Finding Him

by Van Dyken, Rachel

  “Not for me, I had a coma . . . yay . . .” I said with all the dry humor in the world as I held her gaze.

  Keaton bit down on her lip and smiled. “A pancake truce it is.”

  “What? No insult about my brain injury?”

  “Your brain seems to be working just as good as your reflexes.” She winked. “And why would I insult the living when it’s a direct insult to those who are dead?”

  I sobered and looked away. “Good point.”

  “So . . .” She cleared her throat. “Why don’t I get changed, clean up the mess, and we can talk about what this truce entails, you know, since we’re stuck here for the unforeseeable future.”

  I had a vision then.

  Maybe it was a flash.

  Or just wishful thinking.

  I could stay.

  With her.

  In my family’s cabin.

  And shut out the rest of the world.

  It was insanity.

  And yet, it was tempting. Shutting the world away, pretending the pain didn’t exist, and being normal.

  For once in my life.

  Hell, I gathered firewood yesterday, and today I was making pancakes. If Bridge knew what I was doing he would have called the paramedics or worse, asked if I was on drugs.

  I smiled. And then I hesitated, not wanting this moment to be broken, whatever the truce meant, we seemed to do better when both of us dropped our guards. Sadly that’s something that people like her and me never did.

  Unless we were alone.

  Forced vulnerability was like staring down hell and then walking right through the flames.

  “Deal,” I found myself saying. “Go change, I’ll clean up the mess.”

  She sidestepped me and slowly wobbled down the hall to the master suite, where she’d deposited all her stuff. Last night I was ready to toss her suitcase out the door.

  This morning I was ready to hide it.

  Yeah, I was finally losing it.

  My mind.

  I knelt down and grabbed the two pieces of broken plate and the still-hot pancake and threw it all in the trash, then went back to the stove and attempted a second pancake.

  Apparently I was concentrating too hard because I didn’t hear her come back into the kitchen.

  “I think I need help,” came a grumble from behind me, causing me to jump a foot and spill batter all over the counter. “Is that your thing? Breaking things? Spilling? I’m not complaining, I mean at least it’s a flaw. I’ve been looking for one, you know, other than your stellar personality, for the last few hours . . .”

  “When you try your entire life to be perfect . . .” I sighed and then turned around to offer whatever assistance she needed and was suddenly grateful I wasn’t holding another plate. “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”

  Her glare said it all as she held a piece of fabric against her breasts. “I can’t get . . . something on, before the shirt.”

  “You got your pants on.”

  “They’re leggings! Hardly rocket science.”

  “And a T-shirt is?” I refused to look down, stared straight into her pretty eyes. “Why does it feel like you’re testing me?”

  “Doubt you’d pass even if I were.” Her cheeks pinked a bit before she exhaled, causing her lips to make a funny annoyed sound. “Look, I’m not going to walk around here without a bra on, it’s freezing and . . .”

  I grinned wide. “And?”

  “You’re an ass.”

  “I know.” I crossed my arms. “So I’m told on a daily basis.”

  “Lucky you,” she said sarcastically. “Pancake truce, you promised. I just need you to close your eyes really tight and help me get my sports bra over my head and down . . . just . . . down. My hands hurt, and they’re all wrapped up and swollen, and I tried at least a dozen times before I came out here, don’t make me beg.”

  My body jerked in response as I lazily drank in her irritation, and the way it was directed at me. Was I actually enjoying her anger?

  Maybe it was because she wasn’t scared of me.

  Maybe it was because she was genuine and insulting, and women typically didn’t treat me that way.

  Maybe it was because I enjoyed her scowl almost as much as I enjoyed her smile.

  Even Isobel used to paste a fake smile on her face around me.

  Not Keaton.

  No, Keaton just kept her claws out, never sheathed them, and found great joy in threatening me.

  “I’ll help,” I found myself saying. “No begging necessary.”

  She exhaled like she was relieved. “Thanks, here.”

  I frowned as she handed me a black polka-dotted sports bra that had seen better days. “What’s this?”

  “What’s it look like?” Her voice wobbled in disbelief. “It’s my bra!”

  “It has a hole!” I pointed with my finger. “You could buy a billion sports bras and you wear this?”

  “It’s comfortable.”

  “So is being naked, but you don’t see me walking around with my cock hanging out.”

  “Awww.” She patted me on the shoulder. “Got a bit of a problem, Tennyson?”

  “Are you insinuating that I have a limp dick?”

  “Hey, I’m just here for moral support. If you need to talk, by all means, talk, just do it while helping me get dressed. Then again, it’s good to know I’m not in danger of arousing any excitement out of you . . .”

  “Too late for that,” I said before thinking.

  Her mouth shut tight.

  I cursed myself to hell. “Turn around so I’m not tempted.”

  She did a slow circle and dropped her hands to her side. One had the shirt balled in it, the other was empty.

  I stared at the bra in my hands.

  And then burst out laughing.

  “I swear I’m grabbing that knife if you’re still making fun of my old ratty bra!”

  “No.” When was the last time I actually laughed like that? “It’s not the bra . . . well, I mean it is, but it’s a sports bra. My brain misfired looking for hooks, and then I realized that I’d never in all my life taken a sports bra off someone or put it back on . . . I, uh, got confused.”

  “It’s not a complicated math problem. Just put it over my head.”

  “Which side does the hole go on?”

  “You’re the annoying twin, aren’t you?”

  I narrowed my eyes at the back of her head. “Actually, I’m the charming one.”

  She looked over her shoulder. “Hmm, can’t see it.”

  “Don’t force a demonstration you’ll enjoy too much.” I winked.

  Her lips parted on a gasp as she turned back around and stiffened. “So, let’s talk about your ED. When was the first time—”

  I jerked her against me, my lips near her ear, barely a whisper away from the skin on her neck. “You don’t get to talk about my dick like it doesn’t exist. It would be like talking about this.” I placed my right hand on her hip and moved it up her skin, my fingers dancing along her ribs until they rested right below her breasts. “And not telling you how very beautiful I find it, not just your skin, but the way it flushes when you get angry or aroused, not that I would know, since you’ve already rendered me sexless . . .” Her skin broke out in goose bumps. “Now, stand still so I can help you.”

  She nodded, swaying back against me.

  And I wished things were different.

  That she wasn’t mourning a man I would never compare to or even try to compete with.

  That I wasn’t mourning a mother I didn’t get enough time with, or a life that I no longer recognized.

  I wished it was just us.

  In that cabin.

  Perfect strangers.

  Acting on something that felt a hell of a lot better than grief ever did.

  Slowly, I lifted the bra over her head and helped her roll it down her body until it was tight against her skin, and then I grabbed the T-shirt from her hands and did the same thing.

  Neit
her of us moved.

  Neither of us spoke.

  The air felt thick with something that neither of us acknowledged out loud.

  I could hear her soft exhale as she slowly turned and faced me. “I won’t make fun of you again, but you can’t . . .” Her face was pale. “You can’t touch me, promise me you won’t touch me and we’ll be civil . . .”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Wrong word.”

  “Pardon?”

  I tucked her hair behind her ear. “You said touch, what you meant was promise you won’t tempt me. Don’t worry, princess, those days ended the minute I woke up from that coma.”

  “What do you mean?” Her eyes rested on my mouth then blinked back up at me.

  I grinned. “I’m taking a break from women, which of course means you have my scout’s honor I won’t seduce you.”

  She sighed. “Yeah. Good. Great. We should eat.” She hurried into the kitchen and grabbed a plate.

  “Though . . . offer’s on the table, I’ve never had anyone try seducing me, so fair warning, I wouldn’t say no.”

  The plate shook in her hands as she set it down. “That’s not funny.”

  “I’m not laughing.” I pulled out a chair. “Now, let’s talk about your hands and the book that you clearly can’t write.”

  When she turned, tears glistened in her eyes. “I’m screwed.”

  “Lucky for you”—yup, insane, I’d gone insane—“I type fast.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll write it.”

  And in that moment I knew I would write this stranger’s ending, and I would help her find closure.

  Even though I knew I never would.

  Maybe it was my penance.

  Maybe it was my mom sending me one last way to make up for my mistakes.

  But I knew, clear as day. My job was to help her.

  And maybe, just maybe, by doing that, I would earn a bit of myself back. If I stopped her hurt—maybe I’d stop bleeding.

  Chapter Eleven

  KEATON

  “You don’t know me,” I said dumbly. “Why would you help?”

  “Penance for my sins.” He didn’t smile, just stared at me like his idea wasn’t completely crazy. Not only would it mean I would have to actually relive the story and tell it to him, but he’d be writing down my every personal failure and triumph over the last year and a half.

  Things I hadn’t even told my parents. My mom was my best friend and I hadn’t even confessed all of the details to her. I didn’t have any close friends because too many people had tried to become my friend because of who I was, and I knew they would turn on me the minute I was no longer useful. I didn’t let people get close to me for a reason; I was afraid to trust them with things that mattered.

  And there were things, so many things.

  Things I hadn’t even admitted to myself.

  And he would be typing them.

  With his hands.

  I sat at the table without my pancake as tears filled my eyes. “I could always get some voice software once I’m back in the city.” I was bluffing, the last thing I wanted to do was say everything out loud. I had been told that writing would be cathartic.

  Saying it felt more real than writing it.

  And I was already struggling with writing.

  “No, you won’t,” he said smoothly, leaning his muscled forearms against the table as his dark hair glistened. How did he get it to look so healthy? Thick? And why was I focusing on his hair at a time like this! “Besides, if you haven’t noticed, we’re stuck here until help comes or until I’m able to call someone, my cell still isn’t working, and let’s not forget the angry elk that tried to take your life last night.”

  I felt sick to my stomach as I tried to suck in more air. “You’re right, I just . . . I don’t know if I can do it. Writing it was hard enough.”

  He frowned. “Well, how much do you have?”

  I laughed because it was so ridiculous. “Oh, you know . . . the title.”

  “Progress.” He winked, was he teasing me? His smile was bright and perfect as he stared at me across the table. “Care to share what it is?”

  “It’s a working title,” I clarified.

  “Now we aren’t even sure we have a title?”

  “Me, not we, there is no we.”

  “There is now.” There was that damn sexy smile again. Had he been born with it or was it practiced in front of a mirror seventy times before he went into board meetings? “Why are you staring at me like that?”

  I leaned back in my chair. “Like what?”

  “Like you’re trying to figure me out.” He tilted his head. “Won’t work, trust me. What’s the title?”

  I sighed. Arguing with him was like being stuck in a maze—no matter how many times I thought I found an exit out of the conversation he trapped me again, damn it. He must be hell to live with or negotiate with. “Losing Him.”

  I said it quietly, then I waited for his reaction.

  He lowered his head, smile vanishing. “I wonder . . . what it would be like to be missed that much.”

  “People would miss you, Julian.”

  “The thing about being in a coma,” he said, completely ignoring me, “is that you’re not dead, but you’re not moving in any direction either. The world doesn’t stop just because your body does. And when you wake up, you realize that the world is the same place without you in it, better in some ways you couldn’t have expected or accounted for. Most people wake up thankful they’re still living, they don’t wake up and wonder if it would matter if they were dead.”

  I couldn’t speak.

  So I reached across the table with my bandaged right hand. “Only someone who hasn’t been told what great value they have would say that. Either you’re incredibly stupid, incredibly selfish—”

  “Both,” he interjected. “At times I think I’m just a little bit both, not for lack of trying to step outside my own world.”

  “You’re not stupid,” I said lamely.

  He just looked up at me, eyes empty. “I had a woman who loved me, who would do anything for me, and it still wasn’t enough. Yes. I’m stupid, very stupid. It would be a disservice to this new friendship of ours to say otherwise.”

  “Friendship?”

  “Well, we are writing a book now . . . though I’ll of course give you all the credit, just say something like ‘to my pancake-making friend, you know who you are,’ in your acknowledgments.”

  I laughed, thankful for the change of subject. They were dark, the thoughts his mind had, and I didn’t know him well enough to make him feel better about the world he lived in, or his place in it.

  And the last thing I wanted to do was lie.

  “I don’t have a choice, do I?” I could practically feel my heart sinking into my stomach at the thought of telling him personal things, things that he would know and write down. And then I felt like an idiot for letting it affect me like that, because soon the world would know it all anyway, so what’s the harm in one person knowing before everyone else? Especially if it meant I could get it done faster?

  “Not really, no. Plus, I’m not used to being bored, and I’m not one of those people that can just meditate in front of the fireplace and think deep thoughts without wanting to run my head through a wall, so this will be a nice distraction . . .”

  “Ah yes, because depressing stories without happy endings are always the way to go when you’re snowed in and possibly suffering from frostbite.” I snorted.

  “Just because you type the end to one story doesn’t mean you don’t get to start another,” he said wisely as he stood and made his way back to the stove. “How much syrup do you want?”

  Stunned, I stared at his muscled back. How did someone so wise at times put such a lack of value on his own life? Like he was easily replaceable, when the man I was getting to know was unlike any man I’d ever known.

  “Keaton?”

  “Sorry,” I sputtered. “Lots of syrup.”

  “
She likes sweet things,” he commented.

  And stupidly the first thoughts that entered my mind were about his smile . . . and then his lips.

  Great. Just. Great.

  Chapter Twelve

  JULIAN

  We ate in silence. Her demeanor had changed enough for me to take notice, when I really wished I wouldn’t take notice—of anything.

  I hated that I normally made a decision about a person within the first few seconds of meeting them. And Keaton? I’d thrown her into the spoiled brat and wannabe Instagram-famous category before she even opened her mouth.

  And then quickly transferred her into possibly murderous when she pointed the knife at me.

  Now? Now I was noticing something that made me want to look the other way, as if she needed privacy and I was intruding. Privacy to feel, privacy to mourn, to think, to believe the simple lie that there was something she could have done to prevent the death.

  The deafening silence of the cabin, of the snow outside, along with the cold, hard reality that we weren’t going anywhere anytime soon, had me doing something out of character like reflecting and letting the universe do its thing. God knows I’d spent my entire life trying to manage everything.

  And now I was stuck.

  Stranded.

  And feeling too many things, and watching every single emotion cross her face like I was looking in a mirror, watching my own emotions, experiencing them on repeat while she talked.

  “These weren’t bad.” Keaton offered me a smile as she stood and tried to lift her plate only to stare at it like its shape was offensive.

  “I’ve got dishes.” I quickly grabbed her plate and mine and went to deposit them in the sink. “You go get your laptop.”

  “But—”

  “Any better ideas? I mean we could play cards or get naked again if that’s your preference?” It was a joke. Kind of. Not really. And even if it was, not very funny, and done in poor taste. It was the insanity rearing its ugly head again.

  At least the idea of us being naked was distasteful enough for her to stomp over to the couch, manage to grab her laptop lightly between her bandaged hands, and sit.

  I wasn’t sure if I was disappointed or offended; then again, one of us needed to keep a clear head, and since mine was still recovering from a month-long coma right along with a broken heart, she wasn’t a bad choice in being the rational one.