by Toni Blake
But it’s just physical, right? What you feel for Zack? It’s from letting Beck Grainger reawaken your desire. It’s from opening that door that was closed for so long after Cal’s death.
If that’s all it was, though, why did her every nerve ending bristle each time Meg expressed an interest in just seeing him? Why did it feel like...encroachment, like those teenage times when you’re talking to a boy and everything’s going fine until the pretty cheerleader bounces over and interrupts?
Suzanne blew out a cold sigh as she approached Koester’s on the sunny winter afternoon. In fairness, Meg wasn’t the cheerleader type—it was among things they had innately in common. But Suzanne could no longer deny the suddenly glaring truth—she was jealous. Even if he had only tried to kiss her because he was drunk and was only nice to her because he needed her, he had become...her companion for now. Who she liked touching far too much during their therapy sessions. Who she unwittingly ached to touch even as she pushed through the market’s front door.
“Afternoon, Suzanne,” said Trent Fordham. Allie Hobbs’s fiancé, Trent, operated the bicycle livery in summer and served as the island’s resident attorney. Like Suzanne, he was bundled in a winter coat and hat, and he carried two plastic bags of groceries. He grinned. “You looked a little harried. Everything okay?”
She attempted a smile. “Oh, you know how it is—cabin fever can make you a little nuts.” She forced a laugh on the end.
Which seemed to convince easygoing Trent. “Don’t I know it. Still getting used to that.” He was even newer to the island as a year-rounder than she was. Then his smile faded. “Hey, I heard about Zack. Tough situation. How’s he doing?”
Suzanne let out a sigh, almost grateful to be brought back to what was really important here—Zack’s paralysis. Her and Meg’s head games didn’t matter much in comparison. “It’s rough, but he’s getting by. Doing a little better every day.”
“Anything Allie and I can do to help, just say the word. I mean that.”
She nodded and thanked him sincerely. If anything came up she couldn’t handle on her own, maybe it would be nice to have someone else to call besides Meg and Seth.
Though she didn’t want to feel cut off from Meg. She truly hoped they could get past this. But as she plucked up a brownie mix and a cake mix from Koester’s baking aisle, then added ingredients to make chocolate chunk cookies—because at this point what the hell?—she couldn’t stop revisiting the question in her mind. Was she turning Meg away for Zack’s sake—or for hers?
Part 2
Excerpt from a letter to Meg:
Life isn’t a fairy tale. It won’t be perfect. But then, you already know that. You’ve suffered too much, lost too much along the way, and it’s taken a toll.
But neither is it a battleground. Attacking, retreating, defending what’s yours, and holding on too tight—it won’t work. Holding too tight to anything seldom does.
Life is closer, I think, to being a journey—one very long road trip. You’ll hit potholes and have the occasional flat tire. But there will be plenty of smooth stretches, and you get to hold the map and decide which way to go. And oh, the views from the scenic overlooks. The trick is to soak up the beauty of every mile you travel—there’s something worth seeing in every single one if you pay attention, even when the weather turns bad and visibility grows poor. But the most important part of the journey is who we take it with. The right travel companions are priceless. Don’t cut the trip short with the good ones or you’ll end up with no one to share the view.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MEG SAT IN the tiny pass-through room at the inn her grandma had always called the nook. It was just large enough for a small wall of built-in bookcases and an overstuffed easy chair where she often curled up with an afghan and a book.
Half an hour after returning home from her ill-fated lunch with Suzanne, she had the afghan and book, as well as her calico cat, Miss Kitty, nestled at her side—but she’d read the same paragraph three times before giving up on the mystery novel. Perhaps she had enough questions in her life right now without trying to resolve fictional ones.
A few weeks ago, she’d been happy. She’d had a wonderful new romance with a man she loved, her sister had moved here and they’d become closer than ever before, and she’d looked forward to a quiet, cozy winter catching up with Suzanne and Dahlia after her time away.
Zack had been the last thing on her mind then. He’d been a guy she’d once loved but felt disconnected from, and she’d only hoped he would disconnect and start moving on, too.
Now—somehow—she couldn’t stop worrying about him and didn’t know why. Among other things she didn’t understand: How had she ended up in a big fight with Suzanne? Would Zack ever walk again? Given how few relationships he had, should she be there for him anyway, no matter what Suzanne thought? And the baffling cherry on top of the question sundae: Why on earth hadn’t Dahlia come back after Zack was injured?
She knew his injury hadn’t seemed as life-changing when Dahlia had left, but she still hadn’t gotten past it. Surely Suzanne struggled with that, too—probably even more under the circumstances. Maybe that’s why she’s so rigid about all this and I should cut her some slack.
“I’m trying,” she murmured to Miss Kitty, whose chin she scratched now. “I really am.”
She felt as if the whole world was mad at her. Dahlia had left a distant-sounding voice mail, to which Meg had replied only with brief texts. Suzanne was obviously angry with her. And Zack...well, who knew where his feelings lay since she couldn’t see him. She only knew that even while she’d felt bad refusing to go to the doctor with him...maybe a part of her had secretly liked knowing he was pining for her. And if he’d stopped now...well, good for him. But maybe it had been vindicating to know he’d finally come to appreciate her.
She picked up the phone and called Lila, who answered cheerfully. “Hey, what’s up?”
“You’re my only friend in the world,” Meg said sullenly.
Lila stayed silent, likely stunned. In the history of their relationship, she was usually the dramatic one. “Want me to bring down a bottle of wine?” she finally asked.
“I’ve never been much of a day drinker,” Meg replied doubtfully.
“If I’m your only friend in the world, sounds like a good time to start.”
Despite herself, Meg laughed softly. “Good point. Bring the wine. And I’ll bring the whine. Like, whine with an h. Get it?”
“At least despair hasn’t dimmed your quick wit,” Lila said. “I’ll bundle up and head in your direction with Koester’s finest vintage.”
* * *
SUZANNE RETURNED TO the cottage, baking supplies in tow, ready for a quiet afternoon in the kitchen. Pushing through the front door, she glanced toward the sofa bed, ready to say hello—only to see it empty, just a pile of tousled sheets.
Was he in the bathroom? She discouraged him from going when she wasn’t home. But she’d been gone much longer than planned. Which suddenly seemed horrible.
“Zack?” she called as she circled the bed—and caught sight of his legs and one crutch on the floor, visible through the wide kitchen entryway. “Zack!”
He didn’t answer even as she rushed toward him, rounding the corner. He lay half-propped against the lower kitchen cabinets, a look of disgust on his face—one crutch rested right next to him but the other lay farther away, out of reach. The makings of a sandwich scattered the floor—lunch meat, lettuce, bread smeared with mustard—and a can of soda lay on its side on the counter, cola dripping down one of the cabinets to puddle on the floor.
Oh God. She’d been away too long and he’d gotten hungry. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I should have been here. Please forgive me.”
“No.” The angry, guttural word slammed into her like a punch in the stomach—until he added, “Not you. Dahlia should be here. Dahlia.”
> Oh. He wasn’t blaming her. He was reverting to blaming the person they’d all been holding accountable, even as they tried to forgive, since the moment she’d left. And something in his voice dug into Suzanne’s chest, turning her a little panicky.
She rushed to get things back to normal—back to their normal, the normal they’d started building together. “Well, I’m to blame, too—I shouldn’t have been away so long.” She shook her head, nervous, repentant. “I wasn’t thinking. But let’s get you up. Then I’ll remake that turkey sandwich. I’m sorry, but I didn’t get your to-go order—and it looks like you smartly gave up on that anyway. I did get some stuff to make brownies, though, and cookies, and a cake—so I’ll whip up something fun this afternoon.”
“I don’t want anything,” he said, his voice so sullen that it stole her breath.
“What do you mean? I can make something else if a sandwich doesn’t sound good.”
He gave his head a morose shake. “I said I don’t want anything.”
“But...why not?”
“Because I don’t,” he snapped—the first time he’d even approached sounding grumpy. And grumpy suddenly seemed preferable to a Zack so despondent that he barely formed words. But he’ll break free of it—maybe snapping at me is a good sign.
“Let’s get you up,” she suggested again, a little more quietly than before.
“Whatever,” he said.
Though getting him to his feet became a struggle. He’d only fallen a few times, and he could typically pull himself up using nearby furniture. But everything in the galley kitchen was too high for him to reach from the floor, and he was too heavy for her to lift, especially since he wasn’t putting much effort into it.
“Try to...here, put your arms around my neck...okay, that’s not working, We’ll come up with something else,” she said. She stepped out into the next room, looked around, and grabbed one of the solid oak chairs from her dining table. She had dipped into problem-solving mode—but her heart pounded in her chest. Something had changed drastically here. Because he’d taken a fall? Because she hadn’t been here to help him or feed him? All of that? She wanted to cry into her hands, but she couldn’t.
I should have been here. Or hell, maybe I should have taken Meg’s help and considered it a blessing and not a problem. Or I should have called on other friends for backup, whether or not Zack would like it. But I knew he wouldn’t. I knew it was hard enough for him feeling helpless just in front of me. And I thought I could handle it. I thought I could do this on my own.
“Here.” She braced the chair against the cabinets next to him. “See if this helps.” She situated herself on his opposite side, and together they slowly managed to pull him up, up, up, until he was able to plop himself onto the chair.
The effort left them both panting, and after catching her breath, she picked up his crutches and put them in his hands. Only he just sat there—for so long that it became awkward.
She asked, “Do you want to head to the table, or the bed?”
His eyes were downcast—he stared at the kitchen floor. “I can’t.”
She drew in a deep, fortifying breath, seeking strength, patience. Everything had been fine this morning and now each fragile gain she’d made seemed...lost. And had apparently been more fragile than she’d even realized. “What do you mean you can’t?” she asked gently.
He raised his gaze only slightly. “I can’t do it, Suzanne. I can’t get myself around. I can’t do this, damn it.”
She pushed out another tired sigh, leaned her head over into one hand, and tried to think how to proceed. Given that she couldn’t carry him herself, all she had at her disposal was tough love. “You’ve done it dozens of times before, so you can do it again.”
“What’s the point?” he asked her.
Yet one more sigh. All she could do was boil this down to practicality now and deal with the bigger picture later. “The point is you can’t sit in this chair forever, and I can’t move you. So you’re going to have to do it yourself. And the point is also that you’ve been getting better and better at moving yourself around, so I don’t get it. You fell. You dropped a sandwich and spilled a Coke. Big whoop. But whether it’s now or whether it’s whenever you get sleepy or have to pee, you have to move. So do it whenever you want. Meanwhile, I’m going to clean up this mess and make you another sandwich. Which you can eat or not. Then I’m going to make some brownies. Which you can also eat or not. I’m doing everything I can for you, Zack—you have to do the rest yourself.”
He looked at her like she was an uncaring shrew. But she didn’t know what else to do. She simply turned away and unrolled a bunch of paper towels from the holder on the counter. She didn’t look at him again—just went about the business of methodically cleaning up the mess, soon throwing pieces of the sandwich and sopping paper towel in the trash.
When she heard him stir, planting the crutches on the floor, using them to pull himself to his feet, she didn’t look then, either. She just let him do his thing while she did hers. Though she noted he bypassed the table for the bed. A tiny victory followed by a tiny defeat.
Still, she remade his sandwich, put it on a plate with some chips and potato salad, grabbed another can of Coke from the fridge, and carried the late lunch into the living room. Where she found him lying on his side, facing away from her. Rather than leaning the crutches against the wall like usual, he’d left them abandoned on the floor.
“Lunch is served,” she said, trying to sound upbeat.
When he didn’t respond, she added, “And again, I’m sorry. About being away so long. I know you must be starving.”
Still nothing.
“Why don’t you sit up and eat. It’ll make you feel better. I can turn on the TV—it’s almost time for your talk shows. Then I’ll make those brownies. How’s that sound?”
How that sounded was as if she were trying to cheer up a belligerent child. But maybe we all acted and felt like children under the right—or wrong—circumstances. She knew she certainly reverted to the mind-set of a high schooler more often than she liked lately. It was easy to go backward into insecurities when life grew challenging.
When Zack still said nothing and didn’t move a muscle, she decided not to beg him. Just like getting back up on the crutches, he’d snap out of this when he was tired of the alternative—in this case, hunger. “Okay—I’ll leave the plate here on the end table for whenever you want it.”
She then quietly made her way to the other side of the bed, to see if his eyes were open. No—shut. He’d checked out, at least for now. Despite surely being hungry, maybe some rest would do him good. Maybe he’d bounce back after a short nap—or even a short, fake nap.
That was when her eyes fell on his cell phone, atop the covers near where she stood. He’d clearly not taken it with him to the kitchen. The screen lit up just then, drawing her eyes to an app update message—and the unlocked screen beneath it, showing multiple unanswered text messages to Dahlia.
Hey, did you get my calls? Need to talk.
Where are you?
Having too much fun at the beach to give a damn about anything else, I guess.
Suzanne’s heart fell. On one hand, it had only been a few hours. But on the other...now that she thought about it, Dahlia had made contact less frequently the last couple of days. And...okay, maybe you can’t expect someone to look at their phone constantly when traveling, but her nephew faced some challenges here, so if there was a time Dahlia should be checking her phone, it was now.
“Damn it, Dahlia,” she whispered.
* * *
ZACK LAY ON his side, staring blankly at the wall across the room. He smelled something from the kitchen—hadn’t Suzanne said something about brownies? Yesterday that might have distracted him, at least a little. But today she could be baking shit pies for all he cared.
He didn’t want to move. H
is whole body felt heavy, lethargic, as useless as his bum leg. He’d been trying his damnedest, putting on the brave face, finding other things to focus on, grabbing on to any distraction...but everything had gone to crap after Suzanne had left for lunch. And it had brought home a grim reality.
She wasn’t gonna be here taking care of him forever.
So this almost-palatable situation wasn’t...real.
What would happen when Suzanne’s forced servitude came to an end? Was he gonna spend the rest of his life being a burden to Dahlia? Who wouldn’t even answer his damn phone calls? So maybe she’d take over or maybe she wouldn’t, but even if she did...what kind of life was that? For either of them? She hadn’t signed up for this, and maybe he couldn’t blame her if she ran from it.
That was the problem. No one had signed up for this. And Dahlia could twist it however she chose, but they both had a history of running away from whatever didn’t make them happy. Maybe she would run away from Zack the same way she’d once run from her mother, the same as he’d run away from his.
He didn’t mind being alone. He hadn’t ended up the solitary fisherman on a small trawler from spring ’til fall by accident. It had always felt easier, safer, than being with anyone who might start to...depend on him. But the kind of loneliness that came without the open water, or even two good legs to stand on...well, he wasn’t a man who could cope with being weak and incapable forever.
Suzanne kept saying how much he was progressing, but how much further could it go? Get really skilled on crutches? And sure, some men could make a satisfying life that way. If he was smart enough to be a lawyer, like Trent Fordham, or a doctor who could heal people with what they knew, like Suzanne’s husband, maybe then. But he made his living—his life—outside. Using his hands, and his legs.
