Both Sides Now

by Barbara Ferrer

  “Aren’t you afraid of getting sick?” But I took the bottle anyway, sucking down several deep gulps.

  “Really, Nick?” Her voice was still slightly raspy, even after the water. Maybe it was just the way she sounded first thing in the morning. If it was morning. It was still pretty dark in the room.

  “Okay, really fucking stupid question. Sorry.” I took another drink and handed the bottle back, feeling the subtle movements of her body against mine as she drained what was left and dropped the empty bottle over the side of the bed. A move that made me smile. Libby being careless—about anything—seemed so out of character.

  “No need.” With a sigh she turned, shifting to her back, but stayed close. Thank God. She seemed to still need this as much as I did. Whatever this was, because hell if I knew.

  We both could’ve drifted back off; by now I’d seen the clock and knew that it was only just past four thirty. I closed my eyes—tried to will my breathing into a steady rhythm. Maybe even succeeded for a few seconds.

  “It’s all been a lie, Libby.” I blinked up at the ceiling, my arm tensing across her waist. “I’m trying so fucking hard to see it her way, to understand as much as I can. And every time I think I’m getting better at it, that I’m actually doing what she wants, it turns out to be some goddamn illusion.”

  “It’s her reality. The way she sees things now. You have to adapt and respect it.”

  I couldn’t see much of her face in the near dark, but I didn’t need to. Her voice said it all, dropping into that harsh tone I’d only heard once before—at Ray’s funeral when she’d said we were allowed to be angry. Maybe we had to adapt and respect it, but we were allowed to be angry, too. What a fucking tightrope.

  “How do you and Ethan make it work?” I was all of a sudden desperate to know because I could see, could tell from what Libby had told me, from that gentle, loving expression on her face every time she said his name that they had whatever it was that Kath and I were missing. They’d figured it out. I needed to figure it out before I completely lost my mind.

  “Mostly we talk.”

  Kath and I had talked too. All the time. About the big things, at any rate. Careers. Marriage. Kids. Houses and cars and trips and our future and how fantastic it was all going to be, because we were together. Until cancer came along and became the elephant in the corner that we somehow couldn’t seem to talk about. At least not without big, traumatic blow ups. Somehow, I didn’t think dramatic scenes were how Libby and Ethan dealt.

  “But…” She played with the edges of my sleeve, her fingertips brushing against my bicep. “I can’t lie to you, Nick. It’s getting harder. He’s not…talking as much.”

  My arm tightened on her waist as her fingers curled into my arm, nails digging into my skin.

  “You know, given our beginnings, how he tried to force me to see things he thought were so horrible, to face up to reality, it’s ironic how hard he’s trying to protect me now. Thinks that by keeping me away from what he imagines is the worst of it, that it somehow makes things easier.” Each word was soft, gentle, and so close to the verge of tears that my own throat closed tight in sympathy.

  “The one thing that man has never seemed to get is that I see the worst of it every single day, when I see how he fights to keep living. And that it’s for me.”

  That’s when I felt the front of my T-shirt start to get damp. This crying though—it wasn’t like the first time. That had been violent and harsh—the release of a tremendous load of pent up anger. By contrast, this was just soft, steady and incredibly heartbreaking, with the occasional sniffled, “I’m supposed to be taking care of you.”

  Oye pero qué mula. And she accused me of having a hard head.

  “Shh…it’s okay. You are taking care of me.” Same thing I’d said to her last night. “Letting me do this helps more than you’ll ever know.” Wasn’t just saying it as some placating bullshit either. Holding Libby, being a safe place for her, did something to smooth over all those raw, angry places inside. The ones that had had me skating myself into oblivion every night for the last week. Except somewhere during that week, I’d realized the ice couldn’t bring me that kind of solace anymore. But with no other alternative, I'd simply kept skating—kept searching for it.

  Now, however…

  As Libby had for me, I kissed her forehead, smoothed back her hair. Waited for her to take a deep breath and roll over so that her back was curved into my body, adjusting until she was comfortable and finally fell asleep, her hand resting over mine.

  “You are taking care of me, Libby.”

  • • •

  Kath never once questioned why I hadn’t gone to see her in the hospital those couple of days, although she surprised me by asking if I felt better. And other than saying, yeah, I did, didn't offer anything more in the way of explanation. I figured if she knew enough to ask how I was feeling, then someone had probably let her in on how sick I was and that I’d been advised to stay away.

  News that probably came as a relief to her.

  To me, too, and if that made me a bastard, at least it made me an honest bastard.

  The most amazing thing? Those surreal couple of days, being so sick, losing track of time—or rather, having time marked only by when I was with Libby and when I wasn’t—accomplished the unimaginable. Finally, after so many months, I was able to deal. I mean, really, honestly cope, not just feel like I was hanging on by a fraying rope. Any time I felt like I was on the edge of losing my shit, I’d back into my office and close the door. There, in the half dark, I would recall the image of Libby handing me the bag of supplies she’d bought, looking like an anxious schoolgirl. Could feel her curved back against me, whispering how this was what she’d missed most, nearly breaking my heart in the process. Any one of the memories from those few days was enough to bring back the sensation of smoothing over the angry, raw places. Allowed me to calm down and give Kath her space.

  Which wasn’t to say that I still didn’t want to help—to be there for Kath. But she didn’t want me. Didn’t trust me. Every look she sent me made that perfectly clear.

  Not such a big surprise then, that the next time we went down to Miami, I found myself desperately hoping Libby would be there.

  Definitely not a surprise the relief I felt when I saw the silver Volvo in the parking lot at Las Palmas or when I read the text message on my phone, that said if I wanted to go out to dinner to call her.

  And that after I said good night to her and went to my room and showered, I found myself knocking at her door and, God help me, even less of a surprise that I found her waiting.

  It should’ve been shocking how easy it was to fall asleep with Libby in my arms. And it was. Superseding shock, however, was the sense of security, the warmth and comfort that came from holding her, drifting off with her body against mine, my hand on her stomach, hers resting over mine as if to hold it in place. And draped over all of that like a blanket was the sheer relief that it was exactly how I’d remembered and not some messed up byproduct from how sick I’d been.

  Weird, then, that I would have any desire to move away from her at any point. But blinking into the dark, having just jerked awake, I tried to figure out how I could do just that. Discreetly slide away—just for a few minutes. Hoping like hell she was still asleep. After all—I reached back behind myself, fumbling for my watch, and squinting until the gently glowing numbers sharpened into focus—it was one in the morning. I knew she was exhausted. We were both perpetually exhausted. Sighing, I dropped the watch back to the nightstand. I really didn’t want to move away from her. I just wanted to pull her closer and go back to sleep. Unfortunately, no way that was happening.

  “It’s okay, Nick.”

  Every muscle from my gut all the way up felt tight. Hell, even my scalp was tense. “I’m…sorry.”

  I’m sorry? Jesus.

  “It’s just a natural reaction.”

  Yeah. It was. But completely inappropriate. I untangled my legs from hers,
slid back just far enough so there was some actual breathing room between our hips. My dick didn’t care about appropriate; even as I shifted, it strained at the seams of my briefs, trying to recapture Libby’s warmth. Man, I sympathized. I hated moving away, even that little bit.

  “I should go take a shower or—something.” Probably the shower and something.

  “Nick.” She rolled over, lifting one hand to my cheek. It was still too dark for me to completely make out her features, but that was okay. I didn't need to see her to know she was smiling. Glad one of us found this funny. “Just because it’s not as readily obvious, doesn’t mean I’m not—”

  She stopped short, her head lowering.

  “What?”

  Her breath was soft on my neck as she sighed, then finally said, “It doesn’t mean I’m not reacting the same…way. I mean, we’re human and well—" Her voice lowered further. "It’s been such a long time."

  No. No way. This wasn’t going to happen. I would not let her feel embarrassed or humiliated by something so basic. I wouldn’t be embarrassed. And I definitely wouldn’t allow this to become a barrier, keeping us from what we both really needed. That strange, unnamable thing that had had me asking her to stay that first night. That had me knocking at her door and her waiting for me each subsequent night we’d been around each other.

  No way. Nothing was going to get in the way of that because we both needed it.

  “Hey.”

  “What?”

  I put my hands on her cheeks and gently tilted her head up, imagining that even through the dark I was looking into her eyes—that she could see into mine.

  “You’re right. We’re human—and I’m a guy. I’d have to be dead not to react.”

  The corner of her mouth curved up beneath my thumb. “Definitely not dead,” she teased, although her voice was low and breathless and had my groin tightening painfully.

  “Libby…” How the hell was it that I’d wound up with my forehead against hers? My mouth so close I could swear I was feeling the brush of her skin against mine.

  “You’d better go take that shower.”

  Yeah. No kidding. A damn cold one because I had this strange feeling that a soapy hand really wasn’t going to do a thing to take this new—this completely unexpected—edge off. And if I was completely honest, too, a not completely unwelcome edge, either.

  Libby had reopened that part of my nature that was about desire. That loved being close to a woman and engaging in the small physical intimacies that naturally led to emotional closeness and that I’d had to shut down tight because Kath simply couldn’t handle it right now. And because the constant rejection—not just of the sexual part of the equation, but of all of it—had come close to driving me insane. Then again, so had shutting it down.

  That I could openly admit to desire—without judgment or anger or accusations being tossed at me? That instead of making me feel guilt, Libby had felt safe enough to admit to feeling that same desire?

  It was the best gift I could've ever received.

  Maybe I wasn’t the most intuitive guy around, but I had to think it was because she knew I’d never take advantage. That this wasn’t necessarily about the physical. Admittedly, my dick was still hard as a rock, but otherwise, it was enough to have had the acknowledgment—and the trust. No doubt, Libby’s unconditional acceptance and understanding left me feeling like a weight had been lifted off my chest, but that beautiful trust? That trust let me feel like a man again.

  We hardly slept the rest of that night. We just lay in bed and talked. Neither of us seemed particularly sleepy anymore—or maybe it was just self-preservation kicking in. Besides, I simply liked talking with Libby. As much as the physical closeness, I’d missed the particular intimacy that came from lying in a dark room, sharing anything and everything that came to mind. In the dark, nothing ever seemed too stupid or too off-limits.

  She told me some more about Ethan and about growing up with Nora in the Keys, but mostly, she let me talk. I couldn’t believe how much I talked. About Kath and our relationship. Its origins. Its tremendous ups and downs, most of the latter having to do with my desire to pursue pro hockey and her utter lack of desire to be seen as the arm candy on a jock’s arm.

  “Pneumonia kicked the career plans in the ass, however. Landed me in the hospital a few times, hanging out in oxygen tents—so I retired. And Kath came back.”

  Beside me, Libby had tensed. Too late, I realized what would have prompted that reaction.

  “Hey, I am okay now.”

  “I know. Sorry.”

  “Why? Because you care? Don’t you ever apologize for that, Libby. Not too many people care the way you do.”

  There was a long beat of silence between us—so long, I wondered if she’d drifted off to sleep. Wouldn’t be a surprise, seeing as it was already past five.

  “In general or about you?”

  It came out barely above a whisper—almost as if she was testing to see if I was still awake. If I wasn’t, it would simply get lost in darkness surrounding us in this hotel room on a long December night, and I knew she’d never ask it again.

  “Both.” My heart beat faster. Because with that one word I was letting her further in—allowing her to see more of me than almost anyone else in the world ever had.

  “She always packed for you, Nick.”

  “I know.” And I understood what Libby was saying and accepted it for the truth that it was.

  “She’ll come back again.”

  “Maybe.”

  Her stomach rose and fell beneath my arm. “Yeah.”

  That one word made me pull her even closer and squeeze the hand I still held. Libby was an optimist, but she wasn’t a fool, and she wasn’t a liar.

  Thank God.

  Libby

  December 18

  “Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere.”

  I tried to tug my hand free from Nick’s, tried to dig my heels into the hall carpet, but damn hockey jock that he was, he was strong, and he’d recovered well from his illness. Entirely too well, all that energy and good health radiating from him and exhausting me simply with its proximity. It was like wrestling with a Newfoundland.

  “Nick, dammit, what’s up?”

  He stopped and turned so fast, I stumbled, trying not to run into his chest. His free hand catching my upper arm and steadying me, he asked, “Do you trust me?”

  “What?” I looked up into his eyes, oddly tempted to brush my fingers along the faint dark circles beneath that were the only leftovers of his illness.

  “Do you trust me?” he repeated, both hands now grasping mine, his brows drawn together.

  “Of course.” Stupid question, I almost added, but caught myself at the deep sigh that met my answer. No. Not stupid question. Not for him.

  “There’s just something I want to show you—someone I want you to meet.”

  “But if they call—”

  “They’ll call your cell and we’re not going to be so far we can’t come right back, and, honestly Libby, when was the last time they called and told you he wanted you to come back?”

  Jerking my hands free, I spun away and stalked back toward my room.

  “Libby!”

  My hand shaking, I tried to jerk my key card through the slot.

  “Libby.”

  Finally it went, the click and accompanying green light leaving me grateful to the point of tears. Unfortunately, Nick didn’t exactly take the hint and went ahead and followed me into my room. Blockheaded, stubborn Cuban…pendejo. Didn’t he know I really, really wanted to be alone right now?

  Of course he did. Would it matter?

  Really, really wouldn’t.

  Damn him.

  At least he had the sense not to lay so much as one comforting finger on me.

  “Libby, por favor, I didn’t say it to upset you. I just—” His breath whooshed out in one harsh gust. “Look, I’m sorry, I guess I said it in the worst possible way.” He sighed agai
n and shoved both hands through his hair, leaving it sticking up in unruly spikes.

  My arms crossed over my stomach, I turned to stare out the window and down at Alton Road, busy as always, especially on this clear, sunny day, cars streaming along on their way to and from the beach or holiday shopping. I kept my gaze focused on the scene outside, refusing to look into the reflection to acknowledge him, not that it mattered. I could sense him coming up behind me, still not touching, at least not directly, although, I felt one hand gently stroking down the length of my braid.

  “Were you honestly planning on going back to the hospital?”

  My head dropped, exchanging the street view for the painted wood of the windowsill. Bracing one hand on the sill, my fingers worried a tiny paint bubble until it split, a thin layer of eggshell white peeling back beneath the edge of one nail, exposing the pale blue the frame had been painted in some other lifetime.

  “No.”

  “Neither was I.”

  I knew that. Nan had told me, and I’d seen some of it for myself, how he’d fallen in the habit of lingering for a bit in the waiting room, talking to Marco, to all the duty nurses, assuring himself Kath was okay. He’d call the nurses’ station every couple of hours once he left the hospital, check his cell for any messages, but otherwise, he was leaving her alone. He’d confessed it wasn’t that much different at home since she had a home nurse taking care of anything she couldn’t do herself and that it was the nurse he asked for updates. And he was hurting and relieved and guilty all at the same time to not have to be dealing with the constant tension of interacting with Kath too directly. All he could do, he said, was watch and take his cues from her.

  Likened it to walking a tightrope.

  “Look, there’s somewhere I usually go on the Wednesdays I’m down here, and I want to share it—with you.” Then he asked once more, “Do you trust me?”