“I did?”
“You said it was your favorite place on earth.”
I close my eyes. “I wish I could remember.”
“I know you do. And maybe you will. Maybe you’ll prove those doctors wrong. But for now, you need to eat and keep up your strength for therapy. One day off to get acclimated to being home is all they allowed. What time do you get started tomorrow?”
“I have to be there from ten until three.”
“I’m sorry I can’t take you. Duty calls.”
“I know. Denver said he’d take me.”
“He did, did he?” Oliver looks irritated. “He does know that your legs do work now, right? That you’re not poorly and you’re perfectly capable of getting yourself a cab?”
I narrow my eyes at him.
He holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay, fine. I know we agreed he could help. But you need to understand that I don’t take rightly to another man spending so much time with my fiancée.”
“Duly noted,” I say.
He takes my hand. “You know I’d be there for you if I could. I have a job to keep. I know you pay most of our bills, but I like to contribute where I can.”
“I pay most of our bills?”
He laughs. “Have you seen your bank account, luv?”
I shake my head. “Actually, no.”
“Well, do take a peek. It’s quite brilliant. So, what do you say, do you want to buy us dinner?”
I look back at the kitchen. “No. I’d like to make it. The doctor said I need to get back to my regular routine. Do we have food?”
“We do,” he says proudly. “I even picked up some meat at the market.”
“You did?”
He nods. “Why don’t you start off with something easy like pasta?”
“I think I can do that.”
I start to get up off the couch, careful not to put too much weight on my left foot, but Oliver pulls me back down and I fall onto his lap.
“Now that’s more like it,” he says, wiggling beneath me. “I rather like having you in my arms.” He cups his hands around my face. “I’m going to kiss you now, Sara. And you’re going to let me, because it’s part of the routine.”
I close my eyes and nod. And I let him kiss me. I let him kiss me because everyone has told me that’s what I need to do. I let him kiss me because I’m hoping it will evoke a memory, a spark, a tiny twinge—anything that will be a reminder of why I fell in love with Oliver Compton.
So then why, when I feel his lips against mine, do I only crave one thing? The lips that taste of pepperoni.
Chapter Twenty-two
The doorbell rings and I smile. I knew he was coming. The doorman called me to let me know he was on his way up. But still, my heart leaps when I hear the bell. And he’s early—somehow that makes it even better.
I’ve barely seen Denver over the past week. There was the baseball game and the farewell party, but neither of those places were times we could really talk. I found myself getting excited about the cab ride to physical therapy today. For at least twenty whole minutes, we can have uninterrupted conversation. No Oliver lurking over my shoulder. No Nora possessively holding Denver’s hand. No cousins or therapists to eavesdrop. Just the two of us.
I check myself in the mirror once again. My clothes aren’t anything special. I’m going to PT, after all. But I did find myself taking extra time to apply makeup this morning.
I open the door to see Denver holding a box full of candy. “I wasn’t sure which kind you’d like, so I got a little of everything. We have to fatten you up.”
I laugh, taking the box from him. “Being a woman, I never thought I’d appreciate hearing those words.”
He steps over the threshold and kisses me on the cheek. The spark I get from his lips momentarily touching my skin is more than what I felt during the make-out session I had with Oliver last night. I will myself to ignore the lingering feeling.
“Thanks for coming over to take me,” I say.
“It’s my pleasure. I know I’m early,” he says. “I hope I didn’t catch you in the middle of anything.”
“In the middle of being lonely,” I say.
I see his face fall.
“Sorry,” I say. “I don’t mean to sound so depressing. I guess I just got used to having people around me all day. Even if it was only the staff a lot of the time. I didn’t realize being alone was going to feel so lonely.”
“I guess there are a lot of things you’ll have to get used to again,” he says.
I look over at the couch where Oliver kissed me. “Yeah. I guess so.”
“What did you do on your first day home?”
“What do you think?” I ask.
“I think you painted.”
“I think you’d be right.”
“Can I see?”
“You want to see what I painted yesterday?”
“I do.”
I shrug. “Okay, but it’s nothing special.”
“Everything you paint is something special, Sara.”
I blush as he follows me back to my studio. I open the door and gesture to the easel that still holds yesterday’s painting.
Denver doesn’t say a word, so I look over at him. He looks astonished. His jaw has gone slack and his head tilts to the side as he studies the painting. “My God,” he finally says. “Do you know what this is, Sara?”
“Actually, I don’t.”
“It’s me. My family.”
“It’s what?” I say, completely taken off guard.
He can’t seem to peel his eyes away from the painting. He points to the two children rolling down a hill of snow. “This is Aspen and me.” Then he points to the two adults cheering them on through a snowy blizzard. “These are our parents.”
He finally turns to me. “Sara, this is exactly what I described to you when you were lying in the hospital bed before you woke up.”
I furrow my brow as I look back at the painting. “It is?”
“Yes. Right down to the last detail. You heard me while you were sleeping.”
I shake my head. “But I don’t remember it. I’m not even sure why I painted this. I was thinking about my own parents yesterday and this was the result.”
“It’s incredible,” he says. “I’m simply in awe of your talent.”
I smile sadly. “You may be the only one.”
“Sara, Oliver’s an art dealer. He’s going to be more critical than most. I’m sure you’ll be back up to par in no time at all. And if you aren’t, who cares—because if this isn’t up to par, I’m not sure what the hell is.”
“I’m glad you think so.” I unclamp the painting from the easel and hand it to him.
He studies it again. “I’d love to have it. How much do you want for it? I can’t afford your normal price.”
“It’s yours,” I say. “I’m giving it to you.”
“No.”
“Yes. And no arguing. I’m not taking a penny from you, Denver.”
“Thank you,” he says, tucking the painting under an arm before pulling me into a hug.
“You’re welcome,” I say, looking up at him.
I have an awkward moment where I want to stay in his arms but know I shouldn’t. He pulls away before I do. “There’s someplace I want to take you today after physical therapy.”
“Where?”
“An art gallery. The manager there is a huge fan of yours. Maybe he can help fill in some gaps.”
“That would be great.”
“Do you want to see if Oliver can come?” he asks.
I shake my head. “He can’t. He said he wouldn’t be home until after dinner. Which is good. Because apparently I suck at dinner.”
“What do you mean you suck at dinner?”
“I was never much of a cook when Lydia and I lived together. If we couldn’t order it or put it in the microwave, we didn’t eat. But Oliver told me how much I enjoyed cooking, so I thought I’d try my hand at it.”
“A
nd?”
“And do you know how hard it is to burn spaghetti?”
Denver tries not to laugh, but he’s not doing a very good job. He finally lets it out. “Oh, my God, you didn’t.”
I nod, trying not to laugh myself. “I did. It was horrible.”
“I thought it smelled a little crispy when I walked in. I figured it was leftover soot in my nose from work.” He belts out another laugh. “You burned spaghetti? Really?”
“Really. We ended up ordering Chinese.”
I let out a big sigh.
“Don’t worry,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll bet it will get easier.”
I look at his FDNY t-shirt. “No, it’s not that. You said you thought you had soot in your nose. That means you were at a fire.”
“Newsflash, Sara. It’s kind of my job. Oh, and I have good news. I got hired on permanently at Engine 319.”
My excited eyes snap to his. I know how much he wanted to find a long-term placement. “You did?”
He nods proudly.
Without thinking, I throw my arms around him. “That’s fantastic, Denver. I can’t believe you waited twenty minutes to tell me. You should have led with that.”
His arms wrap around me and hold me tight. It feels nice to have his arms around me. I feel protected. Safe.
He clears his throat and pulls away. I realize it’s the second time he’s pulled away from me in the last few minutes. I should stop hugging him. It obviously makes him uncomfortable.
“I’m glad you got the permanent position,” I say. “But I’ll always worry about you.”
He cocks his head to the side. “You will?”
“Of course I will. You run into burning buildings. You rescue women from cars hanging off bridges. Your job is dangerous.”
His eyes soften. “Do you realize construction workers have a higher incidence of on-the-job injuries than firefighters?”
“Yeah, but they probably take a nail gun in the foot or something. When you guys get injured, it’s much more serious.”
“You don’t have to worry about me, Sara. I’m always prepared. And I’m good at what I do. Especially now. You’re part of the reason I got the full-time gig, you know.”
“Me?”
“Being in that car with you after your accident, it was one of the most intense moments of my life. And it proved to me that I could do it. After that day, I noticed it got easier for me to handle the MVA calls. I mean, I’m not sure I’ll ever be totally okay with them, but at least now I can be part of the team and know nobody will be able to call me out for not doing my part.”
“That must have been very hard for you,” I say. “Not feeling like you belonged anywhere.”
“It is what it is. But enough about me,” he says, checking the time on his phone. “Let’s get you to your first outpatient therapy session. Do you mind if I leave the painting here and pick it up when I drop you off later today?”
“That would be fine.”
I can’t help my smile, knowing he now has a reason to come back up to my place this afternoon. I know it’s not right, wanting him here as much as I do. But I can’t deny the fact that every time I look into his eyes, I feel like I’m home. More at home than when I’m standing in the middle of my own apartment.
Chapter Twenty-three
I’m exhausted after my third day of PT. Donovan says I’m making great improvements. I reach down and rub my sore left leg, happy that he thinks I’m doing so well. But I still feel like a freak whenever I walk and my leg drags behind me.
Seeing my so-called friends at the art gallery the other day didn’t help my confidence much. I know Denver meant well. He’s just doing what the doctor said and is trying to immerse me into my life. But I saw the stares and the whispers from the three women at the gallery who showed up to ‘support’ me. They all had excuses as to why they never visited me, and they turned up their noses when they saw me limp across the room. Their fake smiles and air kisses had me loathing the fact that I had become one of them.
Davis was kind to me, although it looked like he just felt sorry for me.
I think back to when I was living at the rehab center. People didn’t feel sorry for me there. They pushed me. I was surrounded by people who were uplifting and encouraging. Now I’m encountering lots of people who treat me like I’m the stray dog with the gimpy leg.
Donovan encouraged me to take the subway home today, but I wasn’t up for the stares I knew I’d get when I’d have trouble getting on and off the train or standing up from my seat. After all, I was going solo today. With Denver on a shift, I was left to make my way to and from rehab by myself. Not that it was difficult or anything, it’s just that without him there as a buffer, the world seems too focused on me and what I can’t do.
When Denver is with me, the focus is always on what I can do. He’s good like that. Never dwelling on the negative. And while I can tell Oliver is trying to do the same, I see the way he stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking.
But just like Denver said he would, Oliver is growing on me. He slept on the couch for the third time last night without a single complaint. And we cooked dinner together, not burning a single thing. I even found myself laughing at some of his tales of our adventures. Still, sometimes I feel like our relationship is being forced. By him. By me. By circumstance.
I walk into the bedroom, trying not to feel the loneliness that’s creeping up on me once again.
I lie on the bed and turn on some music, one of the CDs Denver gave me. I feel my lips turn up into a smile when my mom’s favorite song comes on: “Kokomo.”
I pull out my blank journal and write three words on the first page.
I miss you.
I stare at the words for a long time, trying to figure out the meaning. Who exactly do I miss? My parents? Denver? Me?
When the intercom buzzes, announcing a visitor, I turn off the music and stash the journal in my nightstand.
“A Ms. Walker to see you, ma’am,” the doorman says.
Tears instantly flood my eyes before I answer. “Please send her up.”
Two minutes later, I’m opening my door and pulling Lydia into a tight hug. She’s reluctant to hug me back, but I don’t let that stop me. Maybe Lydia is who I’ve been missing. My best friend. My confidant. My partner in crime.
“Oh, Lydia. I don’t know what I did, but whatever it was, I’m so so sorry.”
I can sense the tension in her body easing as she finally returns the hug. “I’ve missed you, Sara.”
I feel the protrusion of her belly and step back to look between us. “You’re pregnant!” I tug on her hand, leading her inside. “Oh my gosh. I’ve missed so much. Tell me everything.”
I fetch Lydia a bottle of water but opt for something a little stronger myself. Then over a glass of wine—from a regular glass, not that pretentious gold-rimmed one—Lydia fills me in on her life. By the time she’s finished, I feel like I have my friend back.
“You have no idea how happy I am that you came over,” I say.
“Me too,” she says, wiping another tear. Both of us have shed several over the past hour. “I almost didn’t.”
“They tell me you came to the hospital once. I wanted you to come back, but I didn’t know how to ask after how I must have treated you. What made you finally decide to reach out?”
“Your friend Denver kept calling me,” she says.
“He did?”
She laughs. “He’s been badgering me for days. I figured I’d show up just to get him off my back.”
“He is persistent,” I say, shaking my head.
“Well, I’m glad he is or I wouldn’t be here.” She glances around my apartment. “So, tell me all about Oliver.”
She waits for my reply, but when I don’t say anything, her hand covers her mouth. “Oh, Sara. I’m sorry. I forgot that you don’t even really know him.”
“That’s okay,” I say, putting a hand on her arm. “Oliver is”—I try to com
e up with a way to describe him—“charming.”
Her eyebrows shoot up and I can tell she’s not satisfied with my answer.
“He’s nice,” I add. “He’s giving me space to acclimate back into my life. He’s not being too pushy. Then again, sometimes I don’t think he pushes me hard enough.”
“How do you mean? Like, are you guys intimate and stuff?”
I find it hard not to smile. I love how Lydia already feels comfortable enough to pry.
“Not really. I mean he’s kissed me. But he’s sleeping on the couch for now. I guess I wish he’d treat me more like some of the others do. Like he understands my potential instead of focusing on my limitations.”
“Why don’t you just tell him that?” she asks.
I shrug. “I don’t know. We’re more like two strangers trying to be polite to each other.”
“And by ‘the others’ you mean …?”
“You know, my therapists. Denver. And now, you.”
“It’s got to be hard on Oliver,” she says. “You not remembering him. I can only imagine what it would be like if Dan didn’t remember me and our life together. He’s probably trying to find the balance between not pushing you hard enough and coming on too strong. Surely he must know you don’t have to be with him if you don’t want to. You could leave at any time. Or kick him out. I find it commendable that you’re giving him a chance.”
I nod. “I’ve tried to put myself in his position. I thought it was only fair to give it a try.”
“You said you lost a few years of memories. What’s the last thing you remember?”
I smile. “Actually, it was our road trip.”
“The one to Cape Cod?”
“Yes.”
“Oh my God, that was epic!” she cries. But then her face turns sad. “It was the best and worst vacation of my life.”
“How do you mean?”
“Do you remember why we went there?”
“You wanted me to paint a picture of you and your dad. You gave me a photo of the two of you on the beach when you were very young. But it was old and weathered and there wasn’t much detail.”
“You asked if we could go there, to the exact spot the photo was taken.”
The Men On Fire: A Complete Romance Series (3-Book Box Set) Page 48
