Anticipation

by Sarah Mayberry

  Eddie smiled. “Nice try.”

  “What? I’ll be fine on my own.”

  “We’re not going to find out.”

  Blue pressed her lips together. She wasn’t going to argue the toss with him. It was her life, after all. She got to make her own decisions. He couldn’t make her go home with him.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “Give it up. I’m going to win this one.”

  “We’ll see.”

  They eyed each other across the space that separated them for a beat. Then Eddie reached out and caught her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers, warm and strong. He squeezed her hand gently.

  “Let me look after you. Please?”

  The look in his eyes just about killed her. Part humble, part beseeching, part determined. Her chest felt tight and hot, and she swallowed noisily.

  “You play dirty,” she finally said.

  But she didn’t pull her hand free.

  Chapter Four

  One week later, Eddie watched as Blue planted her crutches on the doorstep of his house and swung over the threshold. He followed warily has she maneuvered her way down the front hall. She’d been getting around on crutches for only two days, and even though she hadn’t said anything, he knew she was still finding her balance.

  “You’re in the back bedroom,” he said, her overnight bag in one hand, a backpack full of books, magazines and her Macbook Air in the other. The master and second bedrooms were at the front of the house, but he’d figured she’d prefer the privacy of having part of the house to herself.

  “A room with a view. Excellent. And silence,” Blue said, making her way carefully through the living room to the short hallway that led to the bedroom.

  She paused in the doorway when she reached the room. He watched as she took in the vase of colorful flowers on the bedside table, the fluffy blanket folded across the foot of the bed, the brand-new plush bathrobe resting on top of it. The room smelled of lavender, and the curtains were pushed wide, offering a view of the sunny backyard.

  “Maggie?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at him.

  “She insisted.” He didn’t have a problem admitting it. He liked nice things — food, wine, interior design — but he wasn’t a fluffy blanket kind of a guy. “She said it was the least I could let her do since she wasn’t allowed to look after you.”

  “She should be thanking her lucky stars. Doesn’t she realize I’m a cantankerous, foul-mouthed miscreant?”

  “I think she got the memo.”

  He set the bag on the bed and unzipped it.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “What does it look like I’m doing? Unpacking.”

  Blue reached out and pulled the bag from his grasp. “Ground rules: anything I can do for myself, I do for myself. Period. End of story. You can, however, bring me food any time you like.”

  “Okay. But I have a rule of my own — no doing stupid shit because you’re stubborn and you don’t want to ask for help.”

  “I’m not an idiot.”

  He simply held her eye.

  “Fine. Whatever.” Her tone told him she thought he was the most annoying person in the history of the world.

  “I want your word on it.” He held out his hand for her to shake.

  “Seriously?”

  He reached out and caught her right hand, forcing her to shake on their deal. Her fingers curled around his reluctantly.

  “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he said.

  “You missed your calling. You should have been a dictator.”

  He grinned at her, mostly because he knew it would annoy her. “When you’re ready, I’ve got a bunch of new games for the PlayStation.”

  “Don’t you have to head into the studio?”

  Her eagerness to be rid of him wasn’t exactly heartwarming.

  “I took the day off, wanted to get you settled in.”

  “Wow. Look at you go, Sir Galahad.”

  “My pleasure. Really,” he said as he left the room. “You can thank me later.”

  “You volunteered for this,” she called after him.

  He couldn’t help smiling. Every day she got better. The color was back in her face, and she was moving more easily, even though her ribs and the tenderness in her abdomen clearly still gave her the occasional pang. He didn’t doubt that she would soon be rampaging around his house on her crutches, rattling her cage.

  He wouldn’t have it any other way.

  He’d just finished popping corn when he heard the thud of her crutches in the hallway.

  “That smells freaking amazing,” she said as she entered. She’d shed the hoodie she’d worn home from the hospital, revealing a snug black tank and yoga pants that had been hacked off at the knee on her injured leg.

  “Ready to get your ass kicked?” he asked her.

  “Ready to kick some ass, you mean.” She gave him a scornful look before moving into the living room.

  He waited till she’d sunk onto the sectional sofa before putting her crutches out of the way. “Assassin’s Creed or Call of Duty?”

  “Duty, of course.”

  He set up the game and brought two controllers to the sofa, handing her one.

  “Awesome,” she said, shooting him a quick smile, her face alight with anticipation.

  That was the thing about Blue, her tastes were pretty simple: give her plenty of food, a roof over her head, and the potential to create havoc in a virtual realm, and she was a happy woman.

  He settled beside her, and they got lost in another world. It wasn’t until she made a couple of stupid mistakes — rookie moves — that he realized she was tired.

  “Enough,” he said, hitting the button to suspend the game.

  She widened her eyes as she turned to look at him, outrage writ large on her face. “What?”

  “You’re tired. You should stretch out, have a nap.”

  “Sweet baby cheeses. You have got to be kidding me.”

  “So you’re not tired?”

  “No.”

  “Liar.”

  “I just spent a week in hospital with a bunch of people in white coats all up in my face. Do not tell me how I feel, or I will not be responsible for my actions.”

  There was genuine frustration in her voice, not simple stubbornness, and he reminded himself that she had always been someone who needed a certain amount of alone time to recharge and regroup. Being in the hospital had clearly pushed her to the limit.

  “Compromise — we watch Lucy,” he suggested.

  For a moment he thought she would continue fighting, but she gave a little shrug that long experience had taught him meant she was willing to accept his offer.

  It took him a few seconds to load the movie, and when he finished he arranged some throw cushions so he could stretch out along one arm of the sectional.

  “You need help getting your leg comfortable?” he asked, assuming Blue would stretch out along the other arm, as she usually did.

  “I’ve got it.”

  She lifted her fiberglass cast onto the sofa, and he plumped a few cushions to prop her up before she settled on her side, facing the TV.

  “Could I have the popcorn, please?” she asked.

  He handed it over and hit Play. Blue was incapable of watching a movie without stuffing her face. It was a fundamental law of the universe.

  Twenty minutes in, she stirred, clearly uncomfortable, and he convinced her to use his thigh as a pillow. It didn’t take her long to drift off, one hand curled beneath her chin like a child, her lashes dark against her cheeks, her breathing deep and regular. He reached for the remote, thumbing the volume to mute before killing the movie. She needed her sleep more than she needed to see Scarlett Johansson’s enormous IQ.

  If he wanted to, he could probably ease Blue’s head off his knee onto a pillow and make his escape. He didn’t want to. He was happy to sit and watch her breathe. Happy to have a few minutes to regain his equilibrium where she was c
oncerned.

  The accident — the brutal violence and suddenness of it — would live large in his memory for a long, long time. Several times in the past week he’d woken, sweaty and disoriented, frantic to do something, save someone. No prizes for guessing what — or who — had inspired all of that. Having Blue here in his home for the next however-long was as much about reassuring himself that she was really here and would be okay as it was about making sure she had everything she needed. The two were inextricably entwined in his head and heart.

  He glanced at her, his gaze roaming her face. There were still faint yellow traces of bruises on her temples and around her eye socket. Her hair was soft against her head, free of product for once, the roots a light, innocuous brown where they were starting to grow out.

  In all the years he’d known her, he’d never seen her hair any color other than some shade of blue — pale blue, indigo blue, purple blue, Smurf blue, electric blue. He couldn’t imagine her any other way, but apparently — if her roots were to be believed — she was a natural brunette. He tried to imagine her with brown hair but the image wouldn’t gel in his mind. This was who she was. Who she’d always been for him.

  His gaze shifted to the slope of her cheek, then the curved bow of her mouth. There was so much more to her than her appearance, so much fierce will and humor contained in her small body, the fact that she was very pretty was easy to overlook.

  Her skin was flawless, the full, generous swoop of her lower lip verging on the decadent. Her chin was firm, stubborn — no surprises there — and when she smiled a dimple sometimes flashed in her left cheek.

  And then there were those eyes — bright blue, and full of so much life and fire.

  His gaze slipped from her face to her body, and it was impossible to switch off the caveman part of himself that noted she wasn’t wearing a bra beneath her tight black tank top, or to stop himself from gazing at the shadow of her cleavage. As he’d unabashedly told her many times over the years, she had great breasts — full, firm, round — and the day he didn’t notice them was the day he no longer had a pulse.

  He dragged his gaze — and mind — away from territory it had no business exploring and focused instead on the gleeful, mischievous-looking fairy cavorting across the front of her right shoulder. The second fairy he’d inked for her. She had four in total, peppered across her chest, belly and biceps, each with her own distinct fairy personality, and he was responsible for them all.

  This one was peering out from behind a verdant green leaf, gossamer wings braced for flight. Her purple gaze was both challenging and enticing, her smile naughty and irreverent. Blue always shrugged and changed the subject when people asked if the fairies had some special meaning or import for her. He’d heard her claim they were simply pretty, or that she’d always had a thing for fairy tales when she was younger.

  The truth, he knew, was that her fairies were her guardians, markers of how far she’d come and what she’d learned and what mattered in life. This fairy was Laughter, a reminder that joy was a gift to be treasured. The rounded, open-handed fairy on her rib cage was Generosity, her arms forever spread wide. On Blue’s left bicep was Loyalty, standing with her sword held high, ready to ride into battle for those she loved, and on the left side of her chest was Resilience, hovering in the air, her bow at her side, prepared for anything. Between them, the tattoos turned her torso into a colorful canvas, a riot of brilliant hues and careful, sinuous lines.

  Blue stirred in her sleep, a frown forming between her eyebrows for the briefest of moments before she sighed and stilled once more. Eddie stroked his hand down her arm, allowing himself the luxury of being gentle with her, something she rarely tolerated when she was awake. Hugs she could handle, along with affectionate pats and back slaps, but any sign of tenderness and she was edging toward the door or smacking him away and telling him to practice his “dark arts” on someone else.

  The one exception to all of the above being what had happened between them when she’d woken after her accident. She’d let him comfort her then. Not that he’d really given her a choice.

  Blue’s eyelids flickered, and her eyes opened.

  “I fell asleep,” she said.

  “You did.”

  “That’s annoying.”

  He did his best not to smile at her acknowledgement that he’d been right about her being tired.

  “Not for me.”

  She pushed herself into a seated position, pulling away from him like a cat that had exceeded its tolerance for petting.

  “I’m going to go lie down,” she said. “Thanks for the movie. And the popcorn.”

  She shifted to the edge of the couch and reached for her crutches. He beat her to it, handing them to her and supporting her as she stood and slipped the crutches under her arms.

  She didn’t look back as she made her way out of the room. A few seconds later, he heard the distinct click as she shut her bedroom door behind her.

  He contemplated the empty popcorn bowl for a moment. Then he pushed himself to his feet and went to do something about dinner.

  Blue sank onto the end of the bed and let the crutches slide to the floor. A hot tear slid down her cheek and plopped onto her thigh. She rubbed at the dark spot on her yoga pants, then used the back of her hand to wipe her cheek.

  They were going to be okay. She hadn’t been sure, had been racked with uncertainty and anxiety ever since she’d agreed to stay with Eddie after her release from hospital. She’d been building this day to epic proportions over the past week, terrified that the uncontrollable feelings she’d experienced after the accident were here to stay and not just the result of a damned good scare.

  But Eddie’s house felt welcoming and good. They’d played Call of Duty and watched a movie and eaten popcorn, and it had all been normal. Ordinary. Average.

  Just two friends hanging out. No inappropriate urges or feelings — except for that moment when she’d woken and found herself looking up into his face and had been hit by the tsunami of relief that was still washing through her now.

  Because they were going to be okay. The genie of her love for him had returned to its bottle, and she could once again stuff a cork in the neck to keep the genie in its place. Her leg would heal, and she would go back to her job and her apartment and her life, and those moments of weakness in the hospital would disappear like the aberrations they were.

  Thank. God.

  Tugging the fluffy throw over herself, she reached for one of the many books Maggie had gifted Blue during her hospital stay.

  She could hear Eddie moving around in the kitchen — the rush of water in the sink, the clang of a pot on the stove — and she curled her toes in anticipation of dinner.

  Eddie was a great cook. Not fancy — never fancy — but he had a talent for putting ordinary ingredients together and making them sing. She especially liked it when he delved into his Brazilian heritage and offered up the food from his childhood — feijao tropeiro, feijoada, moqueca de camarao.

  Her mouth was watering, and she grabbed her phone from the bedside table. Eddie answered on the second ring.

  “You’re kidding me,” he said flatly.

  “You want me to yell? Would that be better for you?”

  “What do you want?”

  “What are we having for dinner?”

  “Nothing fancy. Satay chicken with salad. Why?

  “Do you think we could have some brigadeiro for dessert?” Chocolate truffle balls made from condensed milk, brigadeiro were one of her favorite foods in all the world.

  “Let me see if I’ve got a can of condensed milk.”

  She heard the sound of a cupboard door opening.

  “You’re in luck,” he said.

  “You’re the best.”

  “For the next five minutes, anyway,” he said dryly.

  “Bask in it while you can.”

  She ended the call. Ten seconds later, her phone beeped with a message. She opened it to find a picture of Eddie’s middle f
inger.

  “That’s beautiful,” she hollered, knowing he’d hear her through the wall.

  A quiet knock woke her two hours later, and she realized she’d once again fallen asleep. That was all she did lately, apparently — slip into a doze the moment she was in one position for more than five minutes. Hopefully that meant her body was using all its energy to heal at a rapid rate of knots, but she wasn’t exactly thrilled by how helpless it made her feel.

  “Dinner’s ready,” Eddie said, his voice muffled through the wood.

  “You can come in. I’m not having an orgy in here.”

  The door eased open and Eddie’s expression told her he was unamused by her sarcasm. “I was respecting your privacy.”

  “So gallant. Be still my heart.”

  He collected the crutches from where she’d left them and handed them to her. “Remember, I’m in charge of the brigadeiro supply.”

  “Wow. Bribery and threats, and we’re only on day one.”

  “I use the weapons at my disposal.”

  “In that case, I take back what I said about you being gallant.”

  “Since you didn’t mean it anyway, I’ll try not to be too wounded.”

  She laughed, delighted by the way he never failed to return serve to her. He stood aside as she made her way toward the door.

  Surprise made her hesitate as she entered the kitchen, and the warm weight of Eddie’s chest hit her back. Before she had a chance to teeter off balance, his arm snaked around her waist, checking her forward motion.

  “Next time maybe give me a bit of warning before you slam on the brakes,” he said, his mouth very close to her ear.

  His arm was gone almost instantly, but between it and the beautifully set table before her, she felt more than a little thrown.

  There were candles, flowers from the garden, and real linen napkins folded on the side plates. A bottle of her favorite Italian beer sat at one of the place settings, while the other boasted a bottle of Brahma, a beer from Eddie’s homeland that she wouldn’t drink on a bet, even if she was dying from thirst.

  “I figured it was a celebration. Your first night home,” Eddie said.