by Tracy Wolff
Which sounds nuts, I know, but I’ve spent ten years being that cancer girl. So not conducive to getting kissed, let alone getting laid. And having wild monkey sex against the wall in a semipublic place? It’s certainly never been on the table before—and probably never will be again.
It’s a depressing thought. Because while it’s crazy for me to think about having any kind of sex with a guy I just met—a guy like Ash who would normally never even notice me—I can’t help thinking it’d also be awesome. I wouldn’t even care that he was just using me—hell, I’d be using him right back.
I mean, I’ve been kissed exactly twice in my life—both of them pity kisses from boys my mom roped into taking me on a date back when I was bald and still undergoing chemo. Nice, right? Not pathetic at all, especially considering the fact that I’m nineteen years old.
Yes, I definitely should have taken Ash up on his offer.
Then again, if I had, I probably wouldn’t be talking to his manager about Timmy’s Make-A-Wish right now. From what I understand, guys aren’t big on talking to their one-storage-room stands after the deed is done.
“Miss Hampton? Are you still there?”
Oh, shit! “Yes, of course, Mr. Montgomery. I’m definitely here. Sorry, you were cutting out a little but it’s better now.”
“Oh, um, good. Anyway, I was saying that that sounds great. But you should probably deal with me until we get all the details finalized, if that’s okay? Ash has a lot going on right now.”
“Right, of course.” I ignore the little niggle of disappointment that comes from knowing I won’t be talking to Ash anytime soon. Then again, that’s probably a good thing. Throwing myself at him when he’s doing me this big favor would so not be okay. “If you give me your email address, I’ll send you the dates as soon as I’ve got them and we can go from there.”
“That sounds great.” I can hear obvious relief in Alan Montgomery’s voice and for a second, it seems a little strange. But then he’s rattling off his email address and I’m too busy scrambling for a pen to worry about the nuances of the conversation.
We hang up a couple minutes later, and I can’t help it. I bound out of my car and do a little happy dance, right there in the middle of the parking lot.
Timmy’s going to get his Make-A-Wish!
My first solo assignment is a success!
I get to see Ash again!
Wait—that last thought is so not appropriate. I shove it out of my mind (or at least I try to) and concentrate on the fact that I’m not a failure, after all. I didn’t let Timmy down. He’s going to get his wish before he dies. That’s the important thing here. That’s the only reason I have to be happy that Ash agreed.
When my happy dance is done—and yes, it takes a couple of minutes because I really am that excited—I reach into my car and grab my purse before heading into the office at close to a dead run. Suddenly, I have a lot of work to do today.
Holy shit.
I stare at the certified letter in front of me in a kind of wide-eyed shock. I read it over two more times, mostly to make sure I’m not hallucinating.
I’m not. The words are still there.
Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!
It’s from a local Salt Lake City attorney informing me that an anonymous donor wants to pay for Timmy’s Make-A-Wish trip. Only he—or she—doesn’t want Timmy to settle for ski camp in Oregon. Oh, no, this donor wants to pay to fly Ash, Timmy’s family, a home health care nurse and me—by private plane—to Arpa, Chile, so that Timmy can have a real, eight-day snowboarding experience.
There’s a breakdown of costs, along with a check made out to the Make-A-Wish foundation that covers all expenses except the private plane, which he explains the donor will provide, plus an extra twenty thousand dollars for incidentals or additional healthcare needs—with more available, if needed.
What kind of incidentals cost twenty thousand dollars? is the first thing that occurs to me. And the second is, Who goes out of their way to do something like this and then doesn’t even claim credit? It makes no sense, and yet the letter is right here in black-and-white. And so is the check. Well, black-and-green, but still. It’s right here, in my hands.
I don’t even know if what this person is requesting is possible. Chile is half a world away—obviously, or there wouldn’t be snow there in July—and I’m not sure it would be safe for Timmy to travel that far. But the donor is willing to pay for a nurse, any necessary medical equipment, whatever Timmy needs …
The possibilities get to me for a second—the unmitigated kindness of someone who just wants to help—and I have to blink the tears back. I’m not a crier normally (had to give that up years ago when the cancer kept coming back) but this … this is something special. And even if it doesn’t work out, even if Timmy’s doctors say there’s no way for him to travel that far … it doesn’t matter. Because someone thought to do this. Someone cared enough to give Timmy an opportunity like this.
It boggles my mind.
Not sure what else to do, I bound down the hall to my boss’s office. Show her the letter and the check. Then, with her approval—she’s less shocked than I am, as things like this have been known to happen before—I roll up my sleeves and get to work.
There are about a million things I have to do to make sure this happens for Timmy, not the least of which is convince Ash that an eight-day trip is even better than a three-day one.
Chapter 5
Ash
It’s been another shit day in a week of shit days.
Work’s been crazy, Logan still isn’t talking to me in anything but monosyllables, and Z and Ophelia—along with Luc and Cam—have taken it upon themselves to drive me crazy about that stupid Make-A-Wish thing about a million times a day. I’ve explained to them all the reasons I can’t do it, told them that there’s no way I’m leaving Logan alone for three days even if they all offer to be here watching him at the same time. He’s my brother, my responsibility.
It just isn’t going to happen, no matter how many times they bug me about it.
I let myself into the house, hoping that a miracle will have happened since this morning and Logan will have had a personality transplant—or at least memory loss about our last real conversation. I’ve done everything I can to talk to him about what he overheard between me and Z, but he isn’t giving an inch. Won’t talk to me about it, won’t talk to me about anything else. Hell, he’ll barely look at me even when I put myself directly in his path and make it impossible for him not to see me.
It’s making me crazy, which—of course—is exactly why he’s doing it. If nothing else, this experience has given me a whole new sympathy for parents everywhere. I don’t know how my own did the whole parenting thing as well as they did, especially considering the trouble Z, Luc, Cam and I got into in high school. Obviously, they had more talent at this than I do.
The second I walk into the kitchen and see Logan making dinner with Sarah, I can tell I’m in for another evening of the same-old, same-old. He’s all lit up, talking excitedly to her about the new video game I bought him as a bribe to talk to me, but the second he lays eyes on me he shuts down. Goes all silent and surly and I swear it makes me want to pull out every hair on my head. Or his head, I’m not sure which at this point.
Sarah smiles at me sympathetically, right before she slides a casserole into the oven. “Dinner will be ready in half an hour,” she tells me as she grabs her bag from the hook near the back door. “You should make a salad to go with it.”
“Yeah, okay.” I rub the back of my neck, trying to alleviate the stress headache that’s been brewing there all day. “How did everything go today?”
“Fine,” Logan tells me in that snide voice that makes my head want to spin around. Where’s a bucket of pea soup when you need it?
“It went well,” Sarah answers after a second. “Logan’s doing really well in physical therapy. We got him in the pool today and he swam six lengths. His therapist was thrilled
.”
“That’s amazing, man!” I tell him with what I hope is an encouraging smile. I already knew about his progress—his therapist called to tell me after the session—but I don’t want to take anything away from this moment. He’s already come so far, considering the fact that he had a broken arm and dislocated shoulder from the accident as well as the spinal injury. It’s been a long road to get Logan to this spot and he deserves all the credit.
He rolls his eyes at me.
“Well, I’ll see you on Thursday,” Sarah tells me. “Enjoy your day off tomorrow!”
Yeah, right. Something tells me Logan is going to make that next to impossible.
After Sarah leaves, I’m left alone with a grumpy-ass Logan and a pile of dirty dishes. Deciding the dishes are easier to tackle than my brother at the moment, I head to the sink. Logan doesn’t leave as I start to run the water, instead choosing to stick around and glare at my back, and I decide to take that as an encouraging sign. The last few days he’s done everything he can to avoid me, so this has to be progress. Right?
“How did you feel about therapy today?” I ask as I fill the sink with soap and hot water. “That’s pretty awesome, about the swimming.”
“It’s no big deal,” he says grudgingly. “I used to be able to do a ton more laps than that.”
The unspoken end of that sentence—before the accident—lays between us like dead weight. It pulls us down and as the familiar guilt threatens to smother me, I wish I could come up with a way to talk to him. Wish I could find the words to make things between us okay.
But how can anything be okay when Logan is injured, paralyzed, because of me? Because of my dream? It can’t be. Not when my dream stole Logan’s so completely. Not when it stole my parents’ lives and ripped my whole damn family apart.
I clear my throat, try again. “Still, it’s really good, right? Brad says you’re doing great.”
“It’s not snowboarding, but it’s okay, I guess. For a cripple.”
I clench my fists, refusing to let him push my buttons. It’s hard, though, when he knows all the right ones to poke at.
“So, what’d you do today? Besides PT, I mean.”
He groans. “Really? Is this the small-talk part of the evening, then?”
“Come on, Logan. I’m trying here.” I turn to face him, but he’s already spinning away.
“Do you want an award for that?” he asks as he rolls through the kitchen and down the hall. “Ash Lewis, for trying. It can go right up there next to my award for swimming six lousy lengths of the pool.”
I tell myself I should let him go, that he’s got every right to be a pissed-off little shit, but I’m slamming the faucet closed and taking off after him before I even make the conscious decision to do so.
“You don’t get to just walk away from me when I’m trying to talk to you!” I tell him as I trail him down the hallway.
“News flash, loser. I’m not walking anywhere.”
Fuck. “Okay, that was a lousy choice of words.”
He snorts. “No shit, Sherlock.”
I break into a jog, get in front of him to break his forward momentum. “Can we talk about this?”
“Talk about what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. The weather, maybe? Or how about the fact that you’ve been a total jackass to me for the last five days?”
“I’m sorry, is the cripple not living up to your expectations?”
“Will you stop calling yourself that!”
“Will you stop treating me like one if I do?”
“I have never—”
“That’s bullshit and you know it. You gave up snowboarding, got that crappy job at the resort—”
“That crappy job comes with benefits, which—in case you haven’t noticed—are pretty damn important right now. Unless you want me to go through all the life insurance money at once.”
“You made a lot more boarding and you know it. Even without insurance benefits, we’d be better off.”
I force a calmness into my tone that I’m far from feeling. “I’m not doing this with you again.”
“Of course not. I’m just a kid, right? Just a cripple who doesn’t deserve a vote in anything that happens in this family.”
“I didn’t say that—”
“You didn’t have to. What did Mom used to say when we fought? Actions speak louder than words.”
The mention of Mom throws me, and my grip on my temper slips a little more. I try to beat it back down, but it’s not working real well. I’m just opening my mouth to say something I know I’ll regret—what the fuck else is new—when the doorbell rings.
We both kind of turn to stare at it in surprise. The only people who ever show up here these days are Sarah or my friends, and none of them feel the need to ring the doorbell anymore. Hell, they barely knock before barging right in.
Figuring it’s some door-to-door salesman, I almost ignore it—except I can’t help thinking that if the universe gives you a time-out just when you need one, you should probably take it. Conscious of Logan following behind me in his chair, I head to the front door, without saying any of the things that were lodged in my throat. That are still lodged there, if I’m being honest.
Pissed off, tired and completely out of sorts, I throw open the front door. I’m not sure who I’m expecting to find there, but I can tell you the one person I hadn’t counted on seeing. Tansy Hampton. At least, I think it’s her. Today, instead of a pink haired pixie cut, her blond hair is tipped with blue and spiked up all over her head. And instead of a sundress, she’s wearing ripped jeans, a short-sleeved, off-the-shoulder sweatshirt and a ton of heavy jewelry. In the course of one short week, she’s gone from fairy to rock star. I’m not sure how I feel about the change—or even why I care.
“Hi, Ash,” she says with a bright smile, like I’m expecting her or something. “Can I come in?”
“Uh, yeah? I guess?”
I step aside to let her in, even as I scramble for what to do. Part of me wants to slam the door in her face—she is the stalker who managed to get my address and show up on my doorstep with absolutely no encouragement from me. Plus, I don’t want her to upset Logan. Things have been hard enough around here for the last few days—ever since Logan overheard me talking to Z—and I don’t want to make things worse. Especially since I can’t help partially blaming her for just how messed up things have gotten. If she hadn’t asked me to do that Make-A-Wish with Timmy, I never would have brought it up to Z, and then Logan and I never would have fought and things would be okay.
It’s a childish response, one better suited for a two-year-old than a twenty-one-year-old, and it embarrasses me. Especially when I consider that there’s another part of me that’s glad to see her. I’ve been thinking of her off and on these last few days, wondering if her lips are actually as soft and sweet as they looked the other day. Not that I ever plan on finding out, but it’s a nice fantasy—one that I’ve jerked off to more than once.
“Thanks,” she says, smiling as she steps inside. “I’m sorry to barge in like this, but I haven’t gotten a response to the last couple of emails or phone calls I’ve directed your way, and things are getting urgent. I need to pin down a date for the trip.”
What is she talking about? I know I’m staring at her like she’s a crazy woman, but I can’t help it. I’m wondering if I’ve actually fallen into the Twilight Zone somewhere between work and here. Or maybe I’m being punked. That makes more sense, actually, now that I think about it. I mean, why else would she be here, looking at me like she expects me to have a clue what she’s talking about? The last time we spoke, I very definitely told her no, I wouldn’t go to Oregon with Timmy. So why is she suddenly talking about it like it’s a done deal?
“The trip?”
I’m sure I look as clueless as I feel, because—for the first time—her smile falters. “The Make-A-Wish trip? With Timmy? To Chile?”
Now I know I’m being punked. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that
?”
“We’re going to Arpa. It’s all set up. I just need to know which of the dates I sent you work best.”
“Are you crazy? I wouldn’t go to Oregon for three days and now you think I’m going to Chile?”
“That’s what your manager said. He called me to set up the Oregon trip, but when I let him know about the donation that came in to go to Chile—for real snowboarding—he said you were in?” She says the last part like it’s a question, and suddenly she’s looking as confused as I feel.
“My manager?”
“Alan Montgomery? He called me the day after we met at the resort.”
Now she’s blushing and, despite everything going on, I can’t help but notice. Can’t help wanting to run my hands, and lips, over all that rosy skin. Obviously I’m having some kind of mental break with reality.
“Alan Montgomery called you?” I haven’t talked to him, or my agent, Mitch, in months. They email every few weeks, just to check in, to see if I’m ready to go back to boarding, but at no time have Alan and I ever discussed the Make-A-Wish thing, at all. “He called you?”
“That’s what I just said.” The words start pouring out of her mouth at about a million miles a minute. “He told me you wanted to coordinate everything through him, gave me an email address for correspondence. We’ve been going back and forth for the last few days, but when I tried to get the dates worked out, he said he’d have to talk to you. I’ve been waiting, but I just talked to Timmy’s mom and she thinks the trip has to be sooner rather than later. Which is why I’m here …”
