My ego wants to believe something hot and bothered comes across her eyes, as if she’s contemplating that I could be her vice. I certainly wouldn’t mind.
“Just beer,” she says. “And men that look like Gerard Butler.”
Then she goes off to the bathroom, shooting me a coy glance over her shoulder before closing the door.
Well, fuck damn. I guess I could be her vice after all. I haven’t heard that comparison for a long time, but I’m taking it and running with it.
I head into the kitchen and start making her breakfast, unable to keep the stupid grin off my face. Night terrors aside, she has absolutely no idea how hard it was to sleep next to her all night and not touch her. It was only the cast, that aching sense of vulnerability, that reminded me that the ball was completely in her court. I guess I could be more forward but I’m aiming to be a gentleman first and an animal later if it calls for it.
And I fucking hope it calls for it.
By the time she gets out of the shower, towel wrapped around her head, her face flushed with humidity, breakfast is already. She’s wearing the green dress from last night but without the cardigan, showing off her toned limbs. I wanted to play connect the dots with the freckles on her collarbone, and the faint ones on her shoulders are equally as tempting.
“This looks amazing. You shouldn’t have,” she says as I grab the pot of coffee and fill up her cup. There’s a spread of sweet potato hash browns, bacon, sausage, grilled mushrooms and tomatoes, plus fried eggs, a typical Scottish breakfast.
“I definitely should have,” I tell her, taking a seat across from her at the tiny oak table which is overwhelmed by the food. “If you weren’t here I’d just be standing over the sink and shoveling yogurt into my mouth as usual. Speaking of, do you care for some?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t eat dairy.”
“Dairy is a no, beer is a go…”
“I’m a woman of contradictions,” she says simply, taking a sip of her coffee. She closes her eyes in pleasure, breathing in deeply through her nose. “Tastes heavenly.”
I bet you’d taste the same, I think, and the hard-on I’ve tried to keep at bay since the moment she stepped out of the shower strains against my pants.
I take a deep breath and decide to concentrate on my food instead. The way she’s eating is hypnotizing—that wide, lush mouth, and the gusto in which she appreciates her food. I know I could make her feel just a good, if not far better, with just my hands alone.
She spears a piece of potato and dips it into the yolk of her egg and makes it look borderline erotic.
I adjust myself in my seat, clearing my throat. “So, when do you get your cast off?”
She stops chewing, her eyes widening as if the whole thing comes as a shock to her. She manages to swallow and says, “Oh, actually tomorrow.”
“Are you excited?”
She absently starts pushing the potatoes around on her plate. “Maybe? I don’t know. I’m so used to the cast now…”
“It’s got to be freeing,” I offer.
She nods. “Yeah. But it’s unknown. You know, this is the last part. This is it. There’s no more dreaming after this.”
I give her a curious look. “What do you mean?”
“I mean now that I have the cast, I can imagine what it’s like to not have a cast. I can pretend that my leg looks the same as it ever did, that I’ll be able to walk and run just like before. I’m allowed to pretend, to have that false hope that everything will go back to normal.” She pauses, her brow furrowing. “Tomorrow is the reality. Tomorrow, if that cast comes off and my leg is a mangled wreck and walking is even harder than without the cast…that scares me. Because that’s it. There’s no more hope after that.”
It pains me to hear her sound so negative though I get the feeling I’m the only person she allows herself to be negative around. “But you know that the physical therapy takes time, that you won’t be able to walk like you did before at first but eventually you’ll be as good as new. And you could always get plastic surgery on your leg, on the scars, if it makes you feel better.”
“I could,” she says carefully, her eyes flitting to me. “I saw your scars, on your side. Why haven’t you gotten those fixed?”
I’m momentarily frozen. Somehow I remember to breathe. “Because I don’t care enough to,” I admit. “They remind me of who I am, whether I want to be reminded or not. It feels wrong to cover them up. Like it’s too easy.”
“Then I feel the same way,” she says. She takes a deep breath and I know the question is coming. “What happened?”
I give a gruff shake of my head and busy myself with a mouthful of bacon. “It’s a long story.”
Her clear eyes appraise me for what seems like ages. “Will you tell me one day?”
Shit. But I can’t lie.
“I will,” I tell her.
“You promise,” she asks with a brow raised, already disbelieving me.
“I promise,” I tell her. I quickly change the subject. “So, how would you like some company tomorrow?”
“When I get my cast off?”
“Yeah.”
“My sister will be there,” she says. I’m about to tell her to forget it when she quickly adds, “It will be fine though. The more the merrier. I mean, are you sure you want to?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
She shrugs and stares down at her plate. “I don’t know. It can’t be very interesting.”
“I’m not going because it’s interesting. I’m going because I want to be there for you.”
She looks at me sharply, letting the words sink in. Finally, she smiles. Small and unsure at first, then big and wide until it’s all I see. She’s so fucking beautiful I could climb across the table and kiss her right now.
I practice further restraint.
“Okay,” she says.
Okay.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jessica
When the meeting on Tuesday rolls around, I’m a bit nervous that I’ll be shunned or something for missing last week’s. I’ve talked to Anne since then, letting her know that something came up, and though I never mentioned that “something” was time at the bar with Keir, I think she has an idea.
But missing meetings is normal as long as you eventually make it back. Of course there is some kind of penance to be paid, and Pam makes sure I have the floor for most of the night.
I talk to them about getting the cast off tomorrow, about the same fears I voiced with Keir. That all hope will be gone.
Anne then asks me a question in front of everyone, point blank, about whether I’m afraid that my physical capabilities will cripple me emotionally.
I don’t have an answer for that, though I suppose if I sift through enough rubble I’ll know the petty truth: that the way I walk, the way I look, might not only make me unattractive to the opposite sex, but deny me love.
Fortunately, I don’t have to admit to anything. Anne stands up from her seat and tells everyone that the mental scarring the fire left on her, the guilt, the loss of her son, has prevented her from ever really connecting with someone. She’s trying now, of course, but the fear that she’ll never be lovable is always there, lurking in the background and ready to sabotage any good thing that comes her way.
I don’t want to lose what I have with Keir, if I have anything at all. But I do know I’m no different from Anne, one step away from sabotaging us with fear.
Which is exactly why when he asked if he could come with me to my cast off, I said yes. Well, that’s not the only reason. I want him there, his support, and I want a chance for Christina to meet him. I want her approval, for her to see that he’s a good man. A man with demons—I certainly bore witness to that in the middle of the night—but a good man all the same.
And so now Christina is behind the wheel and we’re driving down the cobblestone street of Circus Lane, going to pick him up.
To say I’m nervous is an understatement. About him, about the doctor,
about everything. I’m sitting in the front seat, drumming my fingers on my knees while she gets out of the car and goes to the door since it would be far too awkward for me to do so.
For a moment I think maybe Miss Shipley will come to the door and invite her in for tea (my god, can that woman talk), but then Keir appears, towering over Christina.
She looks nervous too, giving him a quick smile in response to his charming one, and quickly turns on her heel, heading for the driver’s seat.
She gets in before he does and I have enough time to hiss to her, “Be nice.”
She pretends not to hear me.
Then Keir gets in the backseat and I twist in my seat to smile at him.
“Hi,” I say brightly.
“You weren’t that excited to see me this morning,” Christina mumbles under her breath.
I ignore her as Keir says hello right back. Also, it gives me a chance to really look at him. Fuck, is he ever sexy in a leather jacket. He’s got this dark look about him today: grey jeans, a black dress shirt, black leather jacket, black work boots. I can totally see him as a mechanic, wiping his large, dirty hands on a rag while haggling with some guy, then later in just a wife-beater that shows off all those tanned muscles, sliding under the hood of a vintage car.
Christina clears her throat which pops me out of my little fantasy not a moment too soon. I turn around, though I know Keir didn’t mind the way my eyes were lingering on him.
He attempts to make small talk with Christina, asking her about Lee, about her job (she’s a marketing manager), about why she moved to Scotland to begin with.
She clams up at that one, shooting me a wary look. It’s something we don’t like talking about and I know Keir knows this by now.
I speak up for her, giving Keir a warning look to not ask anymore. “Our mother left our father right after Christina graduated high school. I was already in college. She grew up in Edinburgh, so she decided to move back and take Christina with her.”
He watches me for a moment, taking in my eyes, then nods. “I see. Edinburgh is quite the welcoming city. I never thought I’d want to live here myself, being a Glasgow boy, but the pretty streets shine brighter than the mean ones. I still miss the music scene though. Ever caught any shows in Glasgow?”
With the topic safely changed to music, I can see Christina visibly relax, and soon she’s talking to Keir like they’re old friends.
It’s not long before we’re at the hospital. I immediately want to be sick.
“Keir will take you inside,” Christina commands as I get out in front of the main entrance. “I’ll meet you there.”
She drives off, and Keir’s gaze follows the car as it disappears into the parking garage.
“She’s a lot like you,” he comments, squinting at the ray of sun that’s decided to break up the rainy morning. The air smells like dew.
“How so?” I ask. We start up the path and I’m struck with the realization that on the way back, I won’t have the cast on. The crutches I’m sure will stick around for a bit, until I learn to walk again or at least learn to use a cane, but the cast will be gone. What a silly thing to grow sentimental over.
“Well, she’s a spitting image of you, for one,” he comments. “How many years apart are you?”
“Five.”
“So she’s you but five years younger. And shorter. And her hair isn’t as beautiful.”
“Oh please,” I tell him, trying to play his compliment off. “She’s strawberry blonde at best, which means she was dealt the better card. She didn’t have to deal with being called Raggedy Ann, Little Orphan Annie, or Ariel, The Little Mermaid when growing up.”
“You think being called The Little Mermaid is an insult?” he asks incredulously. “I know she’s just a cartoon, but she’s bloody hot. I don’t know what young boy didn’t daydream about her when growing up.”
“Even though she couldn’t have sex until she had her damn legs?”
He smirks at me. “By the time young boys realize that, they’ve already moved on to Jessica Rabbit. Which, by the way, is yet another hot redhead.”
“And a cartoon.”
“That too. Bet you think I have some weird cartoon perversion now, don’t you?”
My smile is bashful. “If you think I’m as hot as they are, I’ll take it as a compliment. Besides, I do find Ariel to be a compliment.” I pause, my throat going dry. “It’s why I got her tattoo on my leg.”
He nods gravely as we approach the front doors. “Then it’s just as well we’re talking about her. Little red’s little mermaid. You’ll get to see her again.”
“She won’t be so hot anymore, I guarantee it,” I warn him.
It’s true what I told him. I was made fun of growing up, as is every ginger kid it seems. My hair was always a darker red, not as orange as many kids, which is probably why I was let off a little easier. I had freckles, but they weren’t everywhere and they weren’t pronounced. But The Little Mermaid stuck because even though the kids were trying to be insulting, the fact is I always wanted to be her. She was my favorite, maybe because she dreamed of a better life, a different life. When I turned eighteen and left home, I got the tattoo as a symbol of who I really was and who I was becoming.
We head inside the hospital, the smell of iodine, plastic, and something sour and distinctly human flooding my nose.
God, I hate it here.
Soon Christina is joining us, then Dr. Sinclair, who for once seems to not be on his best “grandpa” behavior. He’s not a fan of Keir, even though Keir’s barely said a word, and asks twice if he would rather wait elsewhere. Keir is firm though and stays put.
But when it comes down to it, neither Keir or Christina are in the room when Dr. Sinclair saws off the cast. It’s just me up on the operating table, the cold, harsh lights blinding me from above as he works with the dull blade.
It doesn’t hurt, but it’s uncomfortable, and the vibration of the blade feels like my brain is in a blender. It’s also incredibly loud and my eyes are pinched shut the whole time, praying for it to be over.
Finally, I feel cold air on my leg and the sound of the cast breaking away. A musty smell permeates my nostrils, and I turn my head. I don’t want to look yet.
“All done,” Dr. Sinclair says. “Would you like to keep the cast? A lot of people hang on to theirs as souvenirs, I don’t judge.”
“No,” I say meekly.
“Right-o,” he says, and I can hear him putting it elsewhere. “Well, it’s over. Your leg is free. I’m just going to do a quick examination to test your range of motion and pain levels. If it hurts, you have to let me know, aye?”
I gasp, my eyes flying open when his cold hands hit my leg.
“Does that hurt?”
“No,” I tell him. “You’re cold.”
“Sorry about that,” he says. “I don’t normally get that complaint from women, ha ha.”
Ha ha ha, go fuck yourself, creep.
His hands travel down to my foot, bending it slightly. It’s fine until it’s not.
“Ow, that hurts,” I practically cry out. My whole foot feels cold and weathered and raw, and now shards of pain are traveling up the back of my leg.
“Your Achilles tendon,” he explains matter-of-factly. “You won’t be able to wear high heels for some time, but we’ll work you up to it. How about this?”
His hands grip my ankle and twist back and forth, but thankfully the pain subsides.
Until they move further up my leg, to the meat of the calf, and I almost get delirious. The pain is so real, so intense, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. “Please, no, no, no. Stop!”
“Scar tissue pain,” he says. “They’re fresh right now. All the nerves are exposed, they can get pinched during the formation of the tissue.”
I can barely catch my breath. His hands haven’t lifted from my leg. “I thought if anything I would go numb.”
“Not always,” he says, and for the first time he sounds grave. “I
’m sorry, I have to handle you there to test the range of motion in your calf. I’ll try and be as quick as possible.”
I grit my teeth as he squeezes my calf. He might be doing it gently, but it feels like…I can’t even describe it. The pain is so vivid and new, unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. It’s like he’s touching me through fog and the scarred area doesn’t even belong to my body. Yet it hurts all the same, like a hammer on the world’s most sensitive bruise.
I’m whimpering, trying to remember what Kat taught me, how to breathe through the pain, but it seems to go on forever. Finally, his hands are off me and the pain immediately disappears.
I breathe out a deep and shaking sigh of relief.
“As you can tell,” he says, “the pain won’t stay. You’re feeling pain of your bones still readjusting, but the scars will only hurt when touched. You can look. You’ll have to get used to it someday. You might be pleasantly surprised.”
I’m not sure how I work up the nerve, but I prop myself up on my elbows and stare down at my leg.
Small.
That’s my first thought. My leg looks so small. Not to mention pale and hairy. It looks like it belongs to someone else, like some skinny hairy boy, which makes sense since the scar tissue feels like it belongs to someone else.
I have to say he’s right. It doesn’t look as bad as I thought. And my little Ariel, sitting on her rock just above my ankle actually looks intact as well, pretty much like the last time I saw her, albeit covered in gross hair and framed by a smattering of scars above her that almost look like cotton candy clouds.
But then I move my leg to the left, ever so slightly, really just to test if I can do it or not. And while I can, I’m also shown a horrible sight.
I don’t even recognize it. In a second it’s gone from something familiar to something alien. While the cotton candy scars lace up the side of my calf, they come together at the back like something inhuman, a nest of vipers and insects. My calf muscle is gone, and in its place is a violent mess of shredded tissue and scarring, roping around on itself. It’s the kind of damage that I know no cream, let alone no plastic surgery, could ever fix. It’s evidence that my leg should have blown clear off, but for some reason it was saved.