Her Favorite Temptation

by Mayberry, Sarah

  She scanned the accompanying article, learning that Will’s bandmate was named Mark Galahad, and that their third album was roaring its way up the charts. The article was dated mid—last year, so she backtracked and hit another link. She wound up on Galahad Jones’s Wikipedia page—they had their own page!—reading about the band’s formation, the surprise success of their third album, their nomination for multiple music awards all around the world, their Grammy Award wins....

  Her cheeks were burning with embarrassment by the time she’d finished. Will was famous. And successful. On his way to joining the greats of music, according to one appreciative journalist. His voice was “both soulful and compelling,” his looks “unable-to-look-away handsome.”

  And she’d asked him if he was able to support himself on his music. He must have thought she was insane. Or that she’d been living on a space station for the past few years. Then she remembered how she’d so earnestly considered encouraging him to record his song. Thank God she hadn’t followed through with that idiotic impulse.

  He must have been laughing at me so hard.

  She ran through every word they’d exchanged as she dressed in her street clothes and took care of a few final tasks before heading home. Everything assumed a different meaning when viewed through the lens of her new understanding. The glint in his eye. The way he’d toyed with her—because there was no way she could call it flirting now. Clearly he’d found her ignorance entertaining. Or something like that.

  She’d worked up a good head of steam by the time she got home, slamming into her apartment, kicking her shoes off so hard they bounced down the hallway. She prided herself on her intelligence, and the idea that Will had been playing with her for his own amusement made her blood boil. She’d forced herself to go out onto that balcony to meet him against her own better instincts, goading herself into an out-of-character act to prove she had courage. And he’d been laughing at her the whole time.

  What a jerk.

  It was so tempting to go next door and give it to him with both barrels. Let him know in no uncertain terms what she thought of him and his smug private joke. But there was no way she’d be able to say the things she wanted to say at the moment. She needed to calm down a bit. Think about the best way of letting him know he hadn’t got the better of her.

  She noticed the light blinking on her answering machine and she jabbed it with an aggressive finger, standing with her arms crossed as she waited for the message to play.

  “It’s me, Leah. You’re obviously still at work.” It was her father, his tone wary. As though he thought her answering machine was going to reject his attempt to leave a message. “Your mother and I wanted to remind you about lunch next Saturday. I’m not sure if I mentioned it before, but we’re taking you somewhere special, since it’s a special occasion, so dress fancy. Hope you’re well. We’ll, um, speak soon.”

  Her father sounded a little bewildered toward the end, as though he couldn’t quite fathom why he was leaving this stiff, overly formal message on her machine. Typically, she had dinner with her parents several times a month and chatted with them on the phone regularly. The argument she’d had with them on Monday night was a first for all of them, and clearly her father didn’t know how to handle the aftermath.

  She sighed. Her birthday lunch would be supremely awkward if she and her parents were still at odds with one another. She had a vision of them sitting silently around a table in a plush restaurant, the atmosphere thick enough to suture.

  Too much fun.

  She went to the fridge to see about starting dinner and found herself staring at last night’s pizza box, a cardboard souvenir commemorating her folly and naivety. She pressed her lips together.

  That was one thing she could do something about right now.

  Grabbing the box, she folded it in half and opened the cupboard beneath the sink to stuff it into the garbage, only to discover the bin was close to full. Muttering under her breath, she yanked the bag free, tied a knot in it and marched to the door. The garbage chute was near the lift, and she spent a frustrating few seconds jamming the bag into the chute and then using the pizza box as a makeshift prodder to dislodge it so it fell to its doom. She was well and truly over it by the time she tossed the box in, reasonably certain she had a million different types of bacteria on her hands.

  And who should be exiting his apartment and strolling toward her but Will, an easy smile on his face.

  “Hey there, neighbor.”

  “You lied to me,” she said, pointing her finger at him like a weapon. The words practically erupted out of her, propelled by frustration, embarrassment and disappointment. She might not have ever truly believed that anything would happen between them, but it had been a pleasant fantasy—one his two-faced behavior had destroyed utterly.

  He shook his head briefly. “Sorry?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me who you are? Because you didn’t want to ruin the joke? Well, ha-ha. Hope you enjoyed yourself.” She marched past him, head high, only to come up short when he caught her elbow.

  “You want to hang on a second? Give me a chance to say something?”

  “You had your chance last night.” She tugged her arm free.

  “Right. Remind me how that conversation should have gone. ‘By the way, you obviously haven’t heard of me, but my buddy and I won a fistful of music awards last year. We’re officially famous.’”

  “You had plenty of opportunities to let me know who you were. Don’t pretend it was impossible.”

  He pushed his hair off his forehead, clearly exasperated. “Right, and the moment I said anything you would have been a deer in headlights and any chance of us being two normal people for half an hour would have been gone.”

  She made a rude noise. “Wow. You’ve got a pretty high opinion of yourself.”

  “You try being on the front cover of most newspapers in the country and see what that does to every single relationship in your life. I’ve had people I haven’t seen since kindergarten call me, wanting to get together like old times. I’ve had cousins I didn’t even know I had ask for loans. And let’s not even get started on the wall-to-wall women who are apparently prepared to do anything because sometimes I stand on a stage with my guitar plugged into an amp.”

  His vehemence was so genuine, so heartfelt, she couldn’t help but consider his point of view. She tried to put herself in his shoes, tried to imagine what it must be like to have that kind of attention, 24/7, whether you were up for it or not.

  Overwhelming was her first thought. Closely followed by invasive. It would probably make someone deeply suspicious of the motivations of any new person who came into their orbit. It might also reveal unwanted sides to old friends, too.

  “Not for a second was I laughing at you,” Will said, his voice gravelly with sincerity. “Believe it or not, Leah, being able to have a glass of wine and just be me and not one half of Galahad Jones for an hour or so has been the highlight of my week. Maybe even my month.”

  His gaze was steady on her. Compelling. Her shoulders dropped a few notches.

  She believed him. He hadn’t been laughing at her. She hadn’t been the butt of his private joke.

  “Okay,” she said. “Sorry I yelled at you. I guess I had the wrong end of the stick.”

  “I’m sorry it got weird. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

  She shrugged. It had been a misunderstanding. And it was possible—maybe even likely—that she’d overreacted a little. That maybe it had been easier to yell at and be angry with him than to be angry with the other people in her life who had let her down recently.

  “I should probably go wash my hands,” she said.

  “Yeah, I’m on my way out to grab some Thai food.” He gestured toward the lift.

  “Have a good night.”

  They gave each other friendly-
but-awkward nods and headed in opposite directions.

  “Actually, Will.” He turned toward her. “That song you were playing the other night—I take it I can download it from iTunes?”

  “You can.”

  “Good. It’s been driving me crazy ever since I heard it.”

  He offered her a small, mocking bow. “Then my work as a songwriter is done.”

  She couldn’t stop her mouth from curling at the corners. He was too charismatic, his energy too infectious, for her ever to be immune to him, she suspected.

  Both excellent qualities for a rising star, of course.

  She lifted her hand in farewell, then retreated into her apartment.

  Well, that hadn’t gone quite the way she’d imagined it. Still, it was nice to know that he hadn’t been playing with her. And that she’d been the highlight of his week, maybe even his month.

  She gave herself a mental shake. More than ever, he was a mirage. She would be well served to remember that.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WILL WAS HANDING over the money for his takeout when it happened. One minute he was thanking the woman behind the cash register, and the next minute nothing but garbled syllables came out of his mouth. The woman jerked her hand away from him in shock before laughing uncertainly, as though she wasn’t sure if he was making a joke. He knew from experience not to try to speak again—he’d only end up looking more deranged, and the spells usually lasted a few minutes. He set a twenty-dollar bill on the counter, nodded and headed for the door, aware of the burn of embarrassment working its way up his chest and into his face.

  He kept his head down as he walked to the apartment block, tugging up his collar to combat the cold night air. Fear, frustration, humiliation tangled inside him. God, he hated this. Hated the uncertainty, the vulnerability of not knowing when his body—his brain—would let him down. There was never any warning or sign that an episode was imminent, which meant it could happen anywhere, at any time.

  Thank God it had happened in the restaurant, though, and not while he’d been talking to Leah.

  A shudder rippled through him as he imagined that scenario. Her concern. Her questions. Her dawning comprehension as her medical training allowed her to connect the dots. Within minutes she would have been looking at him with the same kind, hopeful pity that his friends and family had ever since his diagnosis.

  He knew it came from a good place, that pity. He knew it was because people cared. Some of them very much. But he couldn’t stand it. One of the many reasons he’d chosen to spend the days prior to his surgery here in Melbourne, close to the hospital, rather than at home on the coast. In the city, he had only himself to contend with. His own moods, his own doubts, his own fears. Maybe that made him a selfish bastard, but he was willing to accept that if it meant he could carve out a measure of calm while he was in limbo.

  And if these turned out to be his last days...well, he wouldn’t be around to see his friends and family grieve, would he?

  The grim thought stayed with him in the elevator. Only when he was safely behind the locked door of his apartment did he let go of some of the tension banding his shoulders. He left the takeout on the coffee table and went into the bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror, he attempted a simple sentence.

  “Hello, my name is William Alex Jones.”

  A hash of mangled sounds came out, and he had to look away from the stark fear he could see in his eyes. He braced his hands on the edge of the vanity and tried again.

  “Hello, my name is William Alex Jones.”

  He got it right the third time, his mouth and tongue and vocal cords and brain falling into effortless harmony with one another. As always, the relief was profound, almost nauseating in its power as it washed over him. He took a step backward and sat on the edge of the tub, letting his head sink into his hands.

  This was so messed up. And absolutely freaking terrifying.

  He could feel his heart pounding away, fueled by panicky adrenaline. He forced himself to think past the fear, to remember when the last incident had been. Tuesday of last week? Wednesday?

  He pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the calendar. Sure enough, there was a single stark dot on Tuesday of last week to mark his previous episode. Which put his count for the month at three, including tonight.

  The month before, it had been two, the month before that, one. No surprises there, since the doctors had indicated he would most likely see an increase in activity as his brain tumor grew. Hence his imminent surgery.

  He stared at the floor, his body rigid with tension, his mind overflowing with a million different thoughts. All the things he still wanted to do with his life. The songs he wanted to write. The people to meet. The places, the meals, the good bottles of wine, the laughter, the love...

  I’m not ready to go yet.

  The faint sound of music filtered in from next door, the low vibration of bass, followed by the midrange of guitar. His head lifted as he recognized the familiar melody of “Waking Up Lonely.”

  Leah had downloaded it. For some reason, it made him smile. She’d obviously forgiven him for his economy with the truth. Good. He doubted he would ever share a bottle of wine with her again, but he didn’t want her living with the wrong idea of him in her head. Didn’t want her to think he’d been laughing at her, when in reality he’d been savoring the challenge of making her laugh and resisting the need to find out if she felt as good as she looked.

  The song finished, and after a moment it started again. His smile turned into a grin. She liked it. He’d stood on the stage at the Grammy Awards, enjoying the applause of thousands, but Leah’s approval hit at a deep, more personal level. He’d made something she admired. The pride and sense of achievement was both powerful and undeniable.

  If the surgery didn’t work out, he’d much prefer she remember him for that song than because they’d had a stupid argument in the hallway outside his rented accommodation.

  Such a cheery thought. You’re a bucket of laughs tonight, aren’t you?

  He stood, sparing his reflection one last glance before walking into the living room. The man in the mirror looked shaky. As well he might.

  Nothing Thai food wouldn’t fix. Along with insane amounts of luck and the skilled hands of his neurosurgeon.

  * * *

  NINE DAYS LATER, Leah raced out of her apartment, yanking the door shut behind her. She was running late for her own birthday lunch, a feat made even more ridiculous by the fact that she’d officially finished working last week and had spent the past seven days rattling around inside her apartment, trying to enjoy her first truly free days in months. Years, even.

  And failing miserably. She was used to getting by on not-quite-enough sleep, coffee and adrenaline. She was used to filling in charts, scrubbing for surgery and sitting by bedsides waiting for patients to finish asking all their questions. She had no idea what to do with hours upon hours of free time. Sleeping in had been her first thought, but she’d woken at the crack of dawn every day so far. She’d tried shopping, but she’d never been good at it and had returned with more of the same—linen pants and shirts in neutral colors. Apparently she would be just as rumpled a clinical immunologist as she had been a cardiothoracic surgeon.

  She’d dug a Dupion silk dress and matching jacket out of the back of her closet for today’s lunch, however. It was her thirtieth, after all. A significant birthday, whether she wanted it to be or not. She figured she might as well go out with a bang as a whimper.

  The dress was black, with a square neckline. It hugged her figure, the pencil skirt ending at midcalf, the matching jacket cropped with three-quarter sleeves. She’d dusted off her favorite black-and-tan stilettos for the occasion, and pinned up her hair in what she hoped was an attractive, casual pile of curls on top of her head.

  She ran-walked the final
few feet to the elevator, stabbing at the button multiple times, aware that her parents were probably already waiting downstairs, both of them being incurably punctual. Her father had insisted on picking her up, telling her that not having to worry about transportation or limiting her champagne intake on her birthday was part of their birthday gift to her. He’d also assured her that her mother would not be raising the subject of Leah’s career during lunch, either.

  It would be a welcome respite. So far, she’d had no less than four strained, urgent phone calls with her mother since their run-in in the parking garage. Her mother had tried bribes, bullying, guilt and plain old-fashioned haranguing, and while the calls had been tapering off, her mother’s acrimony had been steadily increasing. It was as though she read Leah’s decision as a personal, vindictive attack on everything she’d worked for, and nothing Leah had said so far had succeeded in getting her mother to separate her own thwarted ambition from Leah’s. In her mother’s head, they were one and the same. Hence her inability to let it go.

  Leah had officially left the program. Soon, she would start training for her new specialty. Her mother was going to have to accept that fact eventually.

  She stepped inside the elevator, trying to find her phone in her bag with one hand while hitting the button for the ground floor with the other. The doors had barely slid closed before they bounced open again and Will stepped in.

  She hadn’t seen him since the night she’d confronted him in the hallway, but that didn’t stop the dart of awareness that raced through her. Then she registered how pale he was and took an involuntary step forward.

  “You look terrible,” she said.

  It wasn’t only his skin tone. His eyes were dull, his hair lank. He looked as though he’d lost weight, too, his clothes hanging on him subtly.