by Ruby Lang
She didn’t want to waste any more time.
She interrupted her admirer. “Actually, I was just leaving.”
She sprang up grabbed her bike.
“Hey, was it something I said?”
“Not everything is about you, dude.”
She pedaled home as quickly as she could, determined to figure something out with Jake. She wasn’t sure what, but she was sure he had a lot of suggestions. Maybe a list. But as she reached her sidewalk, she saw Jake outside. Was he preparing to leave?
“Jake!”
His face turned, and she saw the relief and love in it. She called his name again and zoomed her bike into the walk as her parents’ car shot out, tail first.
Then there was a horrible jolt, a thud, and surprise. There was noise—and so much bewildering pain.
The last distinct thing she heard was Winston screaming, “I’m so sorry. Oh no, I’m so sorry.”
• • •
Jake knew the protocol. The family would get to see her first. Even fucking Winston could be allowed in the room before him.
None of this should matter as long as she was all right—but it did. He was going to tell her he loved her again. He was going to say that he’d wait for her to make up her mind, that he wasn’t going to rush her, but that she would to have to let him try and convince her that he needed her, selfishly and unreservedly, and that she was going to have to live with that.
He would fight to get in that room first—because this was important.
Sarah’s friend Helen was the one to come out to speak to them. “She’s broken her left wrist and some ribs, but she’ll be all right.”
Jake let out a breath of relief. “I’m going to see her now.”
The rest of the family stood, but Jake had been too keyed up for too long to tolerate their presence any longer. He spun around and stared them down. “You’ve had your turn,” he told Sarah’s family.
Helen agreed with him. She glared at the Soons over his shoulder, then transferred her gaze to Jake. “You were her first thought,” she told him. “The rest of you can wait back here.”
Helen gave Winston an especially hard stare. “She wanted to get out of bed to make sure that I came to get you—and only you,” Helen murmured to Jake before turning to usher him to the room.
Sarah did look like she was ready for a fight despite her pallor. Her dark hair was loose and wild, and her mouth was stretched in a tight line of pain, but her eyes were trained anxiously at the door. When she saw him, her face glowed with relief and something more.
Despite the cast on her wrist, she opened her arms, and he held her as fiercely and as gingerly as he could.
“It’s you,” she said.
“Couldn’t keep me away.”
“I really hope,” she said, her voice muffled, “that every time I realize something important I won’t wind up in a hospital bed.”
“You’re going to tire yourself out.”
“No. I’m not. I want to say I’m sorry. Apologizing to you was the first thing I should have done. I should never have agreed with my friends all those years ago.”
Jake wanted to laugh. “I don’t care.”
“But I gave you such a hard time when we met up again.”
“The situations were different. Plus, we had old ideas about each other that needed clearing up—and they were cleared up. I just want you to be better now.”
“I promise you, I’ll get better and I’ll do better. Just like you’ve been doing with your entire life.”
They didn’t speak again for a while. It was good to sit silently and absorb the warmth of each other.
Sarah gave a small sudden laugh, her breath tickling his ear. It was the best feeling in the world. “I was being too quiet at first, so Helen pushed the resident out of the way and checked me another two times.”
“Maybe she should go for a third.”
“Would you still love me if I did injure my head and had no short term memory and got a huge scar across my forehead?”
He pulled back and touched her bruised cheek gently. “Is this something you’re planning? Because I don’t see that scar yet. To tell you the truth, I don’t know if I’m quite ready to joke about this yet. Seeing the car hit you—seeing you bleeding on the ground—that was the single worst moment of my life.”
Sarah gave a watery laugh. “Well, that’s saying something, because the last year has been pretty full of bad moments for you.”
He shook his head. “And good ones. Seeing you again, being with you, arguing with you, being in bed with you, and waking up with you have all been the happiest times of my life.”
He didn’t want to let go of her. That was all he knew. And she didn’t seem to want to let go of him.
But her face clouded slightly. “I left you sad and doubting last night and this morning. I couldn’t stop myself from doing the things I always do, having the same arguments.”
“I know you love me.”
“But I should have sought you out first and apologized and reassured you.”
“I wish you had, too, at the time. But I understand. Sarah, I’ll support whatever relationship you want or don’t want with your family. But just don’t let it dictate your actions. Don’t let them have this power.”
She closed her eyes and nodded. “It’s going to be hard to get out of that habit, but you’re right. And I don’t know what kind of relationship we’ll have moving forward. But one thing I do know, you are the one for me, Jake.”
She was looking at him now, her face glowing with love. “I know I go for some dubious self-improvement schemes and that I’m stubborn and angry. But you are the one who makes my life better. You listen and you laugh with me, and you see me and you respond. You’re the one who takes what I already am and makes it richer. I’m not ready to get married or have kids or any of that kind of thing just right now—I feel like I have to figure out my life again because of everything that’s happened—but one thing I do know is that I need you in my life. It’s the only thing that has stood out clearly to me. Never doubt that I’m committed to you, that I want to be holding your hand, or walking the dog with you, or just riding in the car talking and not talking. You are what I want.”
“That is exactly what I needed to hear.” He added very seriously, “I was pushing too fast. But it’s because I want time with you, because all of that time is a pleasure. It doesn’t matter what name we give it.”
She grimaced. “This isn’t the most romantic setting for my declaration. And I’m not exactly in the best shape to celebrate.”
“The best stuff is always overrated.”
“I had more that I was going to say to you. And now I can’t even remember.”
“It’ll keep.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was a gorgeous weekend for a wedding.
There was a lot Sarah had forgotten about her hometown. That it was beautiful in fall with bright leaves everywhere, and that it smelled good—that the scent of rain was extra fresh and invigorating on the drive through the countryside.
Laketon had changed; there was no doubt about that. There was indeed a yoga and Pilates studio and a new outdoor adventure store with bikes and hiking gear. The diner was still there with Georgie behind the counter, but the sign was new, hand painted. And the cracked brown leather of the booths had been swapped out with a bright red. And there were green juices on the menu.
Sarah was slightly annoyed by it, in truth. Between sips of a Kale-ing Me Softly With Beet Juice, she groused good-naturedly with Jake about hipsters and hippies and what this town was coming to. Every now and then, an old classmate of theirs, or a friend of their parents stopped by their booth and said hello and congratulations.
She wouldn’t say she was completely mollified by the welcome. Then again, she had a full and rich life elsewhere. It didn’t matter as much anymore what people said and thought.
After checking in to their room at the new inn and changing into their fine
ry, they drove to the reverend’s house and picked him up to take him to his wedding. The Catholic priest and Baptist minister and their new buddy from the Sikh temple shared the honors in marrying Reverend Doctor Telly Li to Dr. Judy Yu-san Tai. The crowd broke out into applause, and the dancing lasted well past midnight.
Jake was the best man. He wore a dark blue suit with a subtle sheen to it, and Sarah had very unholy thoughts during the simple ceremony at the big church.
The reception was large and loud and crowded. Judy had waited a long time for a wedding, and the reverend wanted to give her a blowout celebration—also, he liked parties. The reverend had lived in Laketon for more than thirty years. He’d invited the whole town and his whole congregation. Sarah’s mom had organized it, and she spent most of the night in an electric blue dress directing traffic at the buffet tables and re-arranging the torchlights. She was in her element.
Sarah and Jake danced for a long time under the stars and pointed out the constellations to each other. After toasts and cake, they went back to the inn, peeled their clothes off, and sauntered into in the room-sized shower. And because they were grown-ups, they could turn on the various showerheads whenever they wanted—even if it was after midnight—and have slippery sex against the wall or on the floor. Sarah had to admit that the new inn was very, very well equipped.
Jake got up and shut off the taps. He pulled her up into a warm towel and dried her hair and took her back to the bed and rubbed her carefully.
“Thank you. My tits and ass are very dry,” Sarah said.
She was sleepy. But her eye did pop open when Jake kneeled on the floor in front of her. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to make any rash declarations,” he said.
It was a standing joke between them now. He’d come back from a run smelling like grass and sweat and rain and kiss her and say, “Don’t worry, I’m not going make a declaration.”
But she wasn’t thinking of much at all. Especially when he lifted her legs up and tucked her firmly into the bed and then burrowed under the covers with her, pulling her to his warm, naked body.
“What’s going through your mind?” he asked, tracing her ear.
“I’m trying not to mind the visit to my parents tomorrow. I mean, be prepared for them to be snippy about the fact that we didn’t stay with them.”
“Sounds great.”
“And for them to bust our chops about the grandchildren they want.”
He put his nose in her neck, and she knew he was taking in a deep calming lungful of the scent of her soap.
“They’re trying,” she said. “But they forget themselves.”
“Then I will very wisely get us to leave when they start in on it.”
“They have good intentions. But it’s going to take them a while to change. Good thing they like improvement projects.”
He laughed against her neck, and it tickled. “Oh, I heard from Winston. He’s been working on it, but he got back together with Kirsten after many apologies and promises to be less of an asshole. I think hitting you with his car scared him into being a better person.”
“I’m glad my incapacitation achieved something.”
“Well, speaking of bed rest, I plan to keep you here for a scandalously long time this weekend.”
“Past 9:00 a.m.?”
“Maybe till ten or eleven. We’re going to have to get lots of rest, especially now that you’ll start delivering midnight babies again soon.”
“And yet something tells me you don’t have sleep in mind.”
“Just building up your tolerance for long, long hours.”
“You’re such a giver.”
She hit him with a pillow, and the ensuing battle was epic and glorious. She was Sarah Soon, maker of lists, taker of names, kicker of asses, and she was happy.
Acknowledgments
I am proud and fortunate to work with the glorious team at Crimson; Jessica Verdi, Tara Gelsomino, and Julie Sturgeon have guided me gently but firmly through three books, and I would be nowhere without them.
Many thanks to Amber Belldene, who was there with encouragement, advice, and a compassionate eye. To my husband, thank you for listening to my ranting and whining, and for pointing out my overuse of em-dashes.
Finally Toasties and SpaceWitches, to quote the great Sophia Loren, “Everything you see I owe to pasta.” Except, my darlings, the pasta is you.
About the Author
Ruby Lang is pint-sized, prim, and bespectacled. Her alter ego, essayist Mindy Hung, has written for The New York Times, The Toast, and Salon among others. She enjoys running (slowly), reading (quickly), and ice cream (at any speed). She lives in New York with a small child and a medium-sized husband.
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More from This Author
Hard Knocks
Ruby Lang
What a day for seeing the sights, Helen Chang Frobisher thought as she entered the exam room and took in the two mountain ranges facing her.
In the chair: the Alps. On the table: the Andes.
Of course, Portland never lacked for scenic views, but the two physically imposing gentlemen in front of her were a different story. They turned their boulder-hewn faces toward her and squared their chiseled shoulders. Alps stood up, but Andes just closed his eyes again. Clearly, he was her man.
Lacerations to the forehead and scalp, her brain noted as her heels clicked forward.
Andes was in a hospital gown. Alps was wearing a nattily tailored suit, but she doubted he was a businessman. Both men were too large, too craggy, too ... panoramic, she thought briefly before putting on her doctor face.
They had been sewn up. The chart indicated minor contusions on the blond one she’d dubbed Alps. Dark-haired and dark-eyed Andes, however, had clearly taken a harder hit.
“Dr. Frobisher, I thought you’d be interested in meeting these gentlemen,” Dr. Max Weber yelped. He flapped his clipboard excitedly.
She hadn’t even noticed her colleague next to the huge men, so preoccupied she had been. He was practically dancing.
“Their minor car accident is our special treat!” Weber said. “Dr. Frobisher, I’d like you to meet—but wait, you probably already know who they are.”
Max looked eagerly at Helen. Blond Alps, the one who wasn’t white-faced in the bed, came slowly toward her. She looked way, way up into his eyes. Smarter than the average landmass, she thought, meeting his alert, interested gaze. He cleared his throat. “Dr. Frobisher,” he said, “I’m Adam Magnus and that lump over there is Serge Beaufort.”
He put out his hand, and she took it, her slender fingers immediately lost in his palm. Out of sheer bloody-mindedness, she was tempted to squeeze with everything she had. She took in his close-cropped blond hair and the Slavic cheekbones. His eyes were that color that everyone said was blue, but which she privately thought of as ghostly and white. But there was a disarming sprinkling of freckles across his nose—a nose that had been broken once or twice. Farm boy meets gladiator, she thought, trying once more to fit him into neat categories.
She caught another glimmer of amusement from him and ignored it.
A nurse had wrapped a bandage around Alps’s forehead—Adam Magnus’s, she corrected herself—and there was a little blood on his shirt. Minor head wounds had a tendency to bleed a lot. Still, what the hell was wrong with her colleague, Weber? He was fluttering around the patients like a drunken Southern belle. She flicked her gaze back at Magnus.
“You should probably sit down, Mr. Magnus,” she told him.
“I’m fine,” he said. He was still holding her hand. “Dr. Weber and the nurses in the ER already worked their magic.”
“Dr. Frobisher,” Max screeched, “you don’t know who these gentlemen are? Serge Beaufort is the goalie of the Oregon Wolves, and Adam Magnus here is the enforcer. He’s the guy who makes sure everyone stays clear of our other players.”
<
br /> “That’s great,” said Helen extricating her hand. She moved closer to Andes. She still wasn’t sure why she was here. Maybe something had shown up on a CT scan. “And the Wolves are ...”
“They’re our hockey team.”
“Portland has a hockey team? No offense,” she added, with a quick grin to the patients.
Andes barely registered her words. Alps quirked her a wry smile.
Helen felt her stomach tighten a fraction.
Adam Magnus was kind of gorgeous, if you went for the gigantic, lethal bodyguard look.
Helen didn’t.
Well, not usually.
Weber was offended for the players’ sakes. “Are you telling me you don’t follow hockey? Doesn’t anyone watch the Wolves in this town? Helen, you’re Canadian, for God’s sake.”
“I don’t follow hockey nowadays,” Helen said, shrugging. “So ... no one here is complaining of chronic headache, I take it.”
She turned to the patient with a barely suppressed sigh. Head trauma was not her specialty—she usually looked at migraine and pain, but Weber had called her in on a routine mild traumatic brain injury case just because he thought she’d like to meet some hockey players. She supposed she ought to be grateful that her supervisor was the enthusiastic sort who paid attention to his charges.
Weber gestured for Helen to check the patient out. She ran through her list of standard questions, observing her patient’s hearing, his speech, his memory. Definitely a concussion, she thought, as she wound down her exam. Interestingly, Beaufort’s coordination and reflexes were still quite sharp.
Athletes, she thought again.
They’d probably both been playing since they were barely old enough to skate. That was how they honed that coordination and those reflexes that could grab bullets out of the air. That was how they learned the stick was an extension of their limbs. The movements were practiced and repeated and practiced until the procedures of each specific motor task, each grip on the stick, each flick of the wrist, each turn of the head, became etched in the neuroanatomy. Her brother had played for a while. Fat lot of good that had done him.