by Robin Gianna
Jillian wanted to ask where his new apartment was, but decided to stay silent, since she’d be finding out soon enough. Besides, he’d said it was close to HOAC, and that was only one block away from Central Park.
The car came to a stop in front of an old stone apartment building and Jillian’s throat closed. Yes, the man had upgraded all right. As though his last apartment hadn’t been prestigious enough...
“Your new apartment is off Fifth Avenue? Wow.”
“It’s a good location for work and a good investment.”
He slid out of the car as a valet came from the building. She could see him talking to the man, who nodded and opened the back door to get the dogs as Conor helped her from her seat.
“Alfred will bring your suitcase and the dogs’ stuff up, then get the car parked.”
“You’ve really been slumming it, having to juggle with illegal parking in front of my place and walking up and down a bunch of crooked steps, haven’t you?” she said, trying to bring some levity into this distinctly uncomfortable situation.
“I slummed it for plenty years of my life,” he said quietly. “And you’re the one who wouldn’t accept any money from me after our divorce. Which still upsets me. I wanted you to live in a better and bigger place, but you hated me too much to take even a cent.”
“I never hated you. I just felt there was no reason for you to give me anything. Our marriage was a mistake for both of us and I just wanted to move on, like it didn’t happen.”
“But it did happen.” He held her hand and looked down at her. “And I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know that I made you so unhappy.”
If felt as if her heart was shaking inside her chest. They’d both contributed to their mutual miseries, hadn’t they? Definitely not all his fault. Something she’d come to see even more clearly over the past ten months.
“Conor, listen. I—”
The dogs leaped from the car, with Alfred holding their leashes, and Conor stepped over to take them. She wasn’t sure exactly what she’d been going to say, but was glad the dogs had interrupted. Everything had been said that needed to be said—or at least most of it. Hashing over it again would make both of them sad or mad or critical or defensive—just like before. None of those emotions would accomplish a thing—especially considering she had to stay at his apartment for a night or two.
Cool and calm was the way to go. Starting now.
Conor led the way to the elevator, which opened on to a floor with only two doors in the hallway. Obviously his new place was way bigger than even his other apartment. He unlocked one of the doors and gestured for her to go inside.
“I’ll keep the dogs out here for a second, so they don’t knock you over on the way in.”
“They’re not that bad. Though it’s true that they seem pretty excited to be checking out a new place.”
It was like stepping into something from a magazine. He’d clearly decided to start over completely, since not a single thing in the entire space looked familiar. Modern furniture in neutral tones sat near floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the twinkling lights of the city, and beyond the curve of the windows was a huge kitchen with an island and bar stools. It was surprisingly as comfortable-looking as it was breathtaking, and she wondered how his designer had accomplished that feat.
A familiar hollow feeling weighed down her stomach. The same weight she’d carried to every highbrow event they’d attended, knowing she’d never fit in to Conor McCarthy’s life.
“It’s...beautiful. Really gorgeous. Congratulations.”
“Thanks. I like it.” He unleashed the dogs, who instantly ran around, sniffing the room, then grasped her elbow. “How about sitting down until Alfred brings your things? Then you should take your pain meds and get to bed.”
“Okay. I admit I feel pretty tired.”
“I’d offer you a glass of the wine you like, but it’s not a good idea to mix it with drugs,” he said, a slight smile curving his mouth.
“Are you sure? Because a glass of wine sounds pretty good.”
She was kidding, though at that moment she thought maybe mixing alcohol and painkillers would be a good way for her to completely pass out and not have to deal with how strange this felt.
He shook his head, probably knowing exactly how she was feeling since he doubtless felt the same way. Soon Alfred brought everything up, and Conor placed the dog beds at one end of the room, then filled their water bowls and placed them on the stone-tiled kitchen floor. Enthusiastic slurping by Hudson left puddles all around it.
“Being the neatnik you are, I guess you’re glad to not to have to deal with doggie messes anymore.”
“I got used to the messes. The dogs were always fun to be around.”
But she hadn’t been so fun to be around, which was why he’d been gone all the time.
The words came into her head but she fiercely banished them. This was the baggage she had to unload. These damned insecurities that flew into her head with the least provocation. Making a simple statement about the dogs, making small talk, didn’t mean she should take it personally, the way she had before. That had to stop.
“I...um...guess I’ll go to bed now.”
“Good idea. I’ll show you your room. Mine’s at the end of the hall. If you need me for anything in the middle of the night, just yell.”
“I’ll be okay.” And even if she wasn’t she wouldn’t call for him unless it was a dire emergency.
He carried her small suitcase as he led her down a hallway covered with lush carpeting, then went through the door of yet another beautiful room with a different view of the city. Two chairs and a table formed a small sitting area in one corner, with a large bed in the center, and another door that doubtless led to a bathroom.
He set her suitcase on a folding thing obviously designed for that purpose. “Okay if I get your things out? I want you to take the pain pills right now, so they’re working when the plexus block starts to wear off. Then I’ll help you undress.”
Her eyes lifted to his. They held only a cool detachment. No sign of what the words had made her feel, which was her belly jumping, her breath catching and her heart beating a little harder.
“I’m sure I can get ready by myself.”
“Yeah? With that thing on your arm and it held in a sling? No way.”
“Then I’ll just sleep in what I’m wearing,” she said. “I won’t be the first patient to arrive at the clinic wearing the same clothes they wore for surgery.”
“Suit yourself. But you’re going to be overly warm and uncomfortable in that sweatshirt. And you’ll need something with no sleeve to wear over the cast tomorrow when they take it off.” He shrugged, seeming to not care one way or the other.
She knew he was right—damn it. “Fine. Can you pull the sleeve off over my cast?”
He did as she asked, carefully removing the sling, then pulling the sleeve off her arm before reaching for the bottom of her sweatshirt. He gently slipped it up and over her head, exposing the camisole she wore beneath. He seemed to be concentrating on the sweatshirt, but when his eyes met hers for a long, suspended moment his expression made it hard to breathe, and she was beyond glad when he turned to grab her toiletries bag from her suitcase.
“I’ll get you some water for the pain meds.”
The speed with which he strode from the room told her she hadn’t imagined it. This crazy situation was reminding both of them of things better left forgotten.
He returned with a glass of water and wordlessly handed it to her. “Take a drink, then I’ll hold the glass and you can pop the pills.”
Even taking pills with only one hand required either help or juggling, and she hoped and prayed her hand would be usable sooner than some of her patients experienced.
“Thanks.”
“Think you’ll need help to go to the bathroom
?”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine. Goodnight.”
Her face burned all over again, and she could feel his eyes on her as she went into the chic bathroom and closed the door, leaning back against it. She stared at her toothbrush and toothpaste, sitting on the counter, and wondered how she was going to manage to put paste on the brush with only one hand, or wash her face.
Lord. How had her world gotten so messed up in one split second? No doubt about it—the next few days, and longer, were going to be misery in more ways than one.
And being close to Conor again was definitely at the very top of the misery list.
* * *
Thank heavens Conor had insisted she take the pain medicine. At about two a.m., when the nerve-block began to wear off, the intense tingling pins and needles sensation accompanied by pain surging through her whole arm was way worse than she’d expected—even though she’d had plenty of patients complain about it.
Another dose of medicine to get her through the night left her feeling a little woozy in the morning and, as uncomfortable as she was being in his apartment, she had to acknowledge—again—that Conor had been right. If she’d tried to take the subway in to HAOC all by her lonesome to get the cast taken off, or even taken a cab, it would have been hard going, possibly even unsafe.
Except there was one significant problem she had to deal with right now. When Conor had simply and without expression stripped off her oversized sweatshirt so she could sleep comfortably in the camisole and sweats she’d worn yesterday it had been in a fairly low light, and quick enough that she hadn’t had to endure feeling embarrassed, or whatever it was exactly that she’d been feeling, for very long.
This morning. Though... After struggling for a few minutes trying to get a loose short-sleeved shirt on over the giant cast, she huffed out a frustrated breath. Clearly not going to happen. What was it going to be like, trying to get dressed and undressed after the cast was off and a splint had been put on instead? Regardless, she was absolutely not going to ask Conor for help—even if it meant wearing the same clothes for days until her sister came.
Not going to cross that bridge until she came to it. But this bridge had to be crossed right now—because she couldn’t exactly show up at her former workplace with only her thin camisole covering her torso.
“Um... Conor?”
She heard the rattle of cups and walked into the kitchen, ridiculously holding the shirt over her front even though he was facing the sink. As though the man hadn’t seen her half naked last night and totally naked a hundred times in the past.
But they weren’t together anymore, and she just couldn’t feel comfortable walking around with her breasts visible through the thin fabric as if it was no big deal.
“Can you slip this over my head? Can’t quite manage it.”
He turned, his eyes meeting hers for a long moment, and she could tell he was thinking the same thing she was. That they were in a kitchen together, with him making coffee and her strolling in a few minutes later, just like old times. Except she wouldn’t be wrapping her arms around him and kissing his back, and he wouldn’t turn to pull her close, giving her a long kiss that would have the air shimmering with love and desire and sometimes would mean a quick trip back to the bedroom before they had to leave for work.
Wordlessly he stepped close, to take the shirt from her hands, and his gaze briefly slid to her breasts before he quickly tugged the shirt over her head. Gently, he took her big bandaged arm in his hand and carefully drew the short sleeve up and over it.
“How’s it feeling? I assume the nerve-block has worn off?”
“Yes—and to say that did not feel good is an understatement. We have to be more sympathetic when patients come in to get their cast off.”
“I’m always sympathetic. It’s you occupational therapists who make them do stuff that hurts the very first day.”
“That’s our job. You get to play the good cop who does the miracle repair surgery, putting them back together, and we have to be the bad cop, making them do stuff to help them get it usable again. Which unfortunately means some pain.”
“I’m sorry you’re going to have to go through that pain yourself now.”
For several seconds he skimmed his fingers across her cheek, before dropping his hand to his side, and the tension between them faded a little as he gave her a small smile.
“You being the bad cop when you were on the PT side of the table is maybe true, but you were always a very sweet bad cop. What do you want to eat before we go?”
“I’m really not hungry.”
“Have to eat something.” He rummaged in the refrigerator. “Have some yogurt and a banana.”
“You’re offering me a black banana to spur my appetite?” She held it up and chuckled. “Thanks.”
“I’ve learned that if you stick them in the fridge they keep longer, even though the cold turns the skin dark. I’m too busy to go to the store much, so it’s been good to know.”
She often wondered how he’d survived before they’d married, when she’d taken over the grocery shopping and cooking. Later, she’d also wondered if that had made her an enabler of his workaholism, but probably he’d just have eaten out most of the time. Presumably he did that now.
She silently ate the food he offered as he got the dogs fed and took them out for a short time. When he came back inside, so they could walk the couple of blocks to HOAC, it struck her all over again how tall and beautiful the man was, and she looked away to grab her purse, not wanting to feel the surprising skip of her heart and the ache in her chest that kept showing up uninvited.
Walking into HOAC was another strange moment of feeling as if the past was the present all over again. It felt like she’d worked there just weeks earlier, instead of leaving for the occupational therapy center ten months ago, after she and Conor had divorced.
It had been her decision to leave. Seeing Conor every day had been like a stab in her chest, and she was sure he’d breathed a sigh of relief, too, when she’d gone.
But she had friends here. People she still met with once in a while and missed working with. Several looked up in surprise when she came in, and her old pal Michelle Branson widened her eyes and then widened them even more when she saw Conor behind her.
“Jillian! What happened?” Michelle asked.
“Fell on the sidewalk. Distal radius fracture. Beth did the surgery yesterday.”
“Oh, no! I’m so sorry to hear that.” Michelle stood to give her a hug, and her side-eye toward Conor was obvious before she looked back at Jillian and gave her a sympathetic smile. “You always were one of the most dedicated PTs around here. Did you decide you had to know firsthand what it’s like to deal with one of these injuries? I’m very impressed with your commitment to your work.”
“Very funny. Not something I ever thought would happen to me, I’ve got to admit. But hopefully it won’t disrupt my life too much.”
Except it already had, with her having to be with Conor for a few days of torture which she knew were going to be far worse than any physical pain and inconvenience she might experience.
“Jillian is living in a fantasy world,” Conor said. “She thought she could go home and stay by herself last night, then get here alone this morning. I don’t remember her being stubborn like that before—do you, Michelle?”
“I think I’ll stay out of any conversations about that.” She gave them both a half smile. “But maybe going through this will help you understand your patients better, hmm? You can give a talk about it to all the other therapists after your arm and hand are normal again.”
“Maybe... I’m trying to remind myself that this will be a good experience in terms of sympathy and understanding for my patients. Already is, in fact.”
“That’s the way to see a silver lining. Here, have a seat at my table.” Michelle gave her another hug. “I didn’t
realize that my patient this morning was the Jillian. Let’s get that cast off, then Dr. Crenshaw will be here to talk to you.”
“I’m going to take a look at my schedule,” Conor said. “I told them I couldn’t do any surgeries until later this morning, but I want to make sure I have plenty of time to take you home.”
Home. His home. And yet he’d said it the same way he had when they’d been married...
Jill swallowed hard and couldn’t help but watch him as he left, until Michelle leaned close and spoke in a low voice.
“I couldn’t believe it when I saw Conor with you. What’s the scoop there?”
“No scoop. He saw me getting prepped in the OR, asked a bunch of questions, and decided he had to play hero by taking me to his place and looking after the dogs and stuff until my sister is able to come help for a few days.”
“Because he’s a good man.”
“Just not good to be married to.”
“Jill. I get that your man—ex-man—works too much and keeps ridiculous hours. But he’s also—”
“I know. I do. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Immediately she regretted the bitter words. She’d thought those negative feelings weren’t still festering in her, but being around him seemed to stir them up. Clearly she had a long way to go to get herself whole.
“It wasn’t a party for him to be married to me, either. For a lot of reasons we just weren’t right for one another.”
“Well, maybe spending a little time together again means you can part as friends this time.” Michelle gave her a hopeful smile. “I hear they’re changing up at your office. Are you coming back here to work?”
“I have to—until I find something else. Working with Conor would be too uncomfortable long-term, you know? I need to start somewhere new. I have a job interview in Connecticut—though that might be delayed because of my stupid wrist.”