If I Love You

by Tmonique Stephens

  The wound seemed clean, free of debris. Four stitches should suffice, plus a shot of Penicillin. “When was your last tetanus shot?” He shrugged. “Well, that earned you another shot. Penicillin to kill any potential infection, some Lido to numb you while I sew you up, and tetanus, so you don’t get lockjaw.”

  Another stoic look which she guessed was his permission to proceed. She cleaned the area with a betadine swab and started with Lidocaine. He gritted his teeth when she sunk the needle deep into his flesh. Initially, Lido burned when injected. It took a few seconds to take effect. She used that time to open the suture kit.

  “It was a beer bottle,” he said. “I don’t think there’s any glass remaining.”

  Now he volunteered the information. She hid her irritation behind her professional smile as she drew up more Lido. “Did he empty the beer bottle on you before he got in your blind spot?”

  “Nah. That happened in the bar.”

  She waited for more, but his attention shifted to the needle in her hand. “This is gonna hurt, even with the drugs.”

  The corner of his mouth twisted in contempt or challenge? She wasn’t sure which. “Do your worst.”

  Interesting choice of words. “Shouldn’t that be do your best?”

  He shrugged one shoulder as his expression turned flat. “Only the end product will show the results.”

  Arrogance wasn’t a trait she found attractive in anyone, especially him. She should jab the needle into his body and watch how long his bored expression lasted.

  The malicious and unprofessional thought wasn’t like her and on a certain level, disturbed her. Gently, she gave him another dose of Lido and grabbed a hemostat to separate his flesh, allowing a peek inside the wound. “Approximately two inches deep.” She mopped up the blood pooling in the opening. “I don’t see any broken pieces.” Quickly, she gave him four stitches inside the wound and three outside. She completed the process with an alcohol swab to clean the surface, gauze, and a waterproof bandage.

  He studied her handiwork. “You’re good at this.”

  She took issue at the surprise in his voice. “I’m not the janitor. I’m a registered nurse.” It wasn’t entirely true. When necessary, she grabbed a mop and did the floors. This was an all hands-on deck job.

  Kensley jabbed the penicillin deep into his upper thigh. He winced. She enjoyed it and immediately felt guilty. “I’ll be back.” She disposed of the kit and all the instruments and returned with the tetanus shot.

  Noah was sitting up, his bum leg stretched out at an angle while he leaned to the side, looking like he owned the world. She hated men like that; the super confident, my shit never stunk, in fact, he never needed to shit, fart, piss, pick a booger out of his nose.

  She held up the needle and syringe. “One last shot and you’re on your way. I need your shoulder.” She grabbed an alcohol swab while he shrugged one arm out of his coat and sweater. He had on a sleeveless tee-shirt which did nothing to hide defined pecs and brick abs and the Marine Corp logo tattooed on his deltoid or the scar circling his shoulder. Rotator cuff surgery, she guessed. Fairly recent by the condition of the scar.

  Just give him the shot. She swiped the swab across his deltoid. Out of respect, she pierced his skin below the tatt and pressed the plunger. The sharps were tossed into the red container. All he needed was a band-aid. To be spiteful, she slapped a Sponge Bob band-aid on his arm. He glanced at it and surprised her by humming a few bars of the theme song.

  “I caught some shrapnel in Afghanistan.” He volunteered.

  Back to her patient, Kensley froze. All her muscles locked except for her lips. They thinned from the effort to keep her sharp response inside.

  “The last mission,” he continued.

  Trembling, she spun and said in a steady voice. “Though the stitches will melt away as you heal, the doctor will need to see you tomorrow before closing time to check my handiwork.” She turned away as he adjusted his tee-shirt and sweater.

  Good, they both knew how to play, ‘Let’s pretend.’ “Do you have any Tylenol at home?”

  He shook his head. She pulled a few samples out of a nearby cabinet. “Here’s a few to get you through the night.” He shoved them in his coat pocket, and she had serious doubts he’d take them even if he needed them.

  Not her business. She did all she could, and now, she was done. “I should’ve got your insurance information earlier, but…” He distracted her. “I forgot. Do you have insurance?”

  He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and placed five crisp one hundred-dollar bills into her palm. The town wasn’t rich. The only industry was in timber, an industry he didn’t work in. As far as she knew, Noah didn’t have any job. So, where did he get five hundred dollars, and why was it no big deal to hand it over. Again, not her business.

  She took two crisp hundred dollar bills out of the pile and handed the rest back to him. “Let me get your discharge papers and change. I’ll be right back.” She went to the front desk and had to reboot the computer. The ancient thing took eight minutes. She used that time to mop up the blood trailing from the front door to the desk. The discharge papers took another few minutes. “Okay, you’re all set,” she said as she rounded the corner to the clinical area and halted as Noah tossed a wad of bloody Clorox wipes into the trash. He’d cleaned up the mess he made when she took care of him.

  “You didn’t have to do that.” And was annoyed that he did because that meant she had to thank him. Good manners dictated that she do so. “But thank you.”

  “Least I could do since I stopped you from leaving.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to appear harmless, she guessed. On someone else that might’ve worked. Noah was too big, too muscular, too…everything. There was nothing harmless about Noah Kirby. Never was and never would be.

  She handed him the papers. “You’re free to go.”

  Favoring his injured leg, he limped past her but stopped. “Get your stuff. I’m walking you out.” He didn’t wait for her to tell him he didn’t have to. He limped to the exit.

  When a man wants to be a gentleman, let him. The words of her grandmother rang in her head. These days so few men understand what the word means. They didn’t have anyone to teach ‘em.

  “I don’t need you to be a gentleman. I’m perfectly fine taking myself home as I’ve been doing since I was allowed to walk home by myself.”

  His nostrils flared, and he held up his hands as if in surrender, but she wasn’t done. All professionalism went out the window. This opportunity had landed in her lap, and she’d be damned if she didn’t take it, especially when it may never come again. Everything she wanted to say and had buried for three long months clawed its way to the surface.

  “This isn’t you being a good guy, a gentleman. This is you being guilty, guilty about Kevin. I don’t want your guilt. Your guilt won’t bring my brother back from Afghanistan. Your guilt won’t make his death easier.” The rage in her heart had her stepping closer, getting in his face. She ignored the sadness in his eyes, and the wave of remorse tainting the air between them. She wouldn’t accept it, couldn’t, not if it meant releasing her righteous fury. Her brother was dead, and she was the only one that cared. The only one. “You can limp your sorry self out of here with your guilt shoved it up your ass.”

  Two

  Did he listen? Nope. He stood there, blocking the damn door. She couldn’t get past him if he decided not to move. Was she afraid? Nope. Anger did that to a person, made them ignore the obvious.

  “I didn’t come here to hurt you.” That neutral expression of his didn’t fool her.

  Kensley folded her hands across her chest. “Hurt me? Is that what you think has me bent? Not even close. You want to know what hurt me? Burying my twenty-five-year-old brother next to my mother. That’s what hurt me.” That and having only the honor guard and a few other people present at the funeral. Strangers to her. Her father, Mayor Walter Jacobs Jr., didn’t attend. Conveniently, he was out of town. Kevin
, the son of his ex-wife, didn’t get the Mayor’s presence even if the man gave the ultimate sacrifice for his country.

  Shit. Stop it. Just stop it. Now wasn’t the time to backslide into a bottomless well of crap she couldn’t fix. Not in front of Noah. Her purse went on her shoulder, followed by a deep breath to steady her racing heart. Her keys, along with those for the clinic, were in her pocket. She had them in her hand when she met him by the entrance. He held the door open, and she sailed past him into the snowy, frigid evening. The wind slapped her, and the cold leached all the way into her bones. Winter on Lake Erie wasn’t for the timid. Noah forced the door closed behind him and shielded her from the wind as she turned the key in the two locks.

  She paused to study the hard planes of his face and realized it was all a mask. The guilt was still there, mixed with pain that didn’t come from his bar fight. Beneath his stoic façade, the real story waited to be told. His story. She wanted to hear it, which surprised her and felt like a betrayal. He was alive to tell his story. Without another word, she braced against the wind and headed into the night.

  He blocked her. “I’m not letting you walk home in this.” Noah pointed to the silver Dodge Ram with the chained tires. The only vehicle in the parking lot. Really, how could she miss it? “Get in.”

  The warm, dry interior of the truck was inviting. “Letting me?” Kensley barked out a laugh, hunched her shoulders, tucked her chin to her chest, and planted one foot in front of the other. She headed into the brewing storm. Keep moving was all she had to do. Behind her, a truck rumbled to a start. She trudged on, even as tires crunched beneath the accumulating snow, and the truck drove parallel to her, the passenger window down.

  The idiot. Why couldn’t he get the message and go away? “You live in the opposite direction,” she shouted over the wind.

  “I’m making sure you get home,” he shouted back.

  Just when she wanted chivalry to be dead, it reared its useless head. Whatever. It was his gas and his waste of time. Free country. The quicker she got home, the quicker she could forget about him. She kept walking, and he kept driving next to her, both trudging along at two miles per hour.

  This wasn’t cute. This was flat out stalking, and she didn’t like it. Not at all. As quickly as her feet could carry her, she power walked the five blocks to her house, which sat on a corner lot in an older, not exactly safe, part of town. The house had belonged to her grandmother, who lived long enough to see her grandchildren graduate from high school, her grandson graduate from Marine boot camp, her granddaughter from nursing school, and long enough to see her grandson come home in a flag-draped coffin. She died a week after Kevin’s funeral.

  Three months ago, with winter knocking at the front door, her brother went into the ground. Her little brother, who she’d sworn to protect even though he had four inches on her and fifty pounds of muscle, was dead. He’d made the ultimate sacrifice for his country. Kensley had never been prouder, and more bitter.

  The cold stabbed her, right through the layers of her coat, sweater, scrubs, skin, muscle, down to her bones, into her marrow. Jesus H. She couldn’t wait to get home to her electric blanket and fireplace. She should’ve driven today but thought a little exercise would do her good. This was ridiculous. The Dodge Ram rumbled next to her. Enough of this bullshit. The only reason he cared was because of Kevin. Kensley hoped his guilt choked him.

  She took a short cut through the Johnson’s property. No fence made it easy to cross their backyard to the adjacent abandoned baseball park, the same park where Kevin played little league, losing her stalker. She came out half a block away from her home. That’ll show him to fuck with her. Chest puffed out even though her shoulders were hunched against the cold and the wind, she rounded the corner to her street the instant all the lights went out.

  Great. No power meant cold leftovers and no hot chocolate warming her belly. Regardless, the dark shadow of her home was right in front of her.

  Suddenly, something whizzed by her face, and glass shattered.

  Fuck! What just happened? Her knees shook from her near-death experience. Whatever had missed her was large. Squinting, the snow picked up, and she couldn’t see. She waded through the snowdrifts blocking the front of her house and across her lawn.

  Get home. Nothing beats the safety of being inside your own four walls.

  The snow cleared enough for her to glimpse a large broken tree limb lying half in, half out of the master bedroom window. Holy Crap! If that had hit her… She shoved the thought away. It hadn’t hit her. She was fine, and dwelling on what could’ve happened wouldn’t help her right now.

  A broken window during a snowstorm at the beginning of the night. No way would she be able to get any help until the morning.

  A broken window in this neighborhood. Crime didn’t stop because of the snow, and her home was a wounded animal ready for slaughter. As soon as the storm ended, the wolves would circle.

  Headlights washed over the landscape, diverting her attention from her damaged home. Noah’s truck plowed through the snowdrift and rolled onto her driveway. All thoughts of sending him away vanished.

  “We need to see how bad it is inside.” He beat her to the front door and waited for her to unlock it. He followed her as she threaded her way through the darkness to the master bedroom. “This your room?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “My grandmother’s. She passed a few months ago.”

  “My condolences.”

  “Thanks,” she muttered, touched by his words even if they were platitudes.

  Noah helped her push the door open, the gale-force wind on the other side didn’t want to admit them. With his help, they pried it open. She fumbled with her phone to find the flashlight app, then shined the light over the destruction. Tears welled. She’d kept the room neat and tidy, how her grandmother would’ve. Now it was ruined. Generations of family pictures, some black and white, and yellowed with age, some polaroid, were scattered all over the room, carried by the wind or the branches. Their shattered glass frames mixed with the glass from the window, debris, and snow.

  He swept passed her. “Do you have any tarp?” he asked, already moving knickknacks out of the way while she stared, dazed and numb. “Kensley, tarp, do you have any?” He handed over some pictures and started picking up the rest.

  “Umm.” Her brain had to reboot and do a quick inventory. “No. Unfortunately, I don’t.”

  “Okay. Get me a garbage bag, broom, hammer, and nails. Do you have those items?”

  She nodded and got busy gathering the items. By the time she returned to the bedroom, Noah was outside, pulling the tree limb free without any assistance, she noted. Without the limb, the snow and wind streamed through the opening. If she didn’t do something, everything in the room would be ruined. All the family pictures, important mementos, antiques that weren’t of any value to anyone outside of her little circle of one would be ruined.

  He returned inside and moved to the window. At some point, he’d removed his coat and sweater, leaving him in the sleeveless tee-shirt. “Get an old blanket, one you don’t mind ruining.” He took the hammer and nails out of her hand.

  Old blanket? All she had were the handmade quilts her grandmother had painstakingly crafted. They were works of art, and she couldn’t bear to part with a single one. She ran to her bedroom at the end of the hall and snatched the new comforter off her bed. “Use this.”

  In the process of removing the ripped blinds, he glanced at her. “You sure? It looks new.”

  “I’m sure.”

  He took the comforter and handed her the blinds. She dropped them in a corner and rushed to assist him as he draped the comforter over the window and pounded a few nails into it to keep it hanging.

  Rotating his left shoulder with a deep groan, he stepped back and studied his handiwork. “This will have to do until morning.” Pleased with himself. He started in on the glass and debris littering the room.

  Holding the garbage bag, she watched
him. Now that the crisis was over, and he was in her house, in her comfort zone, she couldn’t help herself. He moved with an economy of motion, no hesitation involved. He took over the entire situation without permission. He saw the problem and rushed in to help. She hadn’t needed him, not really. She would’ve figured out what to do on her own, eventually, after calling around and hearing, “Can’t help you till morning.” “Not coming out in this weather,” and barricading the bedroom and camping out in the living room, huddled next to the fireplace.

  “Thanks.”

  He paused, his gaze inscrutable. He probably had a lot to say to her, none of which she particularly wanted to hear except for one particular thing. “You’re welcome.” He continued picking up the glass.

  “You didn’t have to do this.” Especially with his injury. Why couldn’t she leave well enough alone? Because it was her nature, something her grandmother frequently pointed out.

  Noah took the garbage bag out of her hands. The harsh light from her phone beat the darkness back, yet his face remained shadowed. But he stared at her, the weight of his gaze registering like bricks on her chest. His lips thinned. He wanted to say something but held back. She had an idea what it could be and wavered between wanting to hear it and total denial.

  “I got this,” she said, opting for denial. He tied the bag. Their hands brushed, and she snatched away.

  He hefted the bag onto his shoulder and marched out of the room. He dropped it outside the front door, paused for a second to fish his phone out of his pocket, and turn on his flashlight app. He checked each window and the sliding glass door to the backyard, then moved past her to the bathroom at the end of the hallway, next, the guest bedroom, and lastly, her room. If he noticed the unmade bed and dirty clothes stacked in a corner, he kept it to himself. Wise man.