After she unequivocally sent me on my way I pretended to drive away, then swung around the block and watched her walk away, sipping that soda and popping a waffle fry now and then. Dragging her feet. Obviously exhausted. So I stopped by her truck and noticed the pool of gasoline beneath it, leaned down and saw it dripping from the fuel line.
And hell, why not? I've done little enough for anyone but myself in my life. Might as well begin this whole turn-a-new-leaf part of my life by doing a random act of kindness for the poor woman. She wasn't poor; I don't mean that in a financial sense. She had a Coach purse, and the shoes on her feet were fairly pricey orthopedic footwear for someone who is on their feet all day. Had manicured and painted nails, although she was clearly due for another appointment.
Shut up--spend enough time around rich vacationing tourist bitches, you get to know when a girl is in need of a manicure; she'll tell you, for one thing. Sleep with one too many times in a row; she'll want you to pay for it, too.
Well, not all of them.
Sweeping generalizations are old Lock, so I have to put the kibosh on that kind of thing.
I rub my forehead with a knuckle, regretting the way I acted.
I want to tell myself I couldn't help it; see a hot as fuck woman, try to score. It's ingrained.
And god, Niall James is fine as all hell. Not just "fine" or "hot" or "sexy", though, but genuinely beautiful. Audrey Hepburn. Rita Hayworth. Vivien Leigh. Marilyn Monroe. That kind of beautiful. In her scrubs, dark circles under her eyes, so tired she looked ready to drop but still bulldogging on despite it, she was stunning. Thick brunette hair in natural spirals swept to one side and pinned in place. No makeup, loose scrubs...I couldn't look away.
And then, just now, in the house. The way she answered the door? Fuck me running, I nearly had a heart attack. Immediate priapism. I'm still rocking a semi, and getting hard thinking about the vision: thin, old, faded hunter green babydoll tee, the hem riding millimeters above her snatch, creamy thighs I'd love to bury my face between. And that shirt? Jesus. Thin and faded, god, gloriously faded, just enough that I could almost-but-not-quite make out the dark silver-dollar-sized areolae and the buttons of her nipples. C-cup breasts, I'd guess. Big, a little more than a handful--and I've got big hands. Round, firm, taut. And when she turned and ran into her bedroom? The tiny little shirt rode up, baring that ass.
Woman's got ass for days, and I do mean that in the very best possible sense. Juicy, heart-shaped, thick and perfectly round. Slappable. Pale, creamy skin, like she's got all over, but on that ass...oh god. I could slap it and it'd pink up perfectly, slap it hard and there'd be a good jiggle to it.
No makeup, hair a curly, tangled rat's nest. Frizzed, messy, bursting in a halo around her face. Confused expression. Those cheekbones, those cheeks. Those lips? Plump, biteable, kissable. Throat like a delicate ivory carving. Long fluttering eyelashes.
And then she came out of that piece of shit crackerjack box of a house, wearing booty shorts and a thin flannel, unbuttoned just enough, hair brushed and curled to accentuate those natural ringlets, makeup.
I saw my future flash before my eyes.
I've seen my past flash in front of me, a still-frame montage of all the stupid, amazing, crazy, idiotic, daring, incredible things I've done in my life.
But for as many times as I've cheated death, I've never seen my future flash before my eyes.
And that...
That is freaking me right the fuck out.
I was relieved when she kicked me out of her truck.
Because, yeah, she's all curves and classical beauty. She's one hundred percent sophisticated, elegant beauty--if sophisticated elegance wore shorts that cupped a perfect ass, just barely long enough to not be too short. She's perfection in female form, and I'd claim to be a bit of an expert on that subject.
Yet all that being true, what really had me going was her tongue. That acerbic, biting tone, the way she doesn't take any shit whatsoever. Fearless. Bold. A little vulgar. Calling me out on my shit.
Kicked me out of her truck, deservedly so.
I ruffle Utah's head between her ears, and she glances up at me, tongue lolling out, loping beside me without a care in the world. "I messed that right up, didn't I, girl?"
Woof!
"Yeah, I mean, we both know I'm a fuck-up. But that was a fuck-up of the highest order."
Ruff!
"What would I do differently? Everything. Stay on the other side of the door. I mean shit, I don't even remember going in. Who goes into a stranger's house uninvited? Especially when she was very clearly not quite awake yet, and half-naked to boot." I run my hand through my hair, pissed off at myself in the worst way. "I'm such a goddamned idiot, Utah. Remind me to act like I have any manners whatsoever next time, okay?"
Yip!
I laugh, because if I talk to Utah, she always answers.
Makes me feel less alone in the world, which is nice.
But then she stops, cocks her ears, twists her head to look behind us; there's a cloud of dust, Niall's truck at the heart of it. I feel my heart start thumping harder, feel hope burgeon inside me. Maybe I'll get a second chance at this.
What "this" is, I'm still not sure.
I should work on that.
The two-tone, short-bed Chevy--I don't even like country music, so why do I keep thinking in terms of country songs?--grumbles to a halt, dust billowing around Utah and me.
Niall leans back in the cab, wrist on the wheel, her other hand out the window. "Get in."
"Listen, Niall, I owe you an apology--"
"Yeah, you do. Get in and do it, though, because I'm hungry and you mentioned brunch."
I glance at my watch. "I think the breakfast portion of brunch is long past, at this point, seeing as it's after one. So let's call it lunch."
"Fine, whatever. Just get in."
I look at Utah, lower the tailgate. "Get up there, girl. Let's go for a ride." Utah gives a bark, and then leaps up onto the tailgate, which I close behind her.
I get in, work on how to phrase this, because apologies don't come easily to me.
Apparently I wait too long, because Niall shoots me a withering look. "You mentioned an apology?"
I sigh. "Yeah...I was a dick. I'm sorry."
She eyes me expectantly. "And?"
"And what? I'm sorry."
"That's a shitty apology. You should at least say what you're sorry for."
"Um." I frown and tug on my beard. "I shouldn't have hit on you like that. And I shouldn't have walked into your house. Or mentioned your tits. Or...well, I apologize for the whole scene, basically," I say, waving back at her house.
"You're not very good at this, are you?" She's laughing at me, I think. That's a good sign.
"No, I'm not. I don't usually apologize."
"Even when you're acting like a mannerless horndog?"
"Especially then, since it's sort of my natural state." I shake my head side to side. "At least, it used to be. I'm trying to...update my operating system, shall we say."
"I don't know what that analogy is supposed to mean."
I wave my hand in circles; I hate this conversation. "Turn over a new leaf. Start fresh, cliches like that."
"Oh." She eyes me, and her eyes are soft green streaked with brown. Unusual, and hypnotic. "Why?"
I hesitate. A little too long, probably. "Uh, well...? That's a long story."
Niall is focused on the road, rather than on me. She taps the steering wheel with a middle finger, then the ring finger of her left hand.
She's still wearing her rings, both of them, the engagement ring and the wedding band.
Jesus.
That cuts me right to the core, to the gut. To the bone. To the heart beating in my chest, the strong, steady, powerful heart that belonged to this woman's husband.
And then, as I'm reflecting on this, she blows out a breath, as if she's let something weighty go. "Well, I do have the whole day off."
Goddamn it.
<
br /> I need to tell her.
It's why I traveled all the fucking way down here to Ardmore goddamned Oklahoma.
So why does it feel so hard to just...say it?
I came to life when I first kissed you
His entire demeanor shifted the moment he saw my wedding rings. One look, and he went all morose.
I wonder what that's about? Thinking his chances of getting me in bed are worse, now that he thinks I'm married? Shit. Am I still married? I couldn't bear the thought of not wearing the rings. I tried. The day after the funeral I took them off, but then promptly had a panic attack and put them back on. Haven't taken them off since, except for showers. I can't. I just can't.
I flatten my palm against the steering wheel; angle my hand so the sunlight glints off the diamond. It's not a huge diamond, because Ollie was never exactly flush with cash; a half-carat, at most, princess cut and set in white gold. It was a symbol, more than anything. I didn't want a massive diamond anyway, because that wasn't the point. The real treasure was Ollie. His love. Being married to the man who made me complete. Being married to the man who understood me, who accepted me, who pushed me to be a better nurse every single day. The diamond was just the symbol of me being his...so how could I take it off? I'll always belong to Ollie.
But here I am, in Ollie's old truck, with another man.
And I'm thinking about that man, that someone who is not Ollie.
I'm being forced to accept that I want to spend time with him. He's compelling, larger than life, gorgeous, mesmerizing, fascinating. I want to know more. I want to know the meaning of that faraway look he gets in his eyes. What lies behind the fleeting darkness I see in his eyes?
I want to know what the sudden shift in his mood means.
He apologized. He apologized. Even when he knew he was wrong, when he knew he'd pissed me off, Ollie never actually apologized. He'd say that he knew he'd fucked up, and he'd try not to do it again, and could I please forgive him? But he'd never actually said the words "I'm sorry" or "I apologize."
I steal glances at my ring as I drive, wondering what I'm doing. What any of this means.
What would Ollie think? What would he tell me, if he could give me any advice in this situation? Jesus, that's stupid. If Ollie could give me advice, he'd be alive and I wouldn't be in this truck with this man.
I notice Lock staring at my ring, too. The look in his eyes is so distant, his thoughts a mile deep, dark as midnight shadows, fathomless as an ocean canyon.
I twist the diamond around my finger with my thumb, and Lock's gaze flits up to mine. "Nice ring."
I swallow hard. "I'm not married." I wince; blow out a sigh, because that's not how I wanted that to come out. Breathe in and start over. "I mean, I was married, but I'm not anymore." Shit, that's not any better; now it sounds like I got divorced.
"You don't have to explain," he starts.
I cut in. "Hey, look: we're here." I park in front of a mom-and-pop burger place, switch off the truck and hop out before he can say anything else.
I need to get hold of myself and get a grip on this situation.
I just wish I knew what the situation was. I wish I knew what I wanted.
Well, that's not accurate. I know what I want. And I know what my gut and my heart and my head and my soul and my body are all telling me: different stories, each of them.
Run, part of me says.
Enjoy it while it lasts, another says.
You're betraying your husband, the love of your life, yet a different part claims.
You NEED this.
How dare you think of another man?
God, he's gorgeous. If he'd trim that beard and hair, he'd be...almost too much to look at for long.
I order a bacon cheeseburger and a coke and fries, because I don't often indulge like this. I usually eat fairly healthy--
God, who am I kidding? I don't eat well at all anymore. I should, and part of me wants to, because I see the weight piling on in subtle increments, in my ass, in my thighs, the backs of my upper arms, my belly. But it doesn't matter, does it? Because I'm alone. Ollie died. He's gone. There's no one to see the few extra pounds. And really, it's not that much; enough that I notice, but not enough that I'm worried about it.
Ollie would notice it. And he'd love me anyway. He wouldn't care. He'd tell me to enjoy life, to soak up the good times because they're what get you through the shitty ones.
I'm trying, Ollie. But I've run out of good times to remember, because they're all tied up with you, and you're gone.
What else is there to enjoy? My solitude?
The endless boring work at Beardsley's practice? It is endless, too, because old Amos isn't getting any younger, and I'm positioned to take over, if I were to bother going back to school to finish my medical degree.
But it's boring work. Stitches and temperatures, and "Here's a prescription for Amoxicillin." There's nothing to enjoy. It's not challenging. It doesn't make my heart pound. It doesn't scare me or require anything of me.
I'm such a mess.
I'm stuffing my face with a greasy burger, shoveling fries into my face, and I'm enjoying the hell out of it, all the while running in mental circles and ignoring my date.
Not a date.
Is it a date?
Do I want it to be a date?
Yes, and no.
"Is this a date?" I ask, after swallowing a too-big bite; god, if that isn't apropos. Bite off more than I could chew. I did just that, agreeing to go out with Lock.
"I don't know--is it?" He's not being smarmy, not joking, and I don't think it's a line, either.
Weird.
"That's not what I expected your response to be."
Lock shrugs. "It's an unusual situation. I really don't know what this is." He doesn't look at me when he says this, and somehow the statement is loaded with meaning I can't quite parse. "My behavior before was unacceptable."
"You said you'd tell me your story." I let my gaze linger on his, try to fathom what's down deep in those blue-green-blue eyes.
"No, I said it was a long story, and you said you have time."
"Oh." I twist the ring around my finger again, a habit I have when I'm trying not to think about Ollie.
"If you're not married, or not married anymore, why do you still wear the rings?"
"Jeez, going right for the hard stuff, huh?"
He ducks his head. "Sorry. None of my business."
"No, it's fucking not." I take a breath. "Sorry--I'm sorry. That was a little harsh."
"No, I deserved it. I shouldn't have asked."
We eat in silence for a few minutes. The silence isn't companionable; it's rife, thick, and fraught.
"He died." I blurt it out, between bites of French fries. "My husband...he died. And I can't bring myself to take the rings off."
Lock breathes out slowly, almost delicately. Wipes his fingers on a napkin. His eyes meet mine. "You must have loved him a lot."
"He was...everything to me. So, yeah. I loved him a lot."
Another long silence, as Lock hunts for something to say next. I wish I could help him with that, but I don't know what to say next myself.
"Can I ask how..." He fumbles to a halt. "No, that's--never mind. Too personal."
I wipe my own hands, leave my trash on the table. I'm supposed to pick up after myself, but I'm being ripped apart, and I can't think, can't do anything but walk away, out of the diner. I don't know where I'm going.
I feel a presence: Utah, this time with a leash clipped to her collar, pacing ahead of Lock as he catches up to me on the sidewalk.
He walks beside me in silence a while. And then: "I'm sorry, Niall. I shouldn't have asked." A bitter laugh. "You know, I think I've apologized more to you in the last twenty minutes than I have in my whole life."
"I have that effect, it seems," I say.
I'm crying. Not sobbing, just a few quiet tears slipping down. I didn't even realize until Lock reaches up, gingerly, hesitantly, almost fearfully, a
nd brushes a tear away from the corner of my mouth.
"Fuck," he whispers. "I made you cry."
I shake my head, wipe at my face. "No. No, it wasn't you. It's just..." I laugh, a sound halfway between bitter and rueful. "Actually, it is you. But not just you."
We keep walking, Utah ahead of us, sniffing, tail wagging, grinning a doggy grin, greeting every passer-by. Lock is right beside me, so close. Too close. I could twitch my wrist and hold his hand. I could lean into him. I do none of these things, I just walk and try to gather myself, try to sort out my thoughts and wade through the jumbled ocean of my emotions.
"His name was Oliver." I don't know who's speaking; surely not me. These words are pouring out, unbidden. "He was a doctor. A surgeon. He could have worked anywhere in the country, opened his own practice, or gotten a top job at any hospital in the world. He was such a talented surgeon; he had these hands that were rock solid, no matter what. Just...steady. He was steady, no matter what. Never panicked, never got overwhelmed, always knew exactly what to do and always got it done."
"How'd you meet?"
I lift a shoulder, because it's hard to talk past the knot in my throat. It's hard to talk without bursting into sobs. It's hard to do anything but focus on not running away. I haven't spoken Ollie's name since he died, not to anyone. I haven't talked about him, I haven't really tried to...remember him.
We're away from the downtown area and into the neighborhood outside it, now. There's a park just ahead, and I use the time it takes to reach it to suppress the imminent breakdown. We sit on a bench, once again a little too close, his thigh brushing mine, shoulder brushing mine. He unclips Utah, grabs a stick from the grass beside the bench, and throws it. Utah, instead of bringing it back, slumps to the grass where the stick landed and chews on it.
I wipe my cheeks with the heels of my palms, breathe deep. "I was an ER nurse in LA. I'd just--shit, it's still hard to talk about, seven years later--I'd just lost a patient. This twelve-year-old kid got shot four times in a drive-by. He cut class to play basketball with his friends, and he caught some stray bullets and died. I couldn't save him. Delaney and I did everything we could, but we lost him. I had to take a break, you know? You can't go through something like that unscathed. I was outside, sitting alone, trying to not completely lose my shit, I guess. Ollie came up, sat beside me, and offered me a cigarette. I was like, no thanks, I don't smoke. And he explained that he didn't either, but when you go through something exceptionally difficult, sometimes you just have to smoke. And then he told me I should leave the hospital and work for MSF, Medecins Sans Frontieres--Doctors Without Borders. I liked him, and he made it sound exciting and challenging, so I did it. I left LA, left the hospital, left my friends, and joined MSF. Went to Africa and--" I shake my head. "You don't want to hear about Africa. It was...rough. But Ollie and I fell in love, and got married eventually. Had a week's worth of honeymoon in the Bahamas, and then Dominique called, told us there was an earthquake in Haiti. The one in 2010? We were there, ground zero. That was...bad. Real bad. We never really got any time off after that, until we finally got rotated back stateside for some downtime. And then, on the way back down from visiting Ollie's parents up in northern Cali, we got in a car accident. Ollie died."