“I want to be here.”
“I’d rather you weren’t,” he muttered.
“You think you don’t need me, Lance, but you do. Let’s face it, who else have you got?”
“I’m not dying,” he countered. “It’s a flesh wound. I’ll survive.” He didn’t understand the fuss.
“Will you stop being proud and accept my help?” She snapped. “How will you be able to get better unless you rest?” He laid his head back against the firm, hospital pillow, and closed his eyes, letting Vivian continue. “You’re injured. The bullet passed through your shoulder and it’s going to take a lot of physical therapy to heal properly. You do still want to play squash and tennis and workout, don’t you?” And without giving him a chance to reply, “How can you do all of that when you’re trying to feed and dress yourself?” The thought of Vivian back in his life, helping to dress and feed him, made his will even stronger. “I’ll be fine,” he murmured, not bothering to open his eyes. He’d have to go easy on his games and his fitness regime but he wondered about work and who would cover for his classes.
“And if you’re worried about work,” she said, as if she’d read his mind, “Don’t be. I told Lesley you’d be off for a while.”
“Why?” His eyelids flew open.
“Someone had to let them know. Your students and faculty need to know.” His eyes narrowed. He’d been shot, and was on TV, he was pretty certain that they knew. What pissed him off was the way Vivian tried to snake her way back into his life, as if she was still a part of it. She was—in that she was Cassie’s mother—but that was the extent of it.
“You shouldn’t concern yourself with such things.” Even though he’d moved out of the area, his soon-to-be ex-wife found it difficult to let go.
“Baby,” she said, in that irritating, sweet-as-candy voice she often used when she knew she had the advantage, “Don’t get so upset. You can always move back in with us and you know I’ll take good care of you.”
“No,” he said, struggling to sit up. He wasn’t used to lying in bed all day and had no idea why they didn’t discharge him yesterday. He remembered nothing but the girl, and the man behind her, and the gun, the sound of it as loud as an explosion, and the pain through his left shoulder. Then nothing until he woke up in hospital later with nurses fussing over him and Vivian trying to bustle in. He’d been shot and had saved a girl from her jealous ex. Vivian told him that he was all over the news. “I’ll be fine. I’d rather you were with Cassie.” He hated the idea that his daughter was left with his mother-in-law. Soon to be ex mother-in-law, he reminded himself. “What have you told her?”
“I told Cassandra that her daddy is a hero. We’re so proud of you. You’re in the papers today, and you’ve been on the news. My phone hasn’t stopped ringing. Everyone wants to know if you’re alright.”
“I’m fine, Vivian,” he replied, testily. “You should go.” Because she wasn’t a part of his life, and he didn’t want her to ever think they had chance of getting back together.
Chapter 4
It had been well over a month since Lance Turner catapulted into her life from nowhere. With the shooting, he’d become Boston’s newest hero, popping up in the papers and on TV. It was the same old story, how he’d saved the student’s life, and how he was a professor. The media seemed obsessed by his looks and his brains, and he was often referred to as the ‘hunky hero’, a label which, from all outward appearances, he seemed to loathe.
She had forbidden Arla from talking to her about him—her friend had a knack for talking too much, and she had a theory that the chances of her and Lance Turner ending up in the same city were so remote, that it could only be fate that had brought him here.
Once upon a time it had taken all her might to rid herself of his memories. It hadn’t been easy at the time which made her keen to avoid putting herself through that pain all over again.
He was often hailed as the real-life sexy new hero, and whenever her colleagues at work spoke of him, she left the room, or immersed herself into a task so that she didn’t have to suffer their glowing admiration for the man.
Despite all of this, he still crept into her thoughts. So much so that she’d driven past his university, eager to get a feel for the place where he worked, to try and catch a glimpse of him. She’d been unsuccessful, as she sat in her car for a while staring at the sprawling campus. Yet the thought intrigued her, that he was here, buried in a musty old office somewhere in the grounds. Her heart felt funny. Pleasant, and happy, but not. In a state of limbo, even.
What point would there be in seeing him again? Mercifully, the city was big enough for the two of them to be able to avoid one another easily. As indeed it now seemed apparent. And thankfully she was often away due to work. It was therefore possible that they could both live in the same place and not run into one another.
One fresh and lazy spring evening, she rushed along carrying groceries, in deep thought and eager to get home. She had plenty of work issues on her mind and a consultation with a major client coming up. Vincent would be accompanying her. It was something that made her uneasy but she made it a game, the ways in which she could avoid going out in the evenings, just the two of them. Making it a game would keep her busy and distracted; and this was good because it helped shift her thoughts away from Lance Turner.
And other more important matters concerned her. She was in line for a promotion and as long as she worked hard and kept the clients happy, there was no reason why within six months or less, she wouldn’t get it.
Rushing to catch the lights, she dashed across the street with her grocery bag in one hand and her oversized day bag on her shoulder. The sudden screeching of car wheels startled her and the bag slipped and fell in a heap on the ground. A few jars rolled out. And two apples. Embarrassed, she crouched down, frantically grabbing her things together. Somewhere in the cacophony of the bleating traffic noise, the whoosh of cars and chatter of people, she heard the sound of car horns tooting like disgruntled elephants. Her already frayed nerves made her even more anxious and clumsy.
“Meghan?”
It was a voice that sent shivers down the entire length of her body. Had someone said her name? She wasn’t sure. She looked up and blinked. A man wearing dark sunglasses had climbed out of his car; the door wide open behind him. She turned her attention back to her mess, scooped up her belongings and shoved them back into her bag as quickly as possible, conscious of the spectacle that she was creating.
“Meghan?” This time she knew it wasn’t her imagination playing tricks. She froze. Because it was him. It was all so sudden, so unexpected, and so surreal, that she couldn’t say anything back.
He had removed his shades and his eyes now shone from a face she had never forgotten. Lake blue eyes with skin, once so smooth against her fingertips, and which was now wrinkled around the eyes and mouth and his once dark hair was now speckled with gray. He was still slim, with the lithe body of an athlete; a body forever burned into her memories. He looked every bit the hero, and he was smiling at her.
It was bound to happen at some time; it was a miracle it hadn’t happened earlier, the two of them meeting at some random place, at some random time. His smile transported her back to another place, another time, another Meghan and she found herself back in the stuffy school classroom on a hot, sweaty, summer’s afternoon.
Car horns tooted again, and she made to move. “Wait for me,” he shouted, and rushed back into his car, and she, still in a haze, rushed across the crossing, mulling over what had happened.
The heat rose to her cheeks. It wasn’t the spring evening that had caused it but the thought of what this could mean. Of what it would be like to have Lance Turner back. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to go there, back into the past again. She hadn’t seen him since that night when she’d turned to him in her hour of need, and just when she thought he would be there for her, he had disappeared. Without a word he’d slipped silently into the night.
And now
he had the audacity to ask her to wait for him.
Chapter 5
“Daddy bought it. Why can’t you accept it graciously?” Vivian’s voice nudged an octave higher, grating further on his nerves.
“I don’t want it, Vivian. I don’t want your father to buy me anything.” I never did. He was done with her father, an influential attorney who had known a life of entitlement and privilege and was now passing that down to his only child by buying her anything she wanted.
Vivian was a grown woman, for fuck’s sake. A pampered woman whose father had set her up in a sprawling mansion in West Newbury. He’d also made provisions for his granddaughter, and, Lance suspected, had continued to give his Vivian an allowance the whole time he’d been married to her. His in-laws didn’t need to spell it out to him that they didn’t consider his salary to be enough to support their daughter’s lifestyle. He had always felt as if he wasn’t enough.
“But my father insists on it.”
Screw your father. Lance clutched the cell phone, flexing the fingers of his free hand. “I don’t want it. I like the car I drive. It’s safe—”
“Safe?” She laughed. “That pile of junk looks like it’s going to fall apart any time soon. Don’t be such a bad sport. Just accept it. It’s at my place and all you need to do is drive it away.”
That was one of the problems with Vivian. She didn’t stop. Jab, jab, jab, jab, jab. It was constant, the way she picked and picked until he was forced to give in. He used to give in, that was why he’d stayed in a marriage too long after it had lost steam.
“I’m happy with that pile of junk. I need to drive home, Vivian. Now isn’t a good time to talk. ‘Bye.” He flung the cell phone onto the passenger seat and sped away. Things had been going well until she’d called. He’d gone back to the gym for the first time in weeks. The physio had been helping and barring the ugly scar on his shoulder, his arm was back to normal. A little stiff, sometimes, but with time and gentle exercise, he was told he would be fine. So embittered was he in his thoughts that he drove around the corner at great speed then slammed on his brakes.
What a stupid place for a crossing.
Who the hell designed these things? The driver of the car behind blasted his horn at him and Lance, worked up like a tight ball of yarn, tooted his angry horn right back at him. A woman crossing the street dropped her grocery bag as she rushed across the crossing and he watched as she bent down to retrieve her belongings. He scrubbed his face, and blew out a puff of air. All of his conversations with Vivian left him like this, with his body tensed all over. He stared ahead, trying to regulate his breathing.
Then he sat forward.
And continued to stare in front at the people walking across the road in front of him.
He bolted forward in his seat. Was that Meghan Summers? His heart jolted. Her long, wavy brown hair fell around her shoulders, and his eyes widened. There was no mistaking that face. There was no mistaking those lips. Lips he’d tasted once, lips that he shouldn’t have gone near. Lips that could have cost him his job.
He jumped out of his car and sprang forward. “Meghan?” She was desperately trying to pick up a few of her things which had rolled out of her bag. He stepped forward again, taking off his glasses and needing to get a better look. “Meghan,” he said again, taking off his sunglasses. He couldn’t help but smile. She got up off the ground and stared back at him with those large mahogany eyes. Recognition skimmed across her face. Another couple of car horns honked and she turned away. “Wait for me,” he cried, then rushed back to his car. The car behind him beeped again, and he raised an arm in apology.
He’d left her once, but he’d be lying if he said he’d forgotten about her. Meghan Summers had been difficult to forget, and she at least deserved an explanation.
Chapter 6
He’d been impressed. There weren’t many girls he knew that were interested in a career in physics or math, and wanting to major in either one of these was an amazing feat. She was a clever girl but her grades had been slipping in recent weeks and it was beginning to worry him. If her grades didn’t get back on track soon, she risked her chances of getting into college and he didn’t want to see a student with as much potential as her fail.
“Meghan, could you come and see me at the end of the lesson, please?” He could see all too clearly the look of surprise on her face, and could have sworn he heard her friend, the chatty, fidgety one, say “Ooooh, wonder what he wants?” Why did they do that? Go around thinking teachers were blind, dumb and stupid?
Meghan Summers wasn’t like the others, and he liked that she was sensible, hard-working and clever. Furthermore, she didn’t make eyes at him, showed him no interest, and was an all-round easy to get on with student.
She stayed behind at the end of the lesson as he’d asked, only this time her normally quiet and unassuming demeanor had disappeared. She seemed flustered. “You wanted to see me, sir?” she asked, clutching her folder to her chest. He closed the door then walked back and leaned against his desk. “What’s going on, Meghan?” he asked, his eyes reminding her of the deep waters of a lake. “What do you mean?” She hugged her books even closer to her chest.
“Your grades in the last few pieces of homework have slipped. I marked the last test you all did. You got 74%. You normally average around 92%.”
“I—uh—I. It’s been a tough couple of months,” she said finally. He heard something in her words that he couldn’t put a finger on. He could see the tension on her face and the stiffness of her lips. He couldn’t pry too much. Already he’d heard the sniggers in class each time he asked her to stay behind and collect papers. There was nothing in it except concern but he knew these things could be construed differently.
“You’re in danger of falling behind, Meghan. You’re a bright girl, and if you want a scholarship to college, you can’t afford to drop your grades.” It wasn’t just the Math. He’d spoken to her other teachers and her grades were slipping across the board. A student didn’t suddenly drop grades over a short space of time over a lack of sleep or partying too hard.
“I’m aware of it, sir, and I’m trying.” She dropped her head to her chest, her lip trembling. This wasn’t the Meghan Summers he knew.
“Is there anything I can do help? Do you want to talk about it? Would extra homework help?”
“No, sir.” She shook her head. “I’ve got this. I really have.”
“I can go over topics, if you want. If you’re unclear about anything. Or I can set you more homework so that you can solidify your learning.”
Her cheeks turned crimson.
“I know what I have to do, sir. I’ve got all the textbooks. I’ll get back on track. I promise.”
Chapter 7
Dazed, she rushed across the road. Away from him.
She’d heard of Lance Turner from the moment he started at Overton High School, a year before he became her math teacher. He’d been the talk of the town. The girls in her class had drooled over him but she hadn’t been one of them. Arla had been tongue tied, as had most of the girls in her class but not her. She hadn’t been drawn in, not back then.
Not at first.
And while other girls tried hard to get his attention, needed more explanation and help with the course matter, she never had because she’d always been good at Math, that is, until her grades had started to drop. That was right around the time Mr. Turner had become concerned about her. He’d approached her at the end of a lesson and had asked her what was wrong but she hadn’t been able to give him a proper answer at the time. How could she have explained that her father was having an affair and that her mother had fallen apart? That the daily fights were becoming more difficult to bear, that she couldn’t concentrate on her studies, that her younger brother and sister were struggling even more than she was.
Yet ever since that day, he’d done his best to help her, whether it was by giving her extra worksheets, a few extra textbooks that nobody else had, or making a point of explaining th
ings in class and ensuring that she understood.
During the following months the help turned into something else, a friendship almost, something that had blossomed, a trust gained, a newer understanding, someone who cared. It was never illicit, never more than that, perhaps not for him, but to her young and impressionable mind, to a young girl who was trying desperately to swim, he was fast becoming her beacon of light.
Footsteps sounded behind, interrupting her visit into the past. She turned around and stopped when she saw Lance Turner running towards her. A decade on and he almost had the same build. No excess fat. No middle age spread. He was still as lean and tall as he was then. He’d slipped his shades back on and in the time it took him to reach her, a million angry moments flew through her mind.
What now? What could he possibly have to say to her now? She had no words, and yet her heart flipped a little when he stopped in front of her. “Meg,” he said, a little out of breath as he slipped his shades off. “Why didn’t you wait up?”
“I honestly didn’t expect you to hunt me down,” she replied, truthfully.
“Hunting you down?” He grinned, shaking his head a little and she saw once more the familiar scar along his jaw and remembered the time he told her about it. “I can’t believe it’s really you,” he said, placing his hands on his hips. “It is so good to see you again, Meg.” He made it sound as if he’d gone away for a few days and come back.
“Are you alright?” she asked, suddenly remembering the shooting. She nodded at his shoulder, as if she could magically see through his shirt to his wound. He sighed heavily as if that topic irritated him. “I’m fine. It’s amazing how quickly a clean shot can heal.”
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