by Scott, S. L.
Like the situation that landed me in jail.
I scrub my hands over my face and close my eyes. Doesn’t matter how tired I am, Chloe’s touch is felt on my hand, in the wound, and deep inside my chest. “What a bizarre night,” I grumble, rolling to my side.
Sleep doesn’t come easy, but it hasn’t in many years. When I find it, I relive the life I used to have, the one when I wasn’t as tough as I am now, not so hard, not full of the anger that I keep hidden inside most of the time. At one time, I had options, opportunities, and the future of my choosing.
I no longer worry about what everyone else sees for me and follow my own path. At least that’s what I tell myself. It’s the only control I have these days. That and how I run my kitchen.
It’s not needed as much anymore, but tonight seems justified to revisit old habits. Climbing out of bed, I pad my way across the oak floors into the living room. The dim light of the moon peeks in at the corners of the shades illuminating the shelf where I keep the liquor. Two fingers of my old friend, Jack Daniel’s, fills the glass, and I shoot it all before I talk myself out of it. The burn down my throat reminds me it’s been a while since I’ve drowned my sorrows. Though drowning might be an extreme.
Relaxing fits better. I return to bed to do just that.
Seeing Chloe Fox again has my mind wired and my body tense. Visions of her crying, apologizing the last time I saw her still invade my thoughts frequently. Didn’t matter if I was drowning in liquor or women or escaping in the kitchen of a restaurant that needed saving as much as I did, nothing has managed to erase the accident and her tears from my brain.
Grabbing the other pillow, I shove it on top of my head. Fucking hell. Go to sleep, Evans.
Go to sleep and forget that tonight ever happened.
Forget those eyes that used to sparkle like jewels.
Forget that smile that unlocked yours.
Forget the way she made you feel alive from her touch.
Forget everything about her, especially that you know how to find her again.
Forget that once she was your anchor.
36
Chloe
Joshua Evans isn’t the same boy I once knew.
He’s a man who’s lived a life that has changed him. His jaw was harder. His eyes were more piercing. The softness that once lightened his expression has matured. I’m not sure if jail or life or both is to blame, but I wasn’t exactly an angel the way I was ogling him.
Did he notice me when I stared too long? When I bit my lower lip while taking in his handsome face? Every fiber of my being was awakened when he looked at me. And he seemed pleased to know I followed through with my plans. Why?
Shouldn’t I be despised?
He dumped me. The hate I saw in his eyes at the jail frequents my nightmares, so I shouldn’t justify the kinder ones I saw earlier. He hurt me, and I hurt him. I could live with the consequences of my own failings but living with the aftermath of failing him was unbearable. It’s a vicious cycle we’re living in.
“God, stop it, Chloe.” I dry off, slip into my pajamas, and head back into the living room almost tripping over a sneaker. A memory is triggered of tripping over one of his shoes when my mom was visiting me at Yale. My stomach clenches. Redirect. Focus on anything but him.
It’s impossible. The shortest time in my life consumed my future in the smallest of details. A shoe? Really, Chloe? Looking around, I realize how tidy I used to be. Being messy is a downfall of rarely being home at all. The past doesn’t matter. The present does.
I switch on the TV to cut through the white noise of my brain. I need my mind to stop spinning over a man who left me reeling for years. I lost everything that day when I lost him. The only thing I could do to survive was to create a new life as far from the old one as soon as I could. As far from him . . .
* * *
“What happened yesterday?”
Turning back to see Julie a few feet behind me on the sidewalk, I grin before letting my laughter weave through my words. I wait for her, glad our breaks have aligned. “And what pray tell are we referring to, Nurse Hidalgo?”
She flanks my side, and we both continue walking toward the corner coffee shop. “Oh, no. You’re not getting out of it. The hottie with the cut finger. Oh no, Nurse, you’re busy.” She raises her voice two octaves in a sad attempt to sound like me. At least it’s entertaining. “I’ll personally tend to this injury.” She winks twice, passing me as I hold the door open for her. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smitten, Dr. Fox.”
The shock of her comment stuns me until the door hits me in the ass, scooting me into line next to her. “Smitten? Me? Pfft. No way.”
“No way?” She laughs. “Who says that?”
Keeping my eyes on the menu ahead, I start debating if I want to step out of my comfort zone and get a sugar-loaded coffee concoction to keep me on my feet through the night. “Me. I do.”
“No, guilty people do.”
“Ugh.” I roll my eyes. “You’re talking crazy. I wasn’t smitten, and I’m perfectly hip with the lingo.”
“Hip?”
Defeat burrows in my shoulders. “I’ve officially become my mom. She’s rubbing off on me. Save me, Julie.”
“There’s no saving you from what I witnessed yesterday. At least where that hot guy is concerned.” We shift forward with the line. “When was the last time you went on a date anyway?”
I abhor this question. Every time it’s asked, which is more than should be legal, my answer is less than notable and worse as time passes. But I still struggle to lie with true intent. “Two years.” The truth is horrendous, though.
“Two years? Wow, Chloe. I had no idea.”
“I don’t advertise it, but I’m truly okay with it. This residency doesn’t allow much free time. It’s sleep or dating. I choose sleep.”
“But what about sex?”
My cheeks flame, and I cover my hospital ID badge so no one will remember that I was a part of this very loud conversation in a public place.
“Everyone’s obsessed with my sex life.” I’ve spent a few happy hours with Julie. She’s a friend, so it doesn’t bother me that she threw it out there. It bothers me that I don’t have a better answer. “So, to set the record straight, I don’t have one.”
“What?” We reach the counter. “You’re . . . well, you.” Her hands roam a hands-length away from my body. Then she turns to the barista. “She’s hot, right? And she’s a doctor.”
He grins all lop-sided, staring at me. “I’d date her.”
“Geez, thanks. Can we order please?”
Julie scans the board hanging above his head. “Extra-large matcha green tea fusion over ice.”
When she steps to the side, I order, “Small black coffee please. And I’ll cover both drinks.” As he rings us up, something in the glass cabinet catches my eye. “Is it too late to add a blueberry muffin?”
“That one’s been sitting there all morning.” The barista leans back and yells to a co-worker, “Do we have more muffins?”
“Coming out of the oven,” a shaggy-haired guy calls from the espresso station.
Conspiratorially, he leans in, and whispers, “I’ll give you a hot one if you want to give me your number.”
I covertly kick Julie’s shoe since she’s clearly to blame for the unwanted attention I’m receiving. “The old muffin works, and I’ll pay, thanks.”
He shrugs like it’s no big thing. “Your loss.”
“Or my gain since I get the muffin sooner,” I reply, swiping my card and then dragging Julie to the other end of the coffee bar. “Can we not have sex conversations in public, or at all? A horny teenager flirting with me because my friend can’t keep her trap shut about my pathetic sex life is the last thing I want right now.”
She’s laughing behind her hand, but then it drops to her side, mimicking her jaw. Signaling behind me with her head, she taps her finger, and then mouths, “Behind you.”
What in the world is
she doing? “Did I ever tell you I’m horrible at charades?”
“No. And I’m sure your sex life can’t be that bad.”
Hearing the dulcet tones of a voice that used to comfort me has my breath catching in my throat. I grip the counter to secure my normally steady hand from shaking, and ask my friend in front of me, “You didn’t learn how to throw your voice, did you?”
Lips tight to restrain her smile as amusement glimmers in her eyes. She shakes her head and points over my shoulder. “No, and I wouldn’t be able to get it that deep either.”
I had a feeling we weren’t alone in this conversation. When I turn around, I don’t lock eyes because memory reminds me that I tend to get lost in his. I stare at his chest instead. Quite impressed by how broad and how fit he is. He always was.
His arms. Defined and strong.
His jawline. Wonder if that scruff is rough enough to cut my tongue.
What am I doing? My gaze snaps to his smirk and the cocked brow that tells me I’m caught. Caught in the act of ogling my ex-boyfriend. Lock me up and throw away the key because I’ll make no apologies.
Joshua Evans has only gotten better with age. I may not be a lawyer, but I could argue all evidence is duly on his side, and that, in fact, he is downright gorgeous. “Hello, Dr. Fox.” His gaze pivots past me. “Nurse.”
“Julie, Juliana,” she says, tapping her name tag with a huge grin and giggle. “You can call me Julie.”
“It’s good to see you again, Julie. I’m Josh.” Are you kidding me with the blushing? She’s shameless.
Those warm browns still hold the same soul that extends beyond mere mortals, and he aims them at me. “It’s nice to run into you again, Dr. Fox.”
My cold hands clamor to cool my own heated cheeks. Damn him. “We didn’t really run into each at the hospital. How’s your finger?”
A barista leans over the counter near us, and calls out, “Small black coffee and a muffin. Josh.”
Julie taps her chin and grins. “Well, lookie there. You have the same order.”
Joshua says, “Quite the coincidence.”
“Not really.” I mentally work out the odds. “Coffee without all the crap is probably more common than we expect. As for the muffin—”
I’m elbowed in the back of the ribs. That devious grin of Julie’s has been replaced with silent disappointment. She whispers, “Do I have to do everything? Because I will.” With the most angelic smile plastered on her face, I see right through it. Much louder for him to hear, she adds, “I just remembered that I already had my break today, and I need to get back. Hate to leave my gorgeous and single doctor friend here. Maybe you can keep her company, Josh?”
“Subtle,” I say, shaking my head.
“My pleasure,” he responds. His voice is as rich and smooth as the coffee I ordered.
“Thanks. Bye.” She zips through the shop toward the door. “Oh, and I’m glad your finger is better. You’ll be back to fingering things before you know it—” Realizing what she just said too late, she bolts out the door, leaving a line full of dropped jaws and me to deal with the mortification.
Thank the coffee shop gods for shaggy-haired baristas with perfect timing. My order is placed beside me, and he says, “I heard you like hot muffins.”
Good lord. Get me out of here. “I’m good. Thanks.”
Taking the tray, I step out of the way, not sure what I should be doing or saying to Joshua . . . Josh, or whatever I should be calling him.
He takes the initiative. “She reminds me of Ruby.”
“She does,” I reply, picking at the raw edge of the cardboard tray in my hands. The drinks wobble even though I’m trying to hold them steady.
“Do you still talk to Ruby?”
I look at him, tired of feeling intimidated . . . though if I were honest, it’s shame and guilt that keeps my eyes down around him. The last thing I ever said to him was I’m sorry. I owe him a million more, but I’m not sure that’s what he wants to hear. What does he want from me? “Are we making small talk, Joshua—” I sigh, lacking the energy to play this game of old friends catching up. “I don’t even know what to call you anymore, much less what this is. I’m sorry.” I leave the shop, not able to wrap my head around the myriad of emotions he draws out of me—anger, abandonment, brokenhearted, frustrated from my empty memories of the accident, and guilt for the pain I caused him.
I leave him with my apology for walking out of the coffee shop.
Out of the jail that day six years ago.
Into his life so many months before that.
And for allowing his heart to imprint on every part of my life and being.
I’m sorry. So sorry.
37
Joshua
Chloe Fox is a conundrum.
I should despise her. No one would fault me for it. Not even her. Yet with every justifiable reason I have to hate her, I can’t seem to. I never could, so I can’t be entirely surprised. But I am.
Fuck.
Just like back in college, she’s messing with my head.
I remember when I used to have game, could form complete sentences when talking to a chick, never had to ask for anything and still got it. Girls were easy back then.
Except for her.
But that’s what made her different. She wasn’t putting up with my bullshit. If I was sarcastic, she’d snap right back. With her, I played by her rules and lost—my freedom, my Ivy League degree, and my bonsai tree. If losing Chloe wasn’t hard enough, I hate that I let Dwayne Evans down. I can only hope he had a proper burial.
The thing I still can’t seem to wrap my head around is the fact that I held on to the hope of us one day being together again even after telling her not to come back. How does that make any sense? It doesn’t. You’d think I’d be wiser now. I’m not.
I have the photo of her that served time along with me still tucked into the back of my wallet. Didn’t matter if I was bloodied and broken in jail, I knew I’d return to my memories and that photo to get me through.
She was the only fucking reason I signed those papers. So maybe that’s the reason I find myself running after her. “Chloe?”
Stuck at the corner waiting for the crosswalk sign to cooperate, she lowers her head. I always fucking hated that. She’s giving in to the negative thoughts instead of remembering who she is.
The crowd starts walking just as I catch up to her. “I don’t know why I’m talking to you. Why I’m running down the street to tell you this shit. It makes no sense to me.”
Stopping in the middle of the crosswalk, she asks, “Then why do it? Why not forget we met—back then and again last night? Why not carry on with your life and let me live mine?” A car horn startles us, the tray falling to the ground and splashing at our feet. “Shit!” she shouts.
I don’t think I’ve ever heard her curse. It sounds strange and packed with meaning. I’m glad I’m not on the receiving end.
The light is still red, and the asshole has the nerve to poke his head out the window, and honk at her again. “Pick it up, sweet cheeks. Show me what you got.”
I bend down to grab it, but she beats me to it, the mostly emptied cups still clinging to the holders. Her anger is palpable as it rolls off her shoulders and embeds itself into her rising and falling chest. When the guy catcalls her, she throws the tray, nailing his windshield with the remaining liquid. “Screw you, sweet cheeks!” she yells back at him.
Holy shit.
That’s not the same shy girl I met at Yale. The guy pops his door open. “What the fuck, you crazy bitch!” He slams the door and starts toward us.
Dumping my coffee, I hold my hand out, and tell her, “Run, Chloe.”
She squeaks, grabbing hold of my hand without hesitation, and we take off running. Weaving through the crowded sidewalk, we run until we see an opening in the doorway of an ice cream shop. Swinging her into the shadows, I move so close to hide her that I feel her breath on my chin. Her hands land on my chest, fisting my shirt.
Her frame fitting against mine so perfectly that I can protect her from the world if needed. She always did fit into my world, into me, and into my arms, at least back then for a short time in our lives. And now I know she’s single . . . Is that why my heart has started beating so heavy in my chest again?
“I don’t think he’s following us,” she says, whispering.
“We should probably wait a few more minutes, just in case.” The top of her head is pressed against my cheek, and I shouldn’t like how she makes me feel—alive again, and hopeful.
She starts to laugh. Squeezing out from under my arms, she straightens her shirt and the little badge hanging from her belt loop. “I think it’s safe.”
Just as she backs onto the sidewalk, she’s eclipsed. I yell, “Watch out!”
* * *
Her smile is better than any ice cream . . . that she could put on my face. “Maybe strawberry will work better,” I remark, squinting under the Ziploc bag of creamy confection.
I didn’t see the blow coming, acting on instinct to get Chloe out of the way. It doesn’t escape me that I repeated the same phrase she did that day that changed everything. Us. Her. My life forever.
Sitting in an ice cream shop after being punched in the face is not how I saw this day going. Being here with Chloe, even less expected, but I’m not complaining. Admiring her is the last thing I should be doing, but it’s good to see her mood less intense than last night in the ER. She may be rolling her eyes, but she can’t stop laughing. “I would have bet my house on the chocolate.”
I feel fine, but I don’t mind her attention. She’s a good doctor. I’m completely at ease in her capable hands. I ask, “Bet your house or bet on the house?”
Mulling over the question, she puts the ice cream pack in the bowl and dabs a napkin to the side of my eye. “I’m not a gambler, so I’m going with my house.”
“Do you have a house?” I know. I shouldn’t have asked, but the opportunity presented itself and call me a cad, but despite setting her up, I still take it.
