The Loss Between Us

by Brooke McBride

  “Jensen!”

  I realize I’ve been staring at him and not listening. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I asked if you were okay.”

  “Yeah, yeah…I’m fine.” I pick up my paper and go back to reading about March Madness. As I scan the article I’m not interested in, Nash peeks over my paper. I scoot a little to the right, trying to ignore him, but his eyes follow me. I shift to the left and he follows me again. He starts to chuckle, and I finally throw the paper down. “Why is this so funny?”

  He continues to laugh before saying, “You’re so easy to rile.”

  “Thanks for that.” My voice is laced with sarcasm, but he deserves it. “Most people walk on eggshells around me. They’re afraid what will happen if they get a rise out of me.”

  “How does that make you feel?” His U-turn almost gives me whiplash. One second he’s giving me a hard time, and the next he’s getting all introspective on me. “How does it make you feel when people treat you differently because of what you’ve gone through?”

  “Well, I…I don’t like it, actually.”

  “If you’re expecting that from me, you’re going to be waiting a long time. I’m not going to treat you like you’re glass, waiting for you to break.”

  I wait a few moments before I respond. I study his body language and expression, but he gives nothing away. “Why not?”

  “You’re already broken. Others don’t get it, but I do. Doesn’t mean I’m going to make things easy for you.” He takes a sip of his coffee and leans back in his seat. “I’m going to push you in ways that others haven’t because they don’t understand.”

  I pause, waiting for him to say more, but he doesn’t. I want to ask him a million questions. But I don’t. I’m not sure I’m ready to know. I fiddle with my empty sweetener packet, but it’s too quiet between us. “How did you know what I like?”

  “I overheard you order it, and I saw what you put in it.” He shrugs one shoulder like it’s no big deal.

  “That’s pretty observant of you.”

  “Observation is part of my job.”

  Relieved that the subject has changed, I commit to it and move on. “What do you do?”

  “I’m a paramedic,” he says and then takes another sip of his coffee.

  “Oh, so like looking for injuries and stuff?”

  “That and knowing your surroundings. We’re called to a lot of different places, not all of them safe. It’s important to understand what you’re walking into, for your safety as well as for the patient you’re working on.”

  “That makes sense. And you just got off a twenty-four-hour shift?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Aren’t you tired?”

  “Yes, but it takes me a while to wind down after coming off a shift.”

  I smile. “And black coffee helps?”

  He smiles back. “Not exactly, but I don’t sleep all that much anyway.”

  I want to move the conversation back to the questions I have, like why he doesn’t sleep, why he was at group, why he’s bothering with me, but I don’t. I hate when people force me to open up, and I won’t do that to him. He’ll tell me if he wants to and when he’s ready.

  We sit in silence for several minutes. I feel as though we’re sizing each other up, but I don’t know why. He smirks at me, but I lean my head away as I feel my face warm. As I do, I analyze our surroundings. It’s been a while since I’ve been out in public for this long. Beside me, I see a couple snuggled up. The man has his arm over her shoulder and is whispering in her ear. She laughs and looks up at him while he kisses her temple.

  “You okay?”

  Something brushes against my hand, and I realize it’s Nash’s hand. I pull away like I touched something hot and squeeze my eyes shut.

  I felt in control of my surroundings at some point tonight, but that feeling is gone and I want to run back to the fort and hide. I try to get control of my breathing as my limbs begin to tingle and the lights brighten. I feel an anxiety attack coming to the surface, and I’m scared I won’t be able to stop it.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling well. I need to go.” I gather up my purse, and Nash rises with me.

  “No, please don’t leave on my account. Jensen, I’m here because of you.”

  What? I fumble on my way out of the booth. Instead of focusing on the anxiety, I focus on my anger. “Would you please stop doing that?” My voice rises as I try to untangle my purse strap.

  “Stop doing what?”

  “Throwing me off. I never know what you’re going to say. Or do. It’s making me uneasy.”

  “Sorry. Not my intention. You should probably know that you’ve never met anyone like me. I’m not…”

  I lift my hand up before he can say anything else. “I realize that, okay? You don’t have to state the obvious. I have to go.” I back up and run straight into a chair, knocking it over. Nash is at my side in an instant, helping me to right it.

  “Jensen, it’s okay, I’ll get it.”

  I take a deep breath, “Stop. Just stop. You don’t get it, so please don’t try to pretend, because then I’ll lose all respect for you.” I glance into his eyes, “And you’re the first person I’ve met in a long time that I actually respect. So just don’t!”

  He bites his lower lip and nods but doesn’t say anything. Nor do I. I rush out of the coffee shop, throw myself into my car, and squeal my tires as I pull out of the parking lot.

  Chapter 7

  I should be embarrassed by my outburst, but I simply don’t care. It’s been three days since I spent time with Nash at the coffee shop. Three long days. I’ve shut the rest of the world out again. I spent most of those seventy-two hours in bed, unable to function. Why did I think I could try to jump back into a normal life without being reminded that I’m a widow? That I’m alone. Seeing other people who aren’t alone brings feelings to the surface I don’t want to face. It’s more than jealousy. More like desperation.

  After Jeff died, a numbness took over. It’s like when your leg falls asleep, and you get up and try to walk on it, but that sharp, tingly feeling knocks you over instead. That numbness had taken permanent residence in my life. But Nash has forced that stinging to return, and I feel as though I’ve been knocked down all over again. I know that’s not his intention. He’s only trying to help, although I don’t know why. Pity, I guess.

  Light trickles in from behind the white plantation blinds in my bedroom, so I roll the other way and face the wall. When I do, my gaze lands on a picture of Jeff and me when we were in Jamaica for our honeymoon. Bronzed skin, leaning into one another as close as we could get, and sitting on the beach drinking daiquiris without a care in the world and nothing but hope for our future. Life without hope feels like someone is holding you down with their foot while pouring water down your throat. You gasp for air, but at some point, you know the fight isn’t worth it and instead of struggling, you begin to gulp the water and pray for it to end.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and start to count to five. I tell myself to look at something else the moment I open them. I get to three before I hear knocking at the front door.

  I’m going to kill her.

  Motivated by white-hot anger, I throw my legs over the bed and stomp down the stairs. I don’t even bother to put on pants or a robe. I throw open the door, and so many feelings wash over me when I see him standing there. Confusion, doubt, rage, embarrassment.

  I really should have put on pants.

  Gripping the hem of Jeff’s favorite Royals shirt, I pull it down, willing it to grow in order to conceal my bare legs. “Nash! What are you doing here?”

  “Thought you needed a choice this morning. Looks like I’m right. Still in bed at…” He brings up his wrist to note the time on his watch while I glance across his chest. Tight shirt again, this time black but no leather jacket. I spot a tattoo peeking out from underneath his sleeve, but I can’t tell what it is. “Ten ’til ten? You usually sleep this late?” His eyes gawk at my legs,
and it seems like an eternity before they rise back to my face. I should be offended.

  I pull at my shirt and again try to hide behind what little clothing I have on. “Depends on what kind of night I’ve had. Why are you here?”

  “Checking up. You left in a hurry the other night.”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry…I….”

  “I don’t want an apology, Jensen. The sorrys of the world can’t change the facts.”

  I grip the doorknob tighter, embarrassed for other reasons than what little clothing I have on. “I’m sorry.” And then roll my eyes. I really am pathetic.

  “You apologize a lot.”

  My eyes shift downward. It feels as though time stands still. He’s right, I do. I can’t apologize to the one person in this world that I need to, so I apologize for everything else. Then I feel a rough, calloused finger under my chin, moving my face upward as Nash looks into my eyes. His hand then moves under my chin to the back of my neck, and warmth surrounds me. I lean into his hand and feel my eyes closing. When they do, Jeff pops in my head, and I immediately jump back. “Nash…”

  His hand retreats and the feeling of despair returns. “I’m sorry.” He takes his own step back and I wrap my arms around myself at a sudden chill.

  “How do you know where I live?”

  He smirks. “Let’s just say I have my ways. And I thought you could come with me to a motorcycle show.”

  Is he serious? He looks serious. He sounds serious. He chuckles. “You’d be surprised. I bet you’ll like it.”

  I pull my long sleeves down to my wrists. “You don’t know me at all. Do I seem like the type to know anything about motorcycles?”

  “I didn’t say know. I said like.”

  “Yeah, not so much. You’re the first person I’ve ever known who rides one.”

  “Doesn’t mean you’ve never been curious.”

  “Well, I haven’t.”

  “Okay, sweetheart, whatever you say. My motives are selfish anyway. Need your help to negotiate a deal. You’re good at that sort of thing, right?”

  I feel a tingle in my stomach at the prospect of playing hardball with someone. I’m caught off guard, since I haven’t felt the excitement of the back and forth since before Jeff died.

  “Now there’s a genuine smile.”

  I touch my fingers to my lips and feel my smile widen. “Wait, how did you know I was good at negotiating?”

  Nash looks away from me, sticks his hands in his pockets, and rocks back on his heels as he glances around my subdivision. His eyes finally land back on mine when he says, “You mentioned you were a lawyer at the coffee house, remember?”

  “No.”

  “Yeah, in passing. If you want to go, we need to head out. The show is at the convention center, so we’re going to hit traffic.”

  My instincts are telling me to press him more on the issue, but the prospect of getting out of the house is suddenly appealing, so I let it go. “Yeah, okay. I need about twenty minutes to get ready.”

  “All right, and I need gas. I’ll be back to get you.” He saunters off, and I close the door, resisting the urge to watch him go.

  Chapter 8

  Me attending a motorcycle show is laughable. Motorcycles mean outlaws, rule breakers, leather-clad hoodlums. Jensen Parker Landry doesn’t associate with those types of people—until now apparently. I watch Nash through the side window of the front door as he backs out of the driveway, thankful he brought his truck instead of his motorcycle. I may go to a motorcycle show, but that doesn’t mean I’ll ever ride one.

  I rush back up the stairs and head to the closet. Skidding to a stop, I change course, go to the bathroom, and look in the mirror. Although I shouldn’t be shocked, I am. My eyes are puffy and my face has red blotches on it. Hopefully I’m done crying for the day. My long brown hair looks like I stood in a puddle and stuck my finger in a socket. There’s not enough time to shower, so I’ll have to do my best with what I have.

  I grab a brush and begin to rake my hair into a ponytail. Stopping, I realize it hasn’t been cut since Jeff died. Ten months without a haircut. Or a brow wax, for that matter. My God, my hairdresser must wonder what happened to me. I used to set up my appointments a year in advance on a three-month cycle. That would be the only way I could fit them into my schedule.

  I throw down the brush and dig around my makeup bag for my tweezers. Unable to find them, I rip open the door to the linen closet and stop. The first thing I see is Jeff’s razor, shaving cream, and aftershave. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. What did that shrink tell me after Jeff died? Something about not being able to change my circumstances or my surroundings, only the way I respond to them? A panic attack rises in my chest. I controlled the one in the coffee shop, but I’m not strong enough to keep this one at bay.

  The room warms, and sweat trickles down my neck. Flashing white lights pierce my eyes, and I grip the vanity top, grasping my way over to the toilet. I fumble for the lid and lower it to sit. With my eyes closed, I try to control my breathing, reminding myself I’m in control. Nash’s voice seeps into my head It’s your choice, Jensen.

  Gradually, my breathing slows and returns to normal. I feel my skin cooling at the same time the fog clears in my head. My choice. The doorbell rings again.

  I rush into the bedroom and look at the clock on the nightstand. Has it been twenty minutes? I used to be a prompt person. That was when time mattered and I had places to be. Time, like a lot of things, doesn’t matter anymore. But I don’t want to keep Nash waiting, so I yell down “Five minutes.” and zoom into the closet. I don’t have time to think about what I’m wearing, so I grab a pair of jeans and a long, gray, cowl-neck sweater. Back in the bathroom, I grab an elastic hair tie and pull it onto my wrist. Some foundation and eyeliner come next. Then I dash back down the stairs to grab my purse.

  I sprint through the dining room and round the corner to the kitchen to grab my keys, when I slide on a small puddle of water. I look down and realize the puddle that usually keeps itself under the sink has now made its way about four feet to the right. I don’t have time to clean it properly, so I grab a kitchen towel, mop up the excess that I slipped on, and rush to the front door. Before I open it, I glance in the hallway mirror and sigh. I don’t even recognize that person in the mirror, so I don’t know why I bother looking. I move my hand under my eyes and try to blend my makeup to conceal the dark circles. I then throw the wet towel down by the door and step onto the porch where Nash is sitting.

  He stands and gives me a shit-eating grin. I narrow my eyes at him. “What’s that look for?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Nothing, just excited. Been waiting a long time for this.”

  “Yeah?” after locking my front door.

  “I have an old motorcycle that I've been tinkering with for the last three years.” He then climbs into his truck and I follow. He rambles for ten minutes about his bike. It’s the most I’ve heard him talk. Where he bought it, how it was a total piece of junk, how he meticulously searched for and bought every single part for it and rebuilt it from the ground up. “I call it Shirley.” He removes his eyes from the road to look at me, and I can see a twinkle in them.

  My face tightens into a grin. “Shirley? Why Shirley?”

  "During the summers, my sister and I would watch re-runs of Laverne and Shirley every day in our pajamas. She liked Laverne, I liked Shirley. Got a thing for brunettes.” He turns to wink at me, and my face betrays me and flushes.

  Focus, Jensen. I clear my throat. “You have a sister?”

  His eyes shift to his rearview mirror, and then to his side mirror, and back to the highway in front of him. “Um, yeah.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Nothing like me. You have siblings?”

  “Nope, only child. My parents both retired shortly after I got married and moved here to be close to Jeff and me.” Is that the first time I’ve mentioned Jeff to Nash? He doesn’t question me on who Jeff is, so I assume I’ve already me
ntioned him. Nash nods and focuses on the road ahead of us.

  Several minutes pass, and both of us relax into the silence. There is a lull in the conversation, and it seems that both of us are in different places. Then Nash flips on the radio.

  “Please shut that off.”

  He glances at me before turning back to the road. “What? Don’t like hard rock? Let me guess, you’re one of those pop princesses, yeah?”

  “Nash, shut it off.” His head jerks to look at me and his mouth is open, but nothing comes out. “Sorry, there’s something about music that makes me emotional. I haven’t been able to listen to it for some time now.”

  “Fair enough.” His hand reaches over and flips off the radio. Before he can pull it back to his body, I grab it. His knuckles have scabs running over them.

  “What happened? Did you get into a fight?”

  He chuckles, tugs his hand out of mine, and then returns it to the steering wheel. “No, I don’t fight people anymore.”

  “Anymore?”

  His eyes shift again to the rearview mirror and he hesitates before looking at me. “Story for another day.”

  I frown and wish he would say more, but he hasn’t pushed me when I haven’t been forthcoming, so I let it go. Almost. “Where did the cuts come from?”

  “Wanted to feel the sting of the bag.” He then moves on as if that was a normal statement. “Have you been to the convention center?”

  Last time I was there, Jeff and I went to a concert. That was what, a year ago? No, a year and a half. I glance out the window. “Yeah, but it’s been awhile.”

  He changes lanes for the exit and then says, “Here’s what I need from you. I’m a little impatient and therefore not great at negotiating.”

  “You? No!” I smirk and he smirks back. For whatever reason, it seems like we’ve had a heavy morning between one another. I’m glad to lighten the mood a little.

  “Funny. Anyway I have an idea of what I want. The question will be if she’s here or not.”