Bad Traveler

by Lola Karns

  After placing their orders, Gwen described Chloe’s efforts to crawl. He laughed but empathized with her plight. Each step a blend of joy at mobility and fear of falling. Chloe, lucky duck, wouldn’t remember a thing. He wished he could forget learning to walk. The painful process had frustrated him. He nearly gave up once, but the alternative held no appeal.

  The one advantage of his newfound notoriety came in the form of better service. Their food arrived quickly, still hot from preparation rather than a warming light. The steaming plates and inevitable change of subject loosened his tense leg muscles.

  Gwen eyed his steak sandwich then glanced at her grilled-chicken salad. “That looks good, and it probably has fewer calories than this cheese-and-crouton-covered salad.”

  “Want a nibble?” He extended his sandwich for her to try. The temperature went up about fifteen degrees when she took a bite, smacking her lips and using her tongue to scoop up a runaway strand of melted cheese.

  The sharing of food was a sort of foreplay. With any luck, they could continue what they’d started in more private surroundings, if she didn’t first run away in horror…. Her stocking foot extended to nuzzle his good leg. He dropped a french fry. When he met her gaze, her brown eyes sparkled with a come-hither twinkle. Forget about dinner. They could eat later. A carton of ice cream sat in his freezer. They needed to get out of this place and have an honest conversation about his injury, especially with all the media scrutiny.

  “You’re not going to finish that?”

  “Which that? The salad? Or….”

  Sudden shouts of “He’s on TV” pierced the air as customers pointed toward him. The barman turned up the volume on ESPN, which promised a brief introduction to the temporary coach of the Corwin Ravens after the break.

  Prior to Wednesday’s game, he’d spoken to one of their reporters and wished Coach Meyer a speedy recovery, but that wasn’t a story, and he’d refused to answer other questions. His hands grew clammy. The hair on the back of his neck stiffened, a sign he recognized from the field as a signal of acute danger.

  “Let’s go.”

  Her laugh burst forth, tinkling bells that in other circumstances would be pleasant.

  “I haven’t finished yet. Besides, aren’t you curious? This is a national profile.” Gwen winked, the long, dark fringe of her eyelashes slowly covering then revealing one brown eye.

  His expression must have concerned her. “You were right about the privacy. We’ll go as soon as I finish.”

  His lungs tightened; he remained on high alert. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to rush you. It’s just….” He struggled for the right word. A deodorant commercial played on screen. All the televisions showed the same image. “Awkward.” And an impending disaster moving in slow motion. Why hadn’t he been warned?

  She touched his hand. “And a bit intrusive, but whatever they say on TV or the people around here, it won’t change my wanting to be with you. I know you.” The familiar sports-show theme music blared forth. “I better finish. I didn’t have a chance to eat lunch today.”

  One of the employees cut the background music, and the restaurant filled with the sports anchors’ voices, their cheeky delivery trademarked by the station. “Coming up, another NCAA recruitment scandal, this time in…women’s lacrosse? What is wrong in Boston? But first, who’s the new guy at Corwin College? Dan?”

  “Thanks, Chipper. They may not be a household name, but NCAA tournament fans know to beware of the Ravens of Corwin College. During the last twenty years, under the tutelage of Coach Goodwin Meyer, the Ravens have made nine tournament appearances and earned the nickname ‘giant killers’ for a string of stunning upsets, including knocking out two seeds and one number one seed. The Raven’s tournament hopes were thrown into turmoil earlier this week after Meyer suffered a heart attack and named assistant coach Kyle Collins as his replacement. An unlikely and surprising pick for a guy who only started coaching basketball this season. It made us wonder…just who is this guy?”

  In quick succession, several players appeared on video offering up comments. “Coach Kyle…he’s a hero.” “Coach is a fighter.” “Coach inspires us every day.” This must have been why the athletic director asked for a shortened practice today.

  His head weighed a ton in his hands, but nothing compared to the sinking feeling in his heart. This was bad, worse than bad. “Let’s go. I’ll get the check.”

  “Kyle Collins played for the Ravens ten years ago.” A team photo circled Kyle. “Coach Meyer encouraged the walk-on to consider coaching, but Kyle followed a different path.”

  A photo of him in dress uniform came on screen, later followed by a couple of casual poses taken on calmer days in basic training and in Afghanistan. Where did these particular photos come from? Someone in his family must have leaked them, or Matt might have. Maybe they pulled the photos off Facebook. He hadn’t authorized any of this. When he signed on, he’d made it clear to Coach Meyer he didn’t want to discuss the past. Even the athletic director agreed to keep the details out of his official bio quiet. In retrospect, he did sign an awful lot of papers over the last few days….

  “Following graduation, Kyle joined the Rangers. His missions remain classified.”

  “Oooh,” she purred. “I’m impressed. You never told me.”

  “I couldn’t. Gwen, I have to tell you something.” Peeking through fingers as he cupped his face in his palms, he noticed how captivated she was, craning her neck to see the screen.

  “We do know this much. During a successful mission to capture one of the most wanted terrorist suspects, Collins encountered an unexpected blip. The suspect held two children, one the daughter of oil baron Faharad el Abdul, as hostages. Kyle Collins rescued the children, carrying them through a hail of bullets.”

  Kyle lifted his head just enough to peer at Gwen. She started at the screen, eyes wide with wonder. He should have told her this. Why? Why hadn’t he done so sooner? This was not the way for her to hear this story.

  “Did we mention he ran through a minefield? A mine exploded, knocking Kyle and the children to the ground. He crawled the children to safety, only then realizing his leg was gone.”

  Kyle saw horror and revulsion in Gwen’s eyes.

  Chapter Twelve

  The TV droned on, returning to the players, telling the world how inspiring it was to watch Coach run up and down the court on his prosthetic during practice drills. In front of his eyes, her initial shock turned to outrage. He was paralyzed. This was his fault.

  “Were you planning to tell me any of this, or were you going to wait until I was frantically removing your clothes tonight and then shout ‘surprise,’ or did you have something more sinister in mind? Did you think I just might not notice? That a missing limb wasn’t worth mentioning?” she spat in quiet tones.

  Words failed him. He’d blown his one chance at love, trapped by desperation and doubt. But she’d proved his worst fears were right. No woman would want him.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” His voice quavered as if ready to burst into tears. He balled his hands into fists, forcing them to stay on the tabletop rather than pounding in frustration. His nostrils flared as he tried to regain composure, using that weird breathing technique they taught him in physical therapy.

  The story ended. Other patrons looked their way. Some broke into applause. The noise increased, but it couldn’t cover up the pounding of blood in his ears.

  “We’ll leave together, gracefully, since we wouldn’t wish to destroy any illusions people may have about the hero coach.”

  The harshness in her voice pained him. He deserved this and worse. Could there be worse than losing her forever?

  When he offered his hand, she refused, but didn’t shake his hand off the back of her coat. As they left, the server informed them their meal was on the house. Several customers approached them. “I just wanted to shake your hand.” “I had no idea you were a wounded warrior.” “Thank you for protecting us.” “Those b
oys are lucky to have such a great role model.”

  With polite nods, he attempted to respond with decorum to the unwanted invasions. He hadn’t asked for this. All his efforts to keep a low profile exploded, and this time Gwen had gotten tangled in the carnage.

  One young woman in a low-cut sweater asked if she could “see the scars and how the prosthetic is attached?” She claimed it was okay because she wanted to be a physical therapist. Aghast, he wanted to yell and berate her lack of manners. To his surprise, Gwen rescued him.

  “This is hardly the time or place to sate your morbid curiosity.”

  The young woman apologized and slinked back to her seat.

  In the cool night air, they walked toward the Sweet Spot in silence. She shook off his hand, seething. Something, anything she said would be better than the silence.

  She wouldn’t even look at him. Why should she? Brooke had been right the morning she threw the divorce papers on his hospital bed and called him “gross and disgusting.” He’d deluded himself, thinking Gwen might be different. Idiot. He was unlovable.

  She increased her distance, walking faster as she approached the alley behind her shop.

  “Gwen, wait!”

  She kept walking, slowing to dig in her purse for keys. When she retrieved them, they tumbled from her fingers into the snow beside the back door. Her body heaved as she squatted down, digging in the snow. He crouched, intending to help, making one last effort to reach out to her. Gwen sniffled, and tears streamed down her face. She pushed his hand away.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Let me explain. Please? Gwen?

  Keys in hand, she stood, towering over him as much as her petite frame would allow. “Why didn’t you tell me yourself? I deluded myself into thinking you cared for me, that I could trust you.” Her voice raised in pitch and volume. She gestured in the air with her unencumbered hand. “But instead I learn this from a TV show. I’ll see myself home.”

  “Gwen, wait!”

  The tightness in his throat threatened to choke his words. Tears strained to be liberated. His phantom limb itched as if thousands of spiders crawled over his skin. He reached out again, but she entered her building without looking back. Pursuit was useless. Approaching her in the airport had doomed had him to misery. In the safety of his Jeep, with his head against the steering wheel, for the first time since he was a child, he cried.

  ***

  Everyone knew about his leg but her. He’d made a fool of her. How dare he. After several minutes, she gave up listening for his car engine and switched on the coffeemaker. A quick call home proved Chloe was okay, but she disconnected when Dad asked if she saw the show. People sucked, especially know-it-alls who would pepper her with questions. Moody much? She needed to calm down or sleep would elude her. A glance around the kitchen confirmed no prep work for tomorrow remained. She tried to forget her earlier glee when she’d measured ingredients and anticipated making love with Kyle tonight. Lying pig.

  One recipe stood out as perfect for her foul mood. Nothing would change his betrayal, but for sanity’s sake, she needed Frustration Cookies. They would need a different name in the display case. Jerk Cookies? Big fat liar? A taste of deception? “Maybe I’ll name them later,” she muttered.

  A triple recipe should do, and cinnamon and nutmeg will round out the flavors. Two-and-a-half pounds of butter tumbled in the mixer, along with the brown sugar and baking powder for even distribution. The ingredients coalesced in the mixer, passing through various shades of yellow from pale to dark. Flour and oatmeal came next. The commercial mixer could handle the thick dough, but after a few twirls, she removed it from the bowl, shaking out the stray bits of flour and oatmeal onto her once pristine stainless-steel countertop. She cranked the volume on the sound system, putting on the angriest music in the bakery’s mellow CD collection. With her stepstool on the floor in front of the large pile of dough, she climbed up to maximize her leverage. Her fists pounded into the dough.

  At the third punch, she gave voice to her thoughts, letting the sound escalate and not worrying if she woke anyone up.

  “Why? I bought new underwear for tonight. The dumb things ride up, and the lace is scratchy and for what! Damned clearance-bin underwear. Why didn’t he just tell me? Seems like a pretty big secret to keep from someone whose tongue has been in your mouth. How did he think I would react to hearing the news secondhand? Why wouldn’t he tell me what happened? Is this why Brooke left? Can he even have sex? Or children? And why did kids enter my mind?”

  Pausing from time to time to turn the pile of dough and collect the stray bits that fell apart from the mass, she worked out her frustration and dug up anger stored away a long time ago. “I should have warned him about Brooke. She went after Kyle because she knew I liked him and wanted revenge after her boyfriend kissed me. I should never have left. I could have spared him whatever she did to him. She must have done a number on him. I hate that bitch.”

  Harder and faster she beat the dough. The butter softened with impact. Her hands displaced the pile, and fewer bits flew off the side. Every two to three punches, she folded the pile onto itself. The dough was nearly done. She wasn’t.

  “And what about that bastard that knocked me up and cheated on me. And all the stuff he sent instead of sending something useful like money to pay for diapers and medical bills. I work—” punch “—and work—” punch “—and work—” punch “—to make a life for Chloe, and he just…. He just…. I-I-I don’t even know.”

  Her sternum pressed into her lungs, diaphragm tightening. Everything clenched and seized. Release grew eminent. Not wanting her tears to corrupt and over salt the dough, she collapsed on the floor. She cried for everything she’d suppressed for months, for years, then with shame for how she’d treated Kyle tonight—even though he couldn’t think much of her if he didn’t tell her what others knew. When the tears stopped, she realized she’d cried through half the CD.

  Standing, she wiped her face and blew her nose on her apron, feeling better than she had in a while. After washing up, she changed her apron and pressed the cookies into shape. With two successful test trays baked, she moved the cookie dough to the refrigerator for overnight storage, wrapped the cookies to test at home, and opened the back door to view the empty parking lot before walking home. She hadn’t expected or wanted Kyle to wait, but his absence hurt. How could she want to throttle him and hug and comfort him all at the same time?

  Keira’s words echoed in her mind as she walked home. If she apologized “for everything” there was no value in the apology. For too long, empty words had tumbled from her mouth and only brought misery. No more.

  The cool air slapped her face, bringing with it fresh thoughts. The injuries were something she could deal with. He learned how to cope. His perseverance was part of him. The lack of truth bothered her. Why didn’t he tell me? He must not trust her, and love couldn’t exist without it.

  The streetlamp flickered off in front of her. The sidewalks were clear, and the town was safe. Other than the rowdy college parties, Corwin was a good place to be, to raise her family. She could walk home without fear at any hour. Fear. Brooke fed on fear, with superficiality worn as a badge of honor. Whatever transpired between them and ended their marriage, Brooke wouldn’t have borne his injuries well. There had to be some reason he never told her.

  Her toe smacked against the uneven concrete in front of the Holger’s house, one block from her parents’. “Ow!”

  She should have remembered how the sidewalk buckled from a tree root, but jumbled thoughts distracted her. She liked him, maybe more, and the feelings seemed mutual. Why couldn’t love be simple? There was that word again. They could have had something together, but not without confidence in each other. If he wanted another chance, he’d better explain himself.

  ***

  His stupidity knew no bounds. Why had he kept his injury a secret so long? How many times had he intended to tell her? Her remarks cut to the quick and rightfully so. Any
relationship they might have enjoyed had blown up because of fear. Getting a second chance with her was more than he’d hoped but all for naught.

  The timing of the story befuddled him. If he’d taken over during March Madness, or the team had gotten to the second round, the media hoopla would make sense. As much as the idea annoyed him, he would be a human-interest story. Hell, he was one, apparently, in spite of his efforts to avoid such scrutiny. That his mission remained classified and the action occurred so far in the mountains that no one live tweeted the story delayed the inevitable attention.

  Someone had leaked the story. Who spilled his secret to the world? Brooke? Nah. That bitch would only do it if it benefited her. She’d be on TV, playing the grieving divorcée and trying to drum up attention for her next scheme. His family wouldn’t. They’d rejected the media once before. After his name went public as wounded in action and rumors swirled connecting him to the raid, they’d closed ranks and refused to speak to the media. He became a forgotten story within weeks.

  The athletic director probably had a hand in renewing the story, although confronting him would damage his reputation. He never discussed mission details with Sterling Bohrl, even though the AD knew he was a disabled vet.

  As he stared at the ceiling in his bedroom, realization sank in. The blame fell to him. During that second two-a-day the week before the season started, the players had been useless. Meyer’s face was the color of beet from yelling. Rich had responded with more drills from players ignorant of how to dig deep and push beyond what they thought they were capable of.

  Kyle worked alongside the players. When they ran, he ran. When they did push-ups, so did he. When they shot, he defended, coaching them on the court. The hotshot freshman point guard with starting potential, Parker, whined the whole time about how stupid it was to practice so long when the game was forty minutes long. When he threatened to stomp off the court because he was too tired, Kyle did what had to be done.