by Amanda Cowen
“Where is she now?” she asks, tone sharp.
“I am getting her out of my life. I promise.”
She scrunches her nose. “This was a mistake. I came to make sure you were okay. And you are, so I should go.”
“Quinn, please. Don’t go,” I plead, unable to control my reaction. I use every ounce of willpower I possess to not pull her into my arms.
She stands in front of me, and I clench my hands into fists as her familiar sweet scent crashes into me. So many nights I drank myself numb, fighting to accept that she would never walk back into my life. My world. And now here she is. And I never want her to leave. I take a deep breath, but the pounding in my head gets louder.
“I want answers, Cash, and I know right now is not the time or place to ask for them.” She sighs. “I’m glad you’re okay, but I should really get going.”
“Quinn, please.” My voice sounds so desperate I barely recognize it. “I’m so ashamed of the mistakes I’ve made and the lives I’ve ruined. Please believe me when I say that I wanted to tell you everything. I’ve always told you it’s not what you think, and it’s true. It’s complicated. I took Daniela under my wing because she was the closest and only thing I had left. I never wanted to burden you with my past. I never thought I would fall so in love with you. I’ve been so alone for so long…”
Quinn frowns and won’t look directly at me. “You lied to me.”
“I was trying to protect you,” I say simply.
“No, Cash. You purposely hid her from me. You deceived me. I’ll never be able to trust you. Even if I want to, I can’t.”
What the fuck does that mean? The pounding in my head grows stronger.
“You can trust me. You don’t know Daniela. You don’t understand.” I watch her intently, but my head is pounding.
“Then you should have made me understand,” she says.
A hard knock on the door breaks our stare. Dr. Henderson pushes open the door and walks in holding a clipboard.
“Your test results are in,” he says glancing down at the clipboard. “After all the tests we ran, it’s conclusive. You have a very severe concussion.”
“Fuck.” I groan and rub my face. This is going to really mess with my game.
“What does that mean?” Quinn’s small frown is back, and she won’t look directly at me. “Is he going to be okay? How long will he be unable to play hockey?”
“Rest is the most appropriate way to allow a brain to recover after suffering a concussion,” Dr. Henderson says. “Cash will need to physically and mentally rest. This means avoiding general physical exertion, including hockey or any vigorous activities, until he has no symptoms. This rest also includes limiting activities that require thinking and mental concentration.”
“I’ve had a concussion before,” I grumble. “I know the drill.”
“You’ll need to be off the ice for at least two weeks.” Dr. Henderson looks directly at me. “And you will need to be attended to and monitored for at least the first forty-eight hours.”
“No.” I shake my head, “I’m fine.”
“Cash, like you said, this isn’t your first concussion,” Dr. Henderson says, patronizing me in his most professional tone. “For at least forty-eight hours someone needs to monitor your progress. Resuming hockey too soon increases the risk of a second concussion and of lasting, potentially fatal brain injury. Multiple concussions put you at a greater risk of developing progressive impairment that limits your ability to function. You cannot and will not return to play hockey while signs or symptoms of a concussion are present.”
“What type of symptoms?” Quinn chokes out.
“After a concussion, the levels of brain chemicals are altered. It usually takes about a week for these levels to stabilize again. Since Cash came to, he’s already experienced nausea, blurry vision, slow response time, headaches, dizziness, and thinking difficulties.”
Quinn frowns, but doesn’t say anything.
“Kenny had Gordon booked you and Miss Ashby on the next flight to Santa Anna on my recommendation that you fly back home where you can be comfortable to get adequate rest in your own bed.”
I don’t look over at Quinn, but I can feel her eyes on me. It’s real hard not to meet her gaze.
“I’m a student at Harvard. I live here in Boston. I’m sorry, I can’t just pick-up and leave,” she says with a panicked look on her face.
“Your flight has already been booked Miss Ashby,” Dr. Henderson replies. “Cash can’t be left alone for at least two days. Someone needs to be with him.”
She looks like she’s about to cry, and I’m afraid to ask her if she’s okay. My hope that she might even consider coming back with me to California for forty-eight hours keeps me quiet. Seeing her hands knotted tightly in front of her bothers me. I wish she would give me a second chance to explain everything, but I can’t expect her to leave her life here in Boston for me. Especially after everything.
“If she doesn’t want to come, she doesn’t have to,” I say, unable to stop myself. My need to protect her takes over. “I can hire a home nurse to stay at my place for the next few days.”
She tilts her head to the side and looks at me.
“I can try to arrange for a home nurse on short notice, but I can’t guarantee anything,” Dr. Henderson says.
“Wait,” she breathes out. “Don’t have him call yet.”
“Are you considering going?” Dr. Henderson asks, hopeful.
“I-I don’t know.” Quinn rubs her face, and moves away from me again.
“Why don’t I give you a few minutes to talk it over,” Dr. Henderson suggests.
Dr. Henderson leaves the room and slowly closes the door behind him. I watch as she tucks her hair behind her ear, and I wonder what she could possibly say that wouldn’t make this any less awkward.
“About what you said. How Daniela was the closest thing to family you had left. I, uh, I don’t really know what to think of that. I know you’ve just suffered a terrible blow, and clearly right now is really not the time to discuss anything that could cause you mental strain. Hell, I don’t even know if I can discuss it, Cash. We’re not together anymore. I’m at Harvard. I’m trying to move on with my life.”
“You mean with Aiden,” I say, voice low.
“I’m torn.” She sounds nervous again. “I wish things didn’t end the way they did. I wish you didn’t lie to me. And I wish things were different, but they aren’t. I want us to… I wish I could find a way to forgive you... I don’t know. That sounds so hopeful. After everything. As crazy as it sounds, I don’t know if I can leave here knowing I left your well-being in the hands of some home nurse…” Her voice trails off.
I can tell she’s struggling internally with the idea of coming back to California with me. I can’t have her leave me again without her knowing the real truth once and for all.
“Please don’t leave and go back to Aiden,” I whisper, not wanting to sound too desperate. “Tu me manqué.” I watch for her reaction.
Her sad smile comes a little too slowly to put me at ease. “What does that mean?” She bites her bottom lip, watching me too.
“Well, in French we don’t say ‘I miss you,’” I look into her eyes. “We say ‘tu me manqué.’ Which means ‘you are missing from me.’”
Dr. Henderson knocks once on the door and then walks inside. “Have you decided what you’re going to do?”
“Yes,” Quinn says, quietly.
“Do I need Gordon to cancel your flight, Ms. Ashby?”
“No,” she says, watching me carefully. “I’m going with Cash to Santa Anna.”
Chapter 11
Quinn
Seven and a half hours on a plane and one awkward limo ride later, I’m standing in Cash’s new home in Santa Anna. Cash drops the keys on the little table by the door, and I look around. His apartment has two bedrooms off a large main loft area with a beautiful view over a couple of city blocks and out across the ocean. It’s messier than I
expect, with clothes tossed over the back of a sofa, dirty dishes in the sink, and a fine layer of dust on the coffee table. I don’t understand…Cash was always so neat and tidy. He follows the path of my eyes and then back at me, blushing knowingly.
“Sorry about the mess,” he grumbles and I weave a little on my feet. He studies me, pushing his hat off his head and mussing his hair with one hand. “I wasn’t exactly expecting company.”
“I’m not judging,” I assure him, taking a careful step into his apartment.
I slide off my jacket and see his new life without me for the first time. It’s weird to be here alone with him and see how different and alien everything familiar looks after we’ve been apart for what feels like forever.
He walks into the living room and motions for me to follow. From behind he asks, “Are you regretting this yet?”
I start to respond to this—I mean I’ve been regretting it from the moment I agreed to it, but I’m not about to tell him that—but he keeps talking.
“If the only reason you decided to come was because you pity me, or because you feel obligated, then I don’t want you here. You barely said two words the entire flight…you refuse to look at me…You’re not exactly easy to read, Mittens.”
“Okay, Brooks.” Stopping in front of a door, I turn and look up at him. “You’re going to lecture me about not being easy to read? You’re the one who hid a secret wife from me. Is it really a shocker to you that I’m scared to get too close to you again?”
I don’t mean to sound flippant, but I do. It’s in this moment that I realize how long it’s been since I stepped on that plane to Boston. How different our lives have become without each other. Instead of a life full of passion, impulse, and excitement, my life now is structured, controlled, and focused. Yet somehow it’s emptier than it’s ever been.
He nods, and the silence stretches for a long weird beat until he says, “I’m going to take a shower.” He looks down the hall and then back to me, gaze moving from my face down to my feet. “The spare bedroom is done the hall.”
He turns, ducking his head into the bathroom before slipping fully inside, and closing the door behind him with a quiet click.
I carry my bag toward the spare bedroom, and when I walk inside, I toss it in the corner and flop on the bed. I let out a sigh and take in the white walls, tall wood dresser, matching nightstand on my right. The bedroom looks staged. It reminds me of a cookie-cutter showroom for some luxury condo. None of this feels like the Cash I grew to love. It’s cold and plain and I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something’s missing.
I notice the top drawer on the nightstand is slightly open. I spy a worn photo album tucked inside and feel my heart sink into my stomach. I’m pretty sure this must belong to Cash. I grow curious because he’s never shown me any photos of himself as a child.
I look around for a moment, debating whether or not I should look inside, or close the drawer and pretend I didn’t see anything. What I should do is keep my emotions in check and keep my head straight. I’m only here to make sure he doesn’t ruin his career by not treating his concussion, not here to look for answers in an old photo album or let my heart nostalgically swell until I’m considering giving him a second chance. But the longer I stare at the album, there’s a prodding feeling in my stomach that tells me I need to look inside.
With a sigh, I flip open to the first page.
The first photo has a glowing honey-haired woman, no older than thirty, hugging two cute little boys. I swallow hard at the realization that this woman is Cash’s mother, Marie. God, she is so beautiful. A small smile touches my lips knowing those two adorable little boys sitting on her lap are Cash and his brother, Cory. I run my finger over the photo, thinking Cash can’t be older than seven or eight. His big blue eyes are full of mischief and he is missing his two front teeth. His brother Cory looks like a mini version of Cash, but with brown eyes and no dimples.
I flip through the album, and page after page is filled with childhood photos of Cash and Cory—playing hockey, fishing off a dock, swimming at the lake, holding a toad, and playing with friends. A timeline of his life unspooling on the pages. It’s sort of strange to see this version of Cash, young and playful and goofing around with his younger brother. I can feel the happy memories pulsing off the pages and see how much they loved each other.
I flip to another page and find a picture of Cash wearing a Tornadoes ball cap on his head, with a Tornadoes jersey over a three-piece suit. He must have just been drafted to the Tornadoes. His arm is wrapped around Cory, and to the left of Cory stands Daniela.
All the air vacuums out of my lungs when I see her in the photograph. Frozen in time, celebrating the happiest and greatest moment of accomplishment in Cash’s life. She looks stunning dressed in a slim black skirt, heels, and a dark emerald silk blouse, long strawberry blonde hair brushed and smoothed down her back. She’s young and smiley and clearly proud of Cash. The glimmer of a diamond ring on her left hand catches my attention. But the way Cory’s arm is wrapped around her shoulders makes me question whether her engagement ring isn’t from Cash, but rather from Cory?
Could Cash have been telling me the truth? Was he in this relationship with Daniela because of his brother? I stare down at the photo and my heart pounds painfully in my chest. My eyes blur with unshed tears. I’m reminded just how real she is and how much Cash’s past destroyed us, and the reality of his secret relationship with this beautiful girl.
I hear the faucet turn off, the bathroom door open, and then he calls from the hallway, “Quinn?”
His voice startles me and I panic, flipping the photo album shut, stuff it back inside the nightstand drawer, and appear in the doorway. “Yeah?” I shout back.
His shoulders fill a doorway down and across the hall, and I feel oddly unsettled. He’s shirtless with only a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair is wet, slicked back, and tiny water droplets trickle down his defined chest and abdomen.
“Are you hungry?” He gives me a dark grin. Leaning back against the wall, he says, “I’m thinking I’ll run out, grab a few groceries, and make us dinner.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” I scold him.
His expression straightens, and he looks away, looking out the floor to ceiling windows.
“This is exactly why Dr. Henderson wanted me here,” I say, voice strong. “To protect you from yourself. You’re supposed to be resting.”
“Okay. You’re right,” he interrupts quietly. He looks back to me, his eyes making the slow circuit of my face. “Why don’t we order Chinese take-out? Like we use to.”
I feel the reminder of our past sink like a weight in my chest. It will never be the way it was. Cash and I will never be that couple again, and it’s hard to accept. There’s something so utterly defeating in that. A smart woman wouldn’t have agreed to seclude herself with an ex-boyfriend who broke her heart for two whole days; she would’ve let him hire a home nurse and gone back to her new life in Boston. But deep down I know it’s all the reminders—what my heart felt during our once most tender and intimate moments—that brought me here.
“No take-out,” I say. “I’ll run out, grab groceries, and make us dinner. You’re going to lie down and rest, exactly like Dr. Henderson told you.”
“You’re a terrible cook,” he says quietly, teasing but also not. He’s had a fair share of cooking fails from me, including burnt grilled-cheese sandwiches and overly salted tomato sauce.
“Can we focus on what to eat, not how terrible of a cook I am?” I ask.
He keeps his steady gaze on me and considers for a moment. “You’re actually going to return with groceries? This isn’t some excuse to make a run for it?”
The memory of me walking away from him—twice—evokes a rush of aggravation. How dare he throw that in my face right now. Why does he always have to push the limits? Or more pointedly, my buttons.
Discomfort squeezes my chest. “Don't make this about you and me.”
&nb
sp; Cash smirks. “You and me? There's a you and me?”
“You know what I mean.”
Cash seems unconvinced, but I don’t care. I don’t regret walking away from him. After his drunken stupor and finding out about his secret wife, I didn’t have any other choice but to walk—no, wait—run away from the man who broke my heart.
“I’m here for the next forty-eight hours. I’m not going anywhere.” My heart does a painful flip. “This is your health we’re talking about. It's not personal.”
Cash bites back a smile, his green eyes doing a seductive sweep from my head down to my toes.
“I don’t want to eat Chinese take-out,” I continue to ramble. Too much like old times. “And since you’re a self-proclaimed chef, you can order me around in the kitchen from the bar stool.”
“I can live with that.” His expression straightens, and he looks into the kitchen. “I always did like ordering you around.”
I suck in a breath. I know exactly what type of ordering around he’s referring to. The kind when we were, together. In bed, curled around each other.
“I’ll be back soon.” I swallow, turn away from him, and walk out the door.
_______________
On the way to the grocery store, I can’t help but Google natural remedies to help cure a concussion. Besides getting adequate rest, eating foods high in antioxidants, and drinking lots of water, the next few suggestions include fish oil and mixing powdered turmeric in water. It doesn’t take me long before I’m checking out of the grocery store with bags full of leafy greens, blueberries, and salmon, along with fish-oil capsules, and a jar of powdered turmeric.
I walk into Cash’s apartment thirty minutes later, and when I turn the corner, I get an eyeful of Cash lying shirtless on the sofa, his perfect torso stretched out and bare. His bottom half covered only by a flimsy gray knit blanket.
“Hey,” he mumbles when he sees me and reaches up to scratch his jaw. “Did you happen to get any Tylenol? My head won’t stop pounding.”
I nod, and toss a bottle of Tylenol at him. “I sure did.”
