Only Him

by Melanie Harlow

  But what were they?

  He let go of my hands so he could prop himself up, lifting his weight from my chest. “That was a good list.”

  I smiled. “Do you feel better about yourself?”

  “Much.”

  “Good. Hey, what time is it?”

  He glanced at the clock next to the bed. “Going on two.”

  “Can I get up for a minute?”

  “No. I like you right here where you are.”

  “I have to take my pill.”

  He rolled off me immediately. “Up you go, cupcake.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Laughing, I grabbed my purse from the floor and went into the bathroom, shutting the door and snapping on the light. Items of clothing—all his, except for my shoes—were still scattered on the floor. I set my bag on the vanity, next to where my underthings were drying on a hand towel, and cleaned myself up. Afterward, I took a pill from the packet in my purse and swallowed it with some water.

  I checked myself out in the mirror, taking in my damp, messy hair, smudged mascara, and a faint rash around my mouth. What the hell was that? I leaned closer, touching it with my fingertips. Then I smiled—it was from Dallas’s scruff rubbing against my sensitive skin. I looked down at my body and noticed it on my chest, stomach, and inner thighs too. Grinning, I splashed some cold water on my face. I’d forgotten how aggressive Dallas could be. How hot-blooded. It was sexy as hell.

  But he was playful too. And generous. And sweet. I still couldn’t get over what he’d planned for me tonight. A guy who would go to all that trouble was a romantic at heart. Combine all that with the package it came in, and any woman would swoon. It was seriously amazing that he was still single.

  Then it hit me—maybe he wasn’t.

  Maybe the real reason why I couldn’t come visit him was that he had a girlfriend—or even a wife! My God, he could have kids! A wave of nausea struck me, and I swayed forward, bracing my hands on the sink as my face dripped.

  Oh, God. Oh, God. I didn’t want to believe it, but it made total sense to me. Total, heartbreaking, stomach-turning sense.

  I grabbed a towel and mopped off my face. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied his travel kit on the vanity. It was olive green twill, unzipped, and two seconds later my hands had seized it. If he was hiding a wedding ring, this would be the place, right?

  I felt horrible as I rummaged through it. Criminal. I’d never been the kind of person who snooped in other people’s things or opened their medicine cabinets at parties or eavesdropped on their restaurant conversations. Now here I was with my hands in someone else’s personal business, hunting for a sign that he was scamming me and cheating on someone back home. I was disgusted with myself. But I didn’t stop until I’d taken everything out of that bag—toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, comb, hair product, razor, shaving oil, tweezers, deodorant, lip balm, condoms, ibuprofen, a bottle of prescription pills—and held it upside down, shaking it as if a platinum band might slip from the lining.

  When it was obvious there was nothing else in there, I dropped the bag and put my hands on my face. My cheeks were flaming hot. I peeked through my fingers at my reflection, and a deranged naked woman peered back at me.

  That’s it—I was losing my mind. This whole nightmare thing was making me insane. Dallas wasn’t married. He just didn’t want to lead me on. He liked being single. In a way, it would have been easier if a ring had been hidden in the bag. At least I would have had some concrete reason why he didn’t want to see me again.

  Angry with myself, because I’d known right from the start what tonight was—and what it wasn’t—I began putting everything back in the bag. Out of curiosity, I glanced at the label on the prescription bottle. Depakote. I’d never heard of it before. The bottle was pretty much full. I tucked it back inside the bag and tried my best to make it look like nothing had been disturbed. But I felt terrible.

  I went back into the room, where Dallas was stretched out on his back, hands behind his head, sheet pulled to his waist. He smiled at me, and I felt even worse.

  “Come back to bed,” he said.

  Ignoring my guilty conscience, I crawled under the sheets, and he pulled me on top of him, my head on his chest.

  For a couple minutes, we lay like that, the length of my body along his as he slowly ran his hands up and down my back and I listened to his heartbeat. Our breathing synced, and I felt peaceful inside.

  “I was thinking,” he said softly.

  “‘Bout what?”

  “I don’t have to be in Boston right away.”

  I opened my eyes. “No?”

  “No. And I was also thinking about what you said earlier. Catching a Tigers game tomorrow, if they’re playing at home.”

  I picked up my head and smiled. “That would be fun. I love Comerica Park.”

  “Let me grab my phone.” He slipped out from beneath me and walked over to the door, where his jacket lay in a heap on the floor. “Probably I should hang this up.”

  I watched, admiring his naked form as he hung his jacket in the closet and shut the door. He came back over to the bed with his phone in his hand and sat down, frowning at the screen.

  “No game tomorrow?” I asked.

  “No. I mean, I don’t know. I haven’t looked yet. But I have a bunch of texts from my brother I’m going to ignore.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he bothers me. Okay, let’s see …” He typed and scrolled. “Aha! Oh hell yes, this is perfect.” Looking at me over his shoulder, he grinned. “Tigers vs. Boston Red Sox at Detroit.”

  I laughed. “But who will you root for?”

  “You know what? I’m gonna get my niece and nephew a bunch of Tigers shit just to bug my brother. He loves the Sox.”

  “You’re terrible.”

  “I know. I’ll get tickets tomorrow.” He set his phone on the nightstand and plugged it in before snapping off the light. “We should probably get some sleep. I just need to take my contacts out.” He leaned down and kissed me, then headed into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

  I couldn’t believe it—he wasn’t going to leave tomorrow! That could mean he’d changed his mind about seeing me again, couldn’t it? Or at least that he might be willing to consider giving us a chance? Otherwise, why bother? If tonight was really only about having some fun “for old time’s sake,” he could’ve simply dropped me off tomorrow morning and been on his way to Boston. Instead he wanted to stay.

  I smiled in the dark.

  This was only the beginning. A new beginning. A second chance for a first love.

  There was hope for us.

  Eight

  Dallas

  I’d forgotten about the pills.

  I stood in the bathroom and stared at my travel bag, which I could have sworn I’d zipped, but was now open, and the bottle of Depakote was plainly in sight.

  My stomach went a little queasy at the thought of her seeing it, although it was highly unlikely she would have known what they were for. I took the bottle from my bag and read everything on the label, but there was nothing on it that indicated why someone might take the drug. Still.

  Damn it, why had I listened to that neurologist? I didn’t need those stupid pills. And damn Finn for guilting me into bringing them on this trip. I wasn’t even convinced that those dizzy spells I sometimes got were seizures in the first place. I’d seen one doctor who said they were just “stress episodes.”

  And I’d only passed out the one time, a month ago, and only for like two seconds. I’d probably just been dehydrated. Or hungry. I hadn’t even felt the tingling in my hand lately. Half of me was convinced the diagnosis was complete bullshit, and the surgery Finn wanted me to have was just him showing off how much smarter he was than me.

  Yes, I’d seen the scans. Yes, I’d read the results. Yes, I’d listened to the opinions of multiple doctors and radiologists, all of whom fired at me with the same bullets.

  A 1.2 cm mass. Left parietal lobe. The are
a that controls upper right side mobility. Probably been there for years. Not on the surface.

  And I wasn’t an idiot. I knew something was causing the dizziness. The constant headache. The vivid memories. The occasional numb feeling in my hand. The worsening eyesight. But none of those things seemed particularly alarming to me. When compared with the risks of the craniotomy, which included potentially losing motor control and sensation in my right hand (thus ending my days as a tattoo artist—as any kind of artist) and some speech or language function, not to mention the rounds of chemotherapy and radiation I might need afterward, well, fuck. A headache, a dizzy spell here and there, and some pleasantly intense memories seemed a small price to pay. And didn’t everyone’s eyesight get worse as they got older?

  Bottom line, I didn’t want to be some pitiful, drugged-up, shell of my former self, unable to work or draw or talk, and dependent on others to take care of me. I would never burden anyone that way. And I never wanted anyone to see me as weak. Frail. Vulnerable. Or feel sorry for me.

  Especially Maren. No fucking way. I’d rather die than let her see me with a shaved head, staples holding my scalp together, listening to me struggle to speak. And it’s not like I could tell her about it at this point, anyway. Oh, hey, funny thing, I forgot to mention I have a brain tumor.

  I took out my contacts and put on my glasses, frowning at myself in the mirror. It was an asshole move and I knew it, but I had to keep it from her. Not only because she’d be mad, but because she’d pity me. More than anything, I didn’t want anybody’s pity—not hers, not Finn’s, not my parents’, not anybody’s. I’d always lived my life the way I wanted to, and if this thing in my head was punishment for that, so be it. I’d deal with it my way, in my own good time, and I didn’t need to give a shit what my family wanted. It’s not as if they’d ever given a shit about what I wanted. And I refused to feel guilty about it.

  But Maren … Maren was different. She’d never done anything but care for me. I’d come here to put things right, and I was going to end up hurting her again. She was going to hate me for it.

  But loving her was the purest, deepest thing I’d ever felt, and I wanted—I needed—to hold on to that for a little bit longer. One more day.

  She was already asleep, facing away from me, by the time I got back in bed. I set my glasses on the nightstand and nestled my naked body behind hers, one arm slung over her waist.

  I wished I never had to let go.

  I woke up about ten, and Maren was still asleep. My head was aching, so I went into the bathroom and took some ibuprofen. When I came out, she was awake and sitting up, looking adorably shy as she held the sheet up to her chest.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” I said.

  Her smile lit me up. “Morning. I love that you’re wearing glasses but not pants. You look cute in them.”

  “Thanks. How’d you sleep?” I sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Like a baby.”

  “No more nightmares?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Good.” I patted her leg through the sheets. “Are you hungry? “

  “Yes. Will you let me take you out for breakfast?”

  “No. But I will let you eat room service in my hotel room.”

  She sighed exasperatedly. “Are you ever going to let me treat you while you’re here?”

  “Probably not.” I got up, pulled on some underwear, and looked around for the menu, spying it over on the desk. “What do you like? Pancakes? Eggs? Bacon? Do you want me to ask if the pig was—” All of a sudden, something about the way the sun was slanting through the window seemed to blind me. Bubbles of light came at me from all directions, and the room faded to white. I stumbled and grabbed the back of the chair.

  “Dallas? Are you okay?”

  I wasn’t. My head hurt. My right hand was tingling and my right arm felt too long for my body. An intense wave of déjà vu washed over me. My stomach billowed up like I was cresting the top of a rollercoaster. I couldn’t speak. My heartbeat echoed throughout the room. Fuck me. Fuck. Me.

  “Dallas?” Maren was standing behind me. Her hand was on my back. “Dallas, what’s wrong? Say something.”

  Suddenly, I realized I was fine again. Mortified and sweaty, but fine.

  “Sorry. I’m okay.” I looked at her. “I sometimes get … these headaches that affect my vision. I woke up with one.”

  Her expression was concerned. “Like migraines?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Do they make you dizzy?”

  “Sometimes. I think I got up too fast. The room sort of spun.” I looked at my right hand, opened and closed my fist a few times.

  “What’s wrong with your hand?” she asked.

  “Nothing. It’s just numb. That happens sometimes, too.”

  “Come sit down. You’re all flushed.” She tried to lead me over to the bed, but I gently pulled my arm free.

  “No, I’m okay. Really. I took something for it already, and some food will make me feel better.”

  She didn’t look totally convinced, but she let me go. My stomach was upset, like it always was after an episode like that, but I pretended everything was fine. I looked over the breakfast menu and ordered some eggs and bacon for myself; fruit, yogurt, and granola for Maren; coffee for me, and tea for her.

  “I guess I’ll take a quick shower while we wait for the food,” I said.

  “Okay.” She grinned. “I’ll get dressed in case I have to answer the door.”

  I tried to smile back, but the muscles in my face felt strange. Disappearing into the bathroom, I shut the door and got in the shower.

  Fuck! Why today of all days? Couldn’t this thing in my head leave me alone for one goddamn weekend? Couldn’t I feel like myself again for forty-eight fucking hours? I knew it could have been worse, and I was thankful I hadn’t lost consciousness, but Jesus Christ. How embarrassing, to be standing there in my goddamn underwear, unable to move or speak.

  What if it happened again? What if it happened while I was driving? What if Maren was in the car with me? Goddammit! I didn’t want to, but after I got out of the shower and dried off, I took a Depakote just in case. I wasn’t sure it would help, and it would mean I couldn’t drink and I’d probably feel a little shitty today, but I didn’t know what else to do.

  Moody and frustrated, I came out of the bathroom and got dressed.

  Maren was watching me. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” I forced myself to smile at her. “Just my head.”

  Breakfast arrived, and we ate sitting on the bed. If she noticed I didn’t eat much or talk much, she didn’t mention it. When we were done, I purchased tickets online for the 6:10 p.m. baseball game, and we went down to valet to get the car so I could take Maren home to change.

  “Hey,” she said, slipping her hand in mine. “What’s going on in there? You’re so quiet.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Is it the headache?”

  “Yeah. The meds I take have a few unpleasant side effects.”

  She squeezed my hand as my car arrived. “Let me drive, okay?”

  I wanted to argue. I wanted to put my fist through a brick wall. I wanted to be someone strong in her eyes, someone who could take care of her, not someone who needed to be driven around like a fucking child. This was exactly why I couldn’t tell her the truth.

  But my pride wasn’t worth her life. I nodded, and when we walked out, I went around to the passenger side, feeling like I’d just taken a punch in the gut.

  Maren was all smiles, though, excited about the game, chirping away about how long it had been since she’d taken days off, and how glad she was that she’d done it.

  We arrived at her house about twenty minutes later. “I won’t be long,” she said. “Make yourself at home. Do you want anything to drink? Water or tea?”

  “No, thanks, I’m good.”

  Maren disappeared into her bedroom and I sat on the couch, pulling my phone from my pocket. But instead of c
hecking messages, I looked around at her living room. When I’d been here yesterday, I hadn’t really gotten the chance to look at anything besides a few photographs. The room was totally her—feminine and bohemian and colorful. Her couch was a neutral color, but it was covered with pillows in every imaginable hue. In fact, it was clear she was a big fan of pillows. The only other furniture in the room were giant pillows lined up under the window across from the couch. She had a fireplace to the left, but instead of wood, it held candles. In front of the couch was a coffee table that looked sort of Moroccan, and on it sat lots of oversized books on subjects that ranged from Buddhism to Russian ballet to the pin-up art of Alberto Vargas. It smelled good in here too—like the fancy candles Beatriz sometimes lit at the shop.

  I skimmed through the Vargas book for a few minutes before deciding I’d better get the call to my mother out of the way. First, I glanced at my messages—one from Evan checking in, one from a client looking for an appointment, and three from Finn wondering how the drive was going, the last of which was pretty frantic. I hadn’t told him I’d decided to fly and was stopping in Detroit. I’d text him back, but first I replied to Evan that all was well enough, to the client letting him know that I was unavailable for a while but to contact Beatriz at the shop. Then I took a breath and pulled up my mother’s cell number. But before hitting call, I went outside and sat on the front porch, making sure the door was unlocked behind me. I didn’t want to take the chance Maren would hear me.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Dallas?”

  “Yes.”

  “My goodness, I don’t remember the last time you actually called me. I usually have to chase you down for weeks to get you on the phone.”

  Did she have to scold me at the beginning of every conversation? It made me feel ten years old again. “Yeah, I know.”