have a minute, I could use a hand across the hall.”

  Mia’s eyes fluttered over Flynn and she turned quickly to the exiting nurse. “Thank you . . . Margaret.”

  She sat for a while longer, assessing relevant topics and trying to find a starting point. In the end she went with instinct. With Flynn, it was all you had to go on. She pulled over the tray table, then unzipped the portfolio and turned on her laptop. The small room wasn’t conducive to big ideas or sketch paper; sample materials and pages of gathered data fell around the two of them. A newspaper clipping wafted onto the bed. “Oh, this will explain a lot.” She smiled, picking it up. “And you’ll probably get a kick out of it.” Mia held it up as though he might read the headline aloud.

  “Okay, so you see it’s me,” she offered, rolling her eyes at a photograph of herself and a silver-haired businessman poised over an array of atypical furniture. “ ‘Office Ideas that are All Trash,’ ” she read. “Cute, huh? ‘Local commercial designer Mia Wells pitches holistic eco-friendly office to developer Aaron Hough . . .’ .’ He’s this mega-billionaire investor, Hough Development. I’m not so sure what you’d think of him,” she said, furrowing her brow. “Okay—maybe I do.” She walked to an empty corkboard and tacked up the clipping. “Anyway, you always said I’d . . . Well, I believe the words were ‘knock the design world on its collective ass.’ And here we are—maybe,” she added with crossed fingers. “It’s taken me years to put all the pieces together. To understand how the environment, space, and holistic design impact each other.”

  She paused, thinking back. “I’m getting a little ahead. Remember the cardboard furniture? Countless recyclable uses, but spill a cup of coffee and, well, let’s just say wet cardboard has its issues. But look here,” she said, holding up a finished drawing. “This suite is designed to house a hundred employees. Eighty percent of the hard surfaces are made from recycled product. The cubicle dividers, flooring tile—reclaimed rubber with zero toxins!” Mia laughed. “Glamorous, I know. But it’s safe for the user and benefits the environment. Believe me, that’s a tough combination. People are just getting to that level of awareness, how the two things have to interconnect. And you were so right about the glass mosaics. They are more than pretty art.” She reached into the portfolio and pulled out a brightly colored sample, not so different from the ones Flynn used to admire. “It was the relevance to the design that had to evolve. They reflect and absorb light, shift vibrational energy,” she explained, referring back to the drawing. “I have piles of data proving the effect in the workplace, increasing energy and productivity.” Realizing she’d been on a blind ramble to a captive audience, Mia paused. No, he’d want to hear every word; she was sure of it. She edged closer, hands full with the visions he’d inspired. “You have no idea how much of this is because of you. I never would have hung in there otherwise. You’ve been here, Flynn, every step of the way—from the beginning.”

  Chapter 8

  ATHENS

  For seven days after that one extraordinary night, Mia looked twice every time she came out of a building or drove in her car. She’d even gone to the Odyssey alone, sitting at the bar, hoping Flynn might wander in. The sound of a motorcycle engine caused her head to jerk in whatever direction, the rumbling motor sending her heart into a rhythm of anticipation. There was no sign of him. On the fifth day she called his motel, hanging up with a thud of disappointment when they said he’d checked out. By week’s end she’d all but given up. After the scene with Roxanne, who could blame him? She should have been firmer, showed some backbone when Roxanne barged in, listened to instincts that said, This is the guy, or at least let me find out if this is the guy. But like so many other instances, she let Roxanne take control. It had been a rough week between the two, she and Roxanne not speaking for days. Mia tried, more than once, to smooth things over while making her point. She was met with a brick wall.

  “Mia, it’s absurd,” she said, sitting in the middle of her bed, surrounded by a moat of textbooks. “There’s nothing you can say to justify spending the night with a total stranger.” Roxanne held up a hand, stifling Mia’s argument. “Yes, nothing happened. I get that. But what guarantee did you have that that would be the outcome?”

  “Flynn,” she answered, aware of her lack of tangible proof. “I admit it, Rox; it was a risky choice—but it was mine to take. And all the terrible things you’re thinking, they crossed my mind. But he’s not like that—not even close.”

  “Humph!” she snorted. “Maybe not right then. Maybe not even right away. But eventually that kind of behavior, that kind of guy, leads to one thing—trouble. The kind that’ll have you dialing 911, or maybe totally out of touch because you’re locked in the trunk of his car.”

  “He rode a motorcycle,” she said flatly. Roxanne sighed, returning to her schoolwork. It was at that point that Mia wanted to drag her to the closest mirror and say, “See, I’m not Rory. What happened to her isn’t a blueprint for my life, or Lanie’s, or Sara’s, or yours.” But as the week wore on, and with no sign of Flynn, she let it go. Besides, it would take something beyond her tactical know-how to alter Roxanne’s thinking.

  Slowly things began to edge back toward normal. After Mia insisted that she simply couldn’t apologize again—at least not for scaring her into a bloodhound hunting panic, Roxanne backed off. She even brought home a peace offering, Mia’s favorite : a double pepperoni pizza. The gesture seemed oddly generous. Roxanne hated pepperoni. She finally admitted that they’d gotten the order wrong. It was supposed to be half pepperoni. At least that made sense. They munched on the pizza, with Roxanne surgically removing every spicy round of meat while they exchanged mutual gossip and girl talk was restored. A short while later, Roxanne tossed her textbooks aside, suggesting a trip to the mall or to see the comedian who was appearing on campus that night. Mia declined, uninterested in the comfort of new shoes or the distraction of indulgent humor. She wanted to feel that fire again. That deep, intrinsic sense of being that she’d felt with Flynn. It seemed she couldn’t get her mind to move past a man who ignited far more
than risky behavior.

  It took three trips to the admissions office for Flynn to run into the right person, one who would be willing to give up Mia’s schedule for a sad story about the long-lost sister he was intent on finding. Being a savvy conversationalist came in handy under the right circumstances. It always took people by surprise when the rough exterior, the one he used for everyday living, peeled away to reveal traits that went more naturally with a trendy haircut and a fifty-dollar shirt.

  “And you won’t breathe to a soul where it came from?” whispered an openly gay clerk, his eyes shifting from his coworkers to Flynn. He tucked a scrap of paper into the palm of his hand as if it were top-secret information.

  “No, no, she’ll never know how her big brother found her. Thanks, man. You woulda made our momma happy, God rest her soul.”

  “Just glad I could help. Family is so important.” He spied the helmet Flynn carried and his fingertips fluttered across it. “Uh, tell me something. Do you always ride alone? I’d, um, love to ride with you some time.”

  Feeling his face go all kinds of red, Flynn dropped the piece of paper. He snatched it up and cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

  He carefully tucked the paper into his pocket; other things needed his attention before he saw her. He wanted to be smart about this. There were obstacles here. Big ones. He’d have to say all the right things in the right order. He’d have to get around Roxanne. Another guy wouldn’t be too much of a problem; he could deal with that. But girlfriends hung around, sometimes for a lifetime, and Roxanne’s influence would swoop in like a driving hurricane, tremendous and devastating. Hell, no doubt she’d already convinced Mia he was the devil’s spawn. And worse, what argument could he offer that he wasn’t? Everything about her told him she might understand—she made him feel human, the way her hazel gray eyes danced over his body, like he was worth something. It had been two years since he started this gritty cross-country trek, roaming through his life, from town to town. No other woman—not even the ones he took to bed, then rid himself of—made Flynn want to share anything more than a meaningless hour or two of raw flesh. He’d been a selfish prick with most of them—damn, all of them. It wasn’t their fault; it was all him. There was no real way to go about the rest of his life. If he’d learned anything, it was that there was no road that led to absolution, no destination that let him forget about murder—except, just maybe, her.