by Ginger Scott
I notice a line of doctors and nurses, all with pockets full of candy, positioned at tables around the cafeteria, and the scene paints a smile on my face. The girl closest to me is wearing wings, her bald head painted with beautiful designs and glitter. I’m amongst real fighters.
Andrew is right where he belongs.
I rush through the line at the gift shop across the hall, grabbing a granola bar for myself, and a row full of candy—the big bars—for the line of trick-or-treaters waiting in the hallway. I ask a nurse if it’s okay if I help, too, and she smiles, nodding yes.
“The more we can do to remind them of life’s good parts, the better,” she grins.
I pause and watch as she moves to a table, placing her basket of small, crocheted angels in her lap, handing one along with a Hershey kiss to every kid that comes by.
“Hope and love,” she says to me, laughing lightly. “I’m sure they just see the chocolate. But a few of them…they see the hope and love, too.”
“I like that,” I say. “Mind if I…take one? I know someone who could use it.”
She nods, and pulls a blue angel from her stash, wrapping its soft arms around two kisses.
“You deserve something sweet, too,” she says, winking at me.
“Thank you,” I whisper, taking her gift and tucking it in the front pouch of Andrew’s sweatshirt. I pull a chair out from the next table over and pour my candy bars on the table, loving the light in each child’s eyes as they step up and whistle through missing teeth “trick-or-treat” and “thank you.”
This is most definitely a good part.
* * *
Andrew
It’s Christmas, and I’m eight. My grandpa bought me a pedal car from the Goodwill, and Owen and he are in the garage fixing it so I can ride it. The pedals were bent, so they’re taking the ones from Owen’s bike and putting them on for me. Owen always gives me his things. I hope I have something for him one day.
I’m waiting at the back door, my feet dangling outside over the stoop, but my body inside where it’s warm. Mom keeps yelling to shut the door. We have a fire going, and I’m letting out heat I guess. But I want to watch them work. My other brother, James, didn’t come to Christmas. We all woke up in the morning, and he wasn’t home.
Owen told me James is lost, but he seems to find his way home. I think he didn’t want to come here because we don’t make him very happy. There’s a lot of yelling when James is home. And my mom cries a lot, too. I feel terrible, but I’m sort of glad he wasn’t here for Christmas. It was a really nice day.
My grandfather just swore and threw that wrench thingy down on the ground. I giggle, and he and Owen both turn to look at me. I pull my feet inside and start to shut the door, hoping I didn’t make them mad, but Owen catches the door before I can close it.
“You think you can do better, hot shot? Come on out; let’s see you give it a try.” Owen hands me his work gloves and a screwdriver. I stare at them, and the box of tools spread around the garage floor, then look up at Owen’s face. He’s smirking, so I know he isn’t mad. And I would like to be in the garage—with the men, doing man things, like swearing and stuff.
I pull Owen’s gloves on, my fingers barely making it halfway down the finger slots, and I grip the screwdriver in my right hand. My grandfather holds a flashlight up and begins walking me through the way my car works.
“The chain has to loop through these gears, but it’s tricky, because those gears are bigger than the ones from Owen’s bike, so we have to somehow make his parts work with the car parts, and all of those things need to turn the front tires when you pedal. Make sense?” My grandpa’s hair tufts down in his eyes, and he reaches up, smoothing it back and pulling his glasses from his face, wiping away the smudges on his shirt before putting them back on.
“I think…I think I got it,” I say, letting my eyes run through the process, what my grandfather said, over and over.
Owen moves to a chair, pulling up a water bottle and guzzling down half of it before handing the rest to our grandpa. I hear them whispering in the background, something about how they’ll give me five minutes to play, then step back in and finish, but eventually their voices fade away, and all I hear is my own voice in my head.
My eyes lock in on individual parts, on grooves and patterns, and suddenly everything becomes clear. “I need both chains,” I say.
My grandpa laughs and continues to talk with Owen.
“No, Grandpa. The old chain. I need it,” I say, my voice serious. Owen stands up and moves over next to me, kneeling down and following the line of my sight, staring at the same gears and parts I am.
“He’s right,” he whispers, snapping to my grandpa to bring over the chain. Our grandpa does, and Owen hands it to me. I start snapping and unsnapping gears, blending both sizes into one, asking Owen for help when I’m not strong enough. My hands can’t work fast enough, and it’s like my mind is already riding the pedal car down the hill while my hands are still busy screwing and clipping metal pieces.
Within the hour, the three of us are rolling my new car down the driveway, already dusted with a fresh layer of snow. I don’t care, though, because I deserve a test drive.
“How did you do that?” Owen says as he buckles the helmet to my head. It’s an old motorcycle helmet that we bought from a garage sale, so one of Owen’s shirts is stuffed inside to make it fit.
“I don’t know. I just…I could see it. Is that…am I…weird?” I ask.
Owen presses on my head, making sure the helmet is snug enough.
“Yes,” he grins. “You’re very weird. But you might also be a genius. Now go kick some ass down that hill and don’t crash your present.”
The wind hits my face with Owen’s push, and soon I’m soaring down the roadway, pulling on levers and leaning to veer from the right to the left. The road is empty. In fact, there aren’t any houses near me anymore. I look up, and the sky is clear, and the sun is bright. When I look back, my house is gone, and so are Owen and my grandpa.
I’m going so fast, though, I can’t stop. I keep pulling on the brake, but nothing is working. I didn’t look at the brakes—I should have checked them!
“Andrew…Andrew, stop!”
I hear Owen. I can hear him, but he sounds different.
“Stop fighting, Andrew. Stop fighting!”
I’m not fighting. Why does he think I’m fighting? I’m scared. I’m lying down and the roadway is bumpy. I can’t stop. But I’m not fighting.
“Andrew!”
I see him.
A dream.
Where am I?
My body. My arms. My head, legs, chest.
Owen is holding my right arm down against a bed, and my eyes are fighting to stay open long enough to see him. I see him. He’s older. I’m older!
The fight. I didn’t fight. I didn’t fight! That’s what this is. They think I was fighting, but I wasn’t. I left, and then there was a crash. And Nick. The devil was there, and—
He shot me.
“I need Emma,” I try to say, but when I hear my words, they’re mumbles, nonsensical—something is stopping them, choking me. I try to speak again, but it’s impossible, and it makes me start to cry in frustration. Owen’s hands are on me again, and I flail just wanting to yell, to scream. He needs to understand me.
“Andrew. Stop fighting me,” Owen says, his head close to mine.
Stop fighting.
Yes, that’s it. I breathe deep, everything hurts, the sensation of wires and tubes intubating me and poking me everywhere, but I keep my arms still. I will my legs to lay still. And soon my eyes focus—I see Owen. He’s smiling, and he’s talking to doctors, my mom’s voice coming from somewhere behind me.
I jerk with my arms, wanting to see, but so many people are over me now. My eyes find Owen, and grow wide. A man with glasses and a white coat is hovering over me, and my throat burns as I try to speak. He’s telling me to stop, and I finally feel it—the tube in my throat.
&nb
sp; I hold Owen in my sight while the man removes the tube, and everything hurts. The doctor is telling me not to speak yet, but I ignore him.
“You flew here from Germany,” I say, my voice gravely and my throat raw. Owen laughs, sliding his hand down my arm to my hand, holding it like he did when I was a kid.
“Yeah, you shit head. I flew here from Germany,” he says, running his sleeve over his eyes to blot away tears.
“Where…is…is Emma here?” I ask, my voice still barely audible.
Owen smiles, though, hearing me clearly. He nods.
“Yeah, she’s here. She’s barely left this room, and man is she going to be pissed at me when she finds out I told her to go eat and that’s when you wake up. I’ll go get her,” he says, and I close my eyes, nodding yes.
Yes. Emma. I need Emma.
* * *
Emma
I hand the last kid in line three candy bars, because that’s all I had left.
“You should get a reward for being so patient,” I wink. He smiles, reaching into his pillowcase to inspect the three chocolates I gave him.
I thank the nurse closest to me for letting me participate, then I tear a corner away from my granola bar, pushing part of it through and biting into the salty end. My stomach rolls in appreciation.
“Emma!”
Owen’s voice startles me, and I jump, turning to see him racing toward me, his phone clutched in his hand.
“Andrew?” I ask, shoving the rest of my bar in my mouth, chewing manically. Owen nods, laughing and crying at the same time.
“I was going to text you, but I run faster than I type. Just now. He asked for you!”
I’m chasing behind him, trying to keep pace with his long strides as he takes the stairs three at a time.
“He asked for me,” I repeat his words, smiling and pounding my feet as fast as they’ll go. I toss my wrapper into a trash that we pass on our way down Andrew’s hall after Owen buzzes us in through the large double doors. I see doctors and nurses all moving in and out of his room as I get closer, but I ignore them, weaving through and under until I’m at his bedside.
The instant I see his open eyes, I know—this is one of life’s good parts, too, the kind of moment I will hold on to forever. My eyes swell with tears, and I lunge to his side, grabbing his hand and laying my torso across him, wanting to hug tighter but knowing he had so many open wounds underneath.
I feel his hand squeeze mine, his strength weak, but his movement very much alive and well.
“Oh my god I’m so happy to see you,” I say, stepping back for a nurse to take vitals. I move around every person who needs him, but I never let go of my touch on him. His mom is sitting on the other side, her hands wrapped around his arm.
“How was your lunch?” he teases. His voice is scratchy, but I hear him underneath it all.
“You ass. I leave your room for five minutes, and that’s when you decide to wake up?” I move my head to his shoulder, laying my face against his arm, feeling the beat of his heart with my hand. This entire time, his heart—it’s been strong.
“You know me—flair for the dramatic,” he says, swallowing hard.
“Andrew, I’m going to work on removing the tube in your nose, and it should make it a little easier to talk. But I’m going to need you to lie still and just be patient for a few minutes, okay?” the doctor says.
Andrew nods, and I squeeze his hand again, threading my fingers tightly with his. I roll his hand over in mine, opening his palm, and with the tip of my finger, I write I love you again and again. Andrew keeps his promise to the doctor, and we don’t talk for almost an hour while they work around him, eventually removing many of the monitors and tubes attached to his body. My eyes never leave his the entire time, and even though he can’t speak, I see the love in his eyes for me.
Eventually, the room clears, and for a small window of time, Andrew and I are alone.
“I didn’t fight, Emma,” he whispers, his voice still raw. I lay my head flat on his chest, the welcome stroke of his hand over my head and through my hair keeping time with the rhythm of his heart as I watch the lines zigzag up and down on the monitor.
“I know. Thank you,” I weep against his chest. His hand stills as he leans forward as much as he can, his lips finding my head.
“That man…he would have found me eventually,” he says, and I lift my head to look at him, my brow pinched.
“They said it was some bookie or something, and he thought you owed him money?” I stare deep into Andrew’s eyes, and his mouth falls into a peaceful line.
“It was my demon,” he says, rolling his arm over and motioning to the deep burn scar on his wrist. “He wanted to torture me one last time, I guess.”
My eyes hover over his scar, and I pull his arm to my lips, pressing a soft kiss over the round mark, wanting to hide it all with my love. I rest my head back against him, knowing any moment his family will be back to break up our small bubble. They miss him too, but I’m selfish.
“Someone else took care of your demon for you,” I sigh. “Owen can fill you in more, but I guess the investigators figured out where he lived, and when they got to his house to question him, they found him in the living room dead from a gunshot wound.”
Andrew’s chest pauses, and I tilt my head up to look at him. I don’t like it when he’s not breathing. Not breathing…it makes me nervous.
“Do they know who?” he asks.
I shake my head no and return my focus to the feel of his fingers in mine. Andrew does the same, and we both lay silently, our hands making long, methodic strokes along each other’s skin. I can never get enough of the feel of him—life beating through his body, love pumping through his veins.
“My brother thinks you’re cute,” he teases after several minutes of quiet. I smile against him, turning my head just enough to press a kiss over his heart. “I mean, I’d understand if you want to jump ship and get on Team Owen. You could probably take Kensi in a fight.”
“I like this Harper,” I say, pulling my legs up onto his bed with me so I can lie next to him and snuggle in closer. Andrew leans his foot to the side, tapping his toe into the tip of my shoe. It makes me giggle.
“You always did have a thing for my shoes,” he jokes.
I shove him lightly, then bury my face against his arm.
“Not true,” I say, bringing my eyes to his, blushing and glancing to the side of his face. “It’s the holes in your ears. I told you I liked them.”
He laughs, moving his hand up to feel the small plastic circle tucked in his ear. The hospital took the metal gauges out, so Owen brought him new ones.
“Yeah, I’m a pretty sexy beast,” he says, laughing and immediately wincing from the pain.
The chatter outside his door starts to build, and I know our time alone is done. There’s so much I want to say, so many kisses I need to give and embraces that I need to savor. But I guess I have time now. Andrew Harper was a gift, a friend when I was scared and alone, a savior when I almost lost everything, and the love of my life that I got lucky enough to find a second time. He’s all mine. And I’m his. And I am never letting go again.
His room fills with his family and Trent, Owen quickly putting a phone in his hand so he can talk to Kensi. Andrew tends to them all, hugging and talking and smiling for them—giving them light and hope—giving them the good parts. But he never lets go of my hand. And just when I think he’s losing his grip, starting to move his attention from me to the other amazing and deserving people in his life, he turns my hand to the side, smoothing it flat and writing in it a letter at a time.
FOR ALWAYS.
Epilogue
Christmas Day
Andrew
Emma said I didn’t need to bring a gift, but it felt wrong. The last time I was at her father’s house, I noticed it was dark. That’s half the reason we all used to pretend that house was haunted. When a home is built around the turn of the last century, the lighting is a little old.
> It isn’t much, but I carry the wrapped box in my arms, hoping her father will let me install the light in the foyer later today. I think it will make him happy—to have a little brightness in his house.
I know part of the reason I need a gift, though, is because of my nerves. I’m still consumed with wanting her father to like me. I’ve spent five years not giving a shit about others’ opinions of me. Part of my own shelter, I just always assumed most people thought I was an asshole, so when they didn’t, I was pleasantly surprised.
But Carl Burke—I care about his opinion. I care about his daughter, and that’s the only reason I care about anything at all.
“Relax, he cooked all day, and he wanted you here,” Emma says, dusting snowflakes from my arm. I wore the only nice jacket I have—it’s black and wool…and hot as fuck!
I hold my arm out for her to take as we walk up the main path to the house. I’m driving a twenty-year-old Volvo. It’s fast, and it sure as hell won’t ever break. But it’s not my Camaro.
When I got out of the hospital, my mom gave me a letter with a check inside. She said the man who delivered it was young, maybe mid-twenties, with blonde hair and a strong build. He told her he was from H and Sons, and they were handling the settlement from the insurance claim. But I know there was no claim, and I know it was just Harley’s way of making sure the universe was right between us.
I always told you I take care of my business. Seems there were a few people who were bad for business, and I wanted you to know, they won’t be seeking you out anymore either. I’m sorry about your car; she was a beauty. This probably won’t even come close to getting you in that kind of ride, but…I thought you deserved your money back. I never wanted a dime from you. You can’t work for me anymore; I think you understand why. But, I’d be happy to give you a reference if you want to apply for a gym—a real gym, in the city. I know a guy who knows a guy, so maybe give this number a call.