by Meghan Quinn
The click of his shoes sounds in the entryway as he retreats to his office where he slams the door. I close my eyes, sucking in deep breaths, trying to regain my balance. When I open my eyes, I spot my mom at the top of the stairs, a wineglass in hand, her hair a complete mess. She doesn’t say anything. She gives me no indication of caring, instead she just stares. She’s never truly been a mom to me, always disheveled over the next re-station, never once caring to see how I’m feeling or to step in when my dad was unleashing his anger on me and my brothers. I can’t even remember a single conversation I’ve had with her. It’s almost as if she’s been a shell since the moment she married my dad.
What does she think in moments like these? That’s my son lying in pain on the ground? Or are her thoughts more like my father’s? What a sorry excuse of a man my son is. No wonder my heart is black.
Gathering myself, I slowly get to my feet, the pain in my side and stomach intense. Checking for my keys, I grip them in my hand and turn away, making my way to my car.
I’m a strong man. I’ve been built and groomed to show no emotion. It’s the Sheppard way.
But the moment my car door shuts, I press my forehead against the steering wheel and for the first time in my life that I can remember, I cry.
Not because of what my dad said.
Not because I’m a straight-up disappointment to the Sheppard line.
But because as I sit here in my car, devastated, realization hits me. My dreams of becoming a fighter pilot have been stripped from me, and the future I had planned no longer exists.
If I can’t fly, then what was the point of everything leading up to graduation?
There was no point.
It was all a waste of time.
My entire life to this moment has been a goddamn waste. Just like me.
Chapter Fourteen
RORY
I sit at the check-in table, hunched over, arm wrapped around my waist, and look at the races, checking them off as results are brought in for the awards ceremony once all events have been completed.
This morning was extremely uncomfortable, having to drive over to Coronado High School with Stryder in the passenger’s seat just as quiet as he was the night before after he shut me out, turning his back on me again.
I wanted nothing more than to push him, to force him to talk to me, to tell me why he’s being so standoffish, but instead I sucked in a miserable breath and let it go. I think the time has come where I need to let him do his thing, despite how much it pains me. My mom has told me on many occasions that men process things differently than women. And that sometimes it is our role to sit back and wait. And for Stryder, I can do that.
I’ve always been a fixer. But no matter how much I want to fix Stryder, I might not be able to. He hinted that life behind the Sheppard’s closed door had been horrendous, particularly since he didn’t make flight school, and that breaks my heart. His family should be proud of the man he is. Flight school or not. There is so much good in him, and I want him to know it's there too.
A sharp pain radiates through my stomach, and I take a second to breathe it out, squeezing my eyes shut. Shit, that hurts.
Leaning forward in my chair, I try to stretch my back by propping my arms against the table and leaning forward, but it doesn’t help.
Walking.
Maybe if I walk it off it will be better. Life has been a little full, I guess. This event, coaching Bryan . . . I’ve been drinking enough water for how much I’ve been working out lately. But maybe not enough hydration today . . . Wasn’t my mom harping on me about that? I can see her shaking her finger at me right now, telling me how she told me so. I wouldn’t put it past her. Looks like a trip to Walgreens on the way home.
Standing from my chair, I work my way around the venue, ignoring the blinding pain in my side, waving and smiling, so grateful for the many volunteers Stryder organized.
Do you know what’s really confusing? How Stryder can be such an asshole, shutting me out one minute, and then in the next, he shows openness and kindness to the Special Olympic athletes. He went above and beyond to help me out, to make this year’s event the best it’s ever been. The look on Bryan’s face as he watched the guys parachute in during the opening ceremony . . . God, it was everything. One of the races is finishing up on the track, so as I walk, I clap for the athletes who are giving it their all, the movement painful, the smile on my face fading.
I grip my side, leaning into the fence for support as my stomach rolls from the pain. My mouth becomes dry and my mind spins uncontrollably, making me feel incredibly dizzy.
I don’t think this is from a lack of hydration. Looking up into the crowds of cheering people, I search for my mom, who is here with Bryan.
Shit, she’s here with Bryan. She can’t leave him.
Another bout of pain strikes me, crippling me against the fence. My legs are weak, and as a sheen of sweat coats my skin, my head becomes dizzier than ever. My stomach is queasy, and before I can find anywhere more appropriate, I hurl my body toward a trashcan and throw up, my stomach convulsing. Coughing and gripping onto the trashcan, hoping and praying no one is watching me, my stomach heaves again.
“Rory?” a deep voice asks. I know that voice; it’s the same voice that had me frustrated last night. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.” I wave my hand in the air nonchalantly. I don’t turn to look at him. I can’t, or else I’ll collapse.
“Rory, you’re not fine. What is going on?” His large hand presses against my back, his face coming into view as he leans over. I haven’t talked to him at all this morning, and this is one of the first things we get to have a conversation about; why I’m throwing up in a trashcan. Fantastic.
“I . . .” I try to answer him as I sway. “I don’t know,” I finally answer, my pride flying out the window.
“Shit,” Stryder mumbles, and without another word, he scoops me up into his arms, which feel strong and protective.
I can feel my head rest against his strong chest, but then I don’t register much as I start to nod off, the pain taking over.
“Hey.” A warm hand caresses my cheek as my eyes flutter open.
I’m in a hospital bed, an IV is attached to my hand, blankets cover my lap, and a pair of soulful blue eyes stare back at me.
What the hell is going on?
“How are you feeling?” Stryder asks, his large body sitting as close as possible to my bed, one hand holding mine, the other gently caressing my cheek. There is worry in his features; true worry . . . for me.
“Uh, okay,” I answer. I’m so confused. I must have passed out from the pain, because the last thing I remember is being in my car, Stryder frantically driving. I give the room a once-over, noticing it’s only Stryder here. “What happened?”
“Your appendix ruptured. I was in the waiting room on the phone with your mom, so when the doctors came to look for family, your mom gave me permission to be there while she was with Bryan. I hope that’s okay.” His voice is soft. There’s a pinch in his brow, and a ruffle to his hair as if he’s been stressfully running his hand through it.
“Yeah.” I swallow hard. “I’m glad you’re here and I’m not alone.” I bite my bottom lip. “Am I going to be okay?”
He nods, his face softening. “Yes, from what your mom told me, I got you to the hospital just in time. You went into emergency surgery where they had to remove the ruptured appendix and then clean out the whole area to remove any residual bacteria. I’m pretty sure you’re staying the night for monitoring and you’re going to be on antibiotics for at least six weeks.”
“Six weeks? That’s so long.”
“You’re also going to have to take it easy for the next few days. The doctor said you’re not going to be able to do your workout classes for a bit and suggested you cancel some of your massage appointments.”
Sighing, knowing I can’t argue about the stress I’ve put on my body, I lean farther back on the bed and cast my eyes forward, thinking about the impact of al
l of this. There is no doubt in my mind I might have to borrow some money from my parents if the doctor makes me take too much time off, because I live paycheck to paycheck. I’ve been able to save up a little these past few months from taking on extra work, but I don’t want to spend all of that right away if I don’t have to.
My mind is wandering . . . what will I need to do over these next few days?
“You scared the shit out of me, Rory.”
Meeting Styrder’s gaze, I take him in. Truly take him in. He looks like he’s aged a few years, so much concern in his brow, worry in his beautiful eyes, tension in his shoulders.
“I’m . . . sorry.”
He scoots in closer, his thumb rubbing over my cheekbone, his eyes searching mine. “You don’t need to be sorry, Rory. Hell, I’m just . . .” He takes a deep breath. His thumb feels like a warm blanket, covering me, soft and comforting. “I’m just glad I was there and was able to act quickly.” His eyes move back and forth over mine when he says, “You could have died, Rory. It wasn’t just appendicitis. Your appendix actually ruptured.”
I should be freaked out.
I should be thanking my lucky stars that nothing serious happened to me.
But none of that matters because the man sitting by my bed, desperately holding my hand and trying to inch as close to me as possible, needs comforting. He needs reassurance that everything is going to be okay. I’m a little surprised by his concern to be honest. He looks agonized. For me.
“I’m okay, Stryder. I’m going to be okay. You don’t need to worry.”
He bites his bottom lip and nods. Clearing his throat, he asks, “Can I get you anything?”
“I could use some water, and I should probably call my mom.”
“Yeah, you should. She’s devastated she can’t be here with you. I’ll step out and give you some privacy to talk to her.” Standing, he lets go of my hand but not before leaning forward and placing a chaste kiss on my forehead, surprising me. When he lifts back up, he backs away, pulling on his neck, and scanning my body on the bed. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
I nod. “I’m okay, Stryder.”
“Okay.” With that, he stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks out of my hospital room.
Confused, I pick up my phone from the table next to me and call my mom. She answers immediately.
“Stryder, is everything okay?”
“Mom, it’s me.”
“Oh honey!” There is a joyful tearfulness to my mom’s voice. “You’re awake.”
“Yeah, just woke up.”
“How are you?”
“Okay. A little groggy, but the pain is gone, thank God.”
My mom chuckles. “I would hope so. Oh, you gave us quite the scare. I’m assuming Stryder told you what happened?”
“Yeah, my appendix ruptured.”
“Yes. At first I had no idea what was happening. I saw you in Stryder’s arms as he sprinted across the track, going straight to the parking lot. He called me immediately, telling me that you were throwing up and looked pale as a ghost. He rushed you to the hospital. The doctor said if he’d gone any slower, things could have been so much worse for you. He acted quickly and saved your life, Rory.”
I sit there, the blood draining from my face, realization hitting me hard. “He sprinted?”
“Yes, sweetie. I’ve never seen a man run so fast in my entire life. And he’s been so sweet the entire time, calling me and giving me updates, letting me know that you’re okay. I don’t know what I would have done if he wasn’t there, with your dad being out of town. He . . . he saved you, Rory. He saved our family. And I’m not being dramatic when I say that. A ruptured appendix . . . We’re lucky he was there and took action.”
“I had no clue.”
“I think he was just as freaked out as I was. There were a few times when I had to remind him to take deep breaths while you were in surgery. He cares for you, sweetie.”
Cares for me . . . really?
I know he’s appreciative of me, for allowing him to stay at my place, and I like to believe we are friends, but for him to truly care for me, especially after our conversation last night . . . that’s harder for me to comprehend.
“He can be so brash at times,” I say out loud. “So ornery and unwilling to even talk to me. I don’t understand.”
My mom lets out a long breath before saying, “From what I could tell on the phone, he doesn’t have a lot of people in his life. You are one of few he actually cares about. He was terrified something was going to happen to you, Rory. Several times, his voice broke while speaking to me. If there is one thing I learned today, it’s that Stryder is not only a good man, but he has a beautiful heart, a heart that you hold a piece of.”
There is a light knock at the door and then Stryder appears, a bag in hand, a concerned look on his face. “Hey, is it okay if I come in?”
“Of course. Got off the phone with my mom a while ago. She told me to thank you.”
He shrugs and comes to sit on the chair next to the bed. Reaching into the bag, he takes out a water bottle and hands it to me at the same time he spots the water the nurses just brought in for me.
“Uh, looks like I was a little late. Sorry. I wanted to make sure I gave you enough time to talk to your mom.”
“You’re good.” I hold up the water and try to open it but the cap slips through my weak grasp.
“Here.” He takes the bottle from me, his fingers grazing mine, his eyes lingering as he twists the cap off. “Want a cup?”
“This is great . . . thank you, Stryder.”
“Not a problem.”
Leaning forward, I take his hand in mine. His eyes roam over the connection briefly before looking up to mine. “Not just for the water, but for taking care of me.”
“Of course.” He looks down. “I would do anything for you, but please, just don’t scare me like that again.”
“I’ll try not to.” Squeezing his hand, I let the serious mood fade, because I can tell how uncomfortable it’s making Stryder. He might care, and he might have no problem making sure I’m comfortable, but talking about it, yeah, that’s not what he likes to do.
It’s actually kind of cute how shy he gets, how quickly he wants to move on from the conversation when it involves praising him. Cute and also . . . sad. I wonder how many times he’s been praised rather than reprimanded. How many times he’s been appreciated for the wonderful man he is, rather than brought down and dragged through the mud for something he didn’t achieve. What sort of parents can berate such a decent man?
Clearing my throat, I nod at the bag at his feet and ask, “What’s in the bag?”
He glances at it, and releases my hand, picking it up with a shy smile. “Since you weren’t expecting to be in here, I thought maybe you’d want something to do and might need a charger for your phone.” Reaching into the bag, he pulls out a red charger and hands it to me. “Wasn’t sure on the color, but I thought red suited you.” Why do I feel like he knows something about me I never told him? “I also got some cards, word search, and crossword puzzles.” Leaning forward some more, he says, “And some Combos because I’m fucking starving.”
I chuckle and say, “Well, open them up. What flavor did you get?”
“Cheese pretzel.”
“Care to share?”
Smiling, he holds up the word search book and says, “Only if you help me.”
“I think that’s an even trade.” Without thinking, acting on pure instincts, I scoot over in my hospital bed and pat the empty side. “Sit.”
Looking a little shocked, he eyes the spot, his large frame questionable for the amount of space I gave him. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Don’t be shy. Slide on over, it will be easier to find the words that way.”
Still a little hesitant, he stands, kicks off his shoes and then slides in next to me, draping his arm behind me. I snuggle into his side and hold open the word search for both of us to see, the pen he gave me in hand, whi
le he sets the Combos on his lap to snack on. It’s only been a few months since Colby and I stopped dating, so it should actually feel awkward snuggling close to a man who’s not my boyfriend. Yet . . . it doesn’t. It actually feels incredibly normal, as if Stryder and I have had months of one-on-one friendship rather than just a few weeks. But what about Stryder? Is he coping with this?
I look up at him. “Are you comfortable?” And what’s weirder? I really want him to say yes. I don’t want him to pull away from me, not here. Not now. The smile on his face is contagious, the cologne he’s wearing addictive, and the warmth of his well-defined body next to mine gives me strength.
“Yeah, you?”
I nod. “Very. Pop one of those Combos in my mouth.”
“Are you allowed to eat?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Who knows? Just give me one.”
Hesitant, he gives in and puts one of the Combos in my mouth, followed by one in his mouth. “These are so good; you better save some for me for later.”
He pops two more pieces in his mouth and says, “Nah, just gives me a reason to buy more tonight.” He winks and pops another in his mouth, giving my stomach a little unexpected somersault.
Feeling my face heat up from his wink, I turn to the word search and hold it up so we both can see it. “Uh, should we start at the first one, or flip to a random page?”
“First one, who flips to a random one?”
“It’s more fun that way, going out of order.”
He ponders that for a second. I can see it in the poised way he carries himself, just like Colby, he probably does everything in order. It’s the way he was raised.
And when I’m about to start on the first page, knowing that’s how his brain operates, he stops me and says, “Let’s flip to a random page.”
“Yeah?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
And in that moment, that simple gesture of breaking his norm, I feel I’m being given a small glimpse into his soul. It might not be a conversation, or an intro to his past and the ghosts that haunt him, but it’s something, and that something is monumental in my book. I’m beginning to really like this guy. His genuine thoughtfulness, his humor, and yes, even his cockiness. Stryder Sheppard is a good, good man.