The Love We Keep

by Toni Blake

  And somehow, being here with Suzanne had started to seem...easier than he could have dreamed the morning he’d awakened unable to control his right leg. She’d made him believe trying, working, putting in effort, was going to pay off and lead somewhere. But as he’d lain sprawled like an injured animal on the kitchen floor, suddenly unable to even make a damn sandwich, he’d been forced to wonder: Where? Where is it leading that’s so much better?

  And to remember, again, that staying here with her was temporary, and whatever came next, whether it was with Dahlia, whether it was doctors and nurses on the mainland...it would mean starting all over again. And never really feeling whole or capable again...forever.

  “Oh good, you’re awake.”

  Suzanne had entered his field of vision, but he felt too dead inside to even shift his gaze from the wall.

  “Want a brownie while they’re still warm? I can heat one in the microwave later, but it’s never the same as when they’re fresh from the oven.”

  He didn’t answer. But she just stood there, waiting, looking as calm and fresh and hopeful as always. It was almost enough to inspire him. It had before. But right now it seemed easier to keep lying here in the dark place that had started swallowing him up this afternoon.

  “Okay then,” she said, sounding only slightly discouraged. From his peripheral vision he saw her clasp her hands together. “If you don’t want a brownie, maybe we should move on to some physical therapy since we missed your afternoon session.”

  When he again didn’t answer, she stepped toward the bed, clearly ready to dive right in on pushing and pulling his legs like he was a rag doll, and it yanked from him a snarling, “No.”

  “Come on, Zack. You’ve had a rotten afternoon that feels like a setback—I get it. But you’ll feel better if you snap out of it. Eat a brownie. Do your exercises. Keep moving forward. How about we start with some ankle rotations?” With that, she placed her hand on his right foot. Which he could see but not feel. So strange to watch someone touch a part of your body and not register it in your flesh.

  “I said no,” he growled at her. “What’s the point?”

  “Well, the point, as I keep telling you, is to strengthen your muscles and allow your nerves to—”

  “Stop it,” he cut her off. He hadn’t been looking for an actual answer and was tired of the one she kept feeding him. “I know what you think the point is—but I don’t anymore, so just leave me alone.”

  She simply stood there, finally dropping the false cheer for a look of discouragement. And then he used his sock-covered left foot to lightly push her hand away from his right one.

  “Oh,” she said, sounding hurt by the gesture. It made his heart contract slightly in his chest, but then it closed up a little tighter—until finally she walked away.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SUZANNE WAS FED UP. Ready to throw in the towel and give up on the Neanderthal on her couch. The only problem with that plan? It didn’t get him off her couch or out of her cottage, or get her out of the position of caring for him. So giving up was not an option—not because she was determined or noble but simply because she was stuck.

  So as the early darkness of winter fell over Summer Island, she did two things.

  First, she texted Dahlia, irate. Look, I don’t know where you are or why you’re not answering Zack, but he’s had a major mental setback. I accept that you’re not here, physically—but I need you to be present with him, Dahlia. He’s officially despondent now, and I’m not sure what to do. Please call him as soon as you see this.

  Second, she made a delicious dinner. Remembering that Dahlia had once mentioned Zack loved her meatballs, Suzanne got out the recipe, which Dahlia had given her along with others, and started squishing ground beef into a mixture of bread crumbs, minced onion, Parmesan cheese, an egg, and some spices.

  She took her time, since he clearly needed his space. But she also knew that he eventually had to eat. She’d taken away the sandwich plate a little while ago—the bread had hardened, and the meatballs would be a better lure anyway.

  While they baked, she cooked the pasta and prepared garlic bread—hoping it wouldn’t be a dinner for one. She soon carried two lovely plates of classic spaghetti and meatballs to the table, placed a platter of hot garlic bread in between, and even opened a bottle of wine. Wine had led to trouble last time, but after the day she’d had, she deserved a drink. Or five.

  Things had been going so well up until today. For Zack anyway. For her, maybe not so much—being at serious odds with her best friend, fighting an unwanted attraction to her patient. But Zack had done incredibly well, motivating her to just keep pushing forward and making the best of the situations in which she found herself.

  As she pulled out her chair and sat down, she called over, “Zack, are you awake?”

  No response. No surprise.

  “Listen, you haven’t eaten since breakfast and it’s nearly eight o’clock. You have to be starving.”

  Just when she assumed he still wasn’t going to answer, he let out a low, grudging, “Kinda.”

  She smiled to herself. Then told him, “I made spaghetti and meatballs. Dinner’s on the table.”

  “Bring me a plate,” he demanded in his typical, grumbly way.

  “No,” she said.

  “Why not?” he groused.

  “Because I know you can come to the table.”

  A low groan left him. “I don’t feel like it. Why can’t you just make me a plate?”

  “Because I care about you, and I’m not going to let you just lie there and regress.”

  “Regress?” he muttered. “What the hell is regress? Can’t you just use normal words?”

  She smiled again, amused, as she glanced over at his back. “It means to go backward. We’ve both worked too hard to let that happen. So if you want to eat, come to the table.”

  When he still didn’t move, she said, “Well, I’m going to eat—I don’t want mine to get cold. You can do what you want, but if you’re hungry, you’ll have to get up—that’s all there is to it. So it’s just a matter of whether you want to eat your dinner hot—or cold.” And with that, she cut into one of the meatballs lying atop a bed of spaghetti—then took a yummy bite and washed it down with a big sip of wine.

  When the body on the fold-out couch stirred and he began to sit up, she kept eating, not even glancing over—yet her heart sparked with joy. Thank God. It didn’t mean everything was repaired, but it was a big step in the right direction.

  She continued to eat as he struggled to get the crutches up off the floor, banging one into her end table, soon pushing up onto his left foot, using the crutches for balance. He stayed that way for a moment, taking it slow, likely remembering his fall earlier, but then began with the same careful steps he’d been getting better and better at taking.

  After maneuvering himself into the chair across from hers, he surveyed the meal before him. She thought he might tell her it looked good, but instead remarked, “Wine?”

  “You drove me to drink,” she answered matter-of-factly.

  He said nothing in reply—just picked up his fork and knife, diving into the pasta like a man who hadn’t eaten in a week instead of less than a day. They both stayed quiet, but she remained pleased—he’d come to the table and was eating vigorously. Mission accomplished.

  After a few minutes, though, she decided to say what she was thinking. Maybe she shouldn’t—maybe it was the wrong move—but possibly the wine was stealing her ability to strategize wisely. “Will you do me just one favor, Zack?”

  He hesitated, looking wary as he swallowed a bite, then asked, “What’s that?”

  “Just...talk to me,” she said. “Tell me what’s going on. That’s the least you can do. I mean, I thought...we’d become friends. Or something like friends anyway.” The uncertainty forced her mind back to their near kiss. What i
f she hadn’t pulled away? But thank God she had. Today has proven he isn’t emotionally stable, so you definitely made the right call—especially since you’ve never been into casual sex. And he lives with you—it’s not like you could just do it and walk away regardless. So you made the only reasonable decision. No matter how delicious the temptation had felt for one fleeting moment or how much it’s stayed on your mind.

  Just when she thought he wasn’t going to answer and that she might have to smash a meatball in his face out of frustration, he lowered his fork long enough to swipe a napkin across his mouth and say, “Guess it just hit me fresh. That I’m probably never gonna walk again.”

  Oh. He was talking. Opening up to her. Fresh hope bloomed in her heart.

  “Sure you are,” she argued. “You’re walking now. On crutches. And that’s amazing given where you started just a couple of weeks ago.”

  “I mean the normal way,” he told her. “And that I’m never gonna be out on my boat fishing again. And that I don’t know how the hell I’m gonna make a living. And that I don’t even have decent insurance. I’ve been floating along here, letting you take my mind off things with all this exercising, but...shit, Suzanne, I don’t know what the hell I’m gonna do.”

  She took another sip of wine before answering. She wanted to tell him it would all be okay. She wanted to paint pretty pictures about miracles and believing that anything is possible. But it had been a long, rough day, and in her gut, she knew that wasn’t what he needed to hear. And she wasn’t sure what he did need to hear—but she spoke from the heart. “I understand,” she said. “I would be afraid, too.”

  “I didn’t say I was afraid,” he protested.

  But she ignored that and went on. “I can’t pretend to know what it feels like to be you right now. And everything you just said—yeah, it’s huge, heavy, scary stuff. And you’re gonna have days when you want to give up because you feel overwhelmed by it all. But the important thing is...that you get up again. Like you just did, coming to the table.”

  “Let’s get something straight.” He narrowed his gaze on her, one brow pointedly arched. “I came to the damn table because I’m hungry and you wouldn’t bring me anything to eat. It wasn’t some big, grand, symbolic act—it was that I didn’t have any other choice.”

  “I think you just made my point for me, Zack,” she said quietly.

  “Huh?”

  “You got up because you didn’t have any other choice. And that’s how it’s going to be every day. You get up because, in the end, it’s easier than lying there starving or not being able to go to the bathroom. You get up because you have to. That doesn’t mean it’s easy, or pleasant, or that you’ll be happy about it. But you do it anyway. And the more you do it, the more you’ll forget that it took extra effort, the more it’ll just become your new normal.”

  Zack lowered his gaze, refocused on his dinner, and took another bite—but he looked uncomfortable. “This...those—” he pointed to the crutches leaning nearby “—will never feel normal.”

  She didn’t want to argue with him, but... “Other people have gone through what you are and worse, Zack. And even if it’s hard to believe, it becomes normal.”

  “I don’t want it to feel normal,” he snapped. “I want my goddamn leg back.”

  The statement filled the air between them. So simple. So impossible.

  “I want my husband back,” she said softly. Then bit her lip, almost regretting the response. “I know it’s not the same thing—but I understand that feeling. That feeling of just wanting what you used to have so damn bad and not knowing why God or the universe took it away from you and it seeming like a nightmare you can’t wake up from. I thought life would never feel normal without Cal. And I had more than my fair share of days when I didn’t get out of bed, when I couldn’t see the point, when I couldn’t face having a new kind of life.

  “And again, I know it’s not the same thing. Maybe, to you, right now, having my husband die seems like...nothing, mere child’s play on the big scale of life-changing misery and pain, but he was the only thing that had ever really, truly made me happy. I don’t like admitting that—but it’s true. And I thought we had another forty or fifty years of that to go. When he died, I...” She stopped, shook her head. “I didn’t know how to go on. Sometimes I still don’t.” She blew out a breath. “But I get up every day. That’s the one thing I do—I get up every day, to make sure I can.”

  She stopped, raised her gaze cautiously to the man across the table. Crap. Where had all that come from? Self-pity had not been on the menu here. But it had come pouring out of her heavy and thick and...embarrassingly honest.

  Zack replied softly, “I don’t think it’s nothing, Suzanne.” An almost shocking compassion filled his eyes. “I’ve never loved anybody that way, and I don’t think I know how to, but...there are moments I wish I could.”

  “Why,” she began gently, “do you think you can’t?”

  He sighed, blinked uncertainly, and pointed vaguely in the direction of the Summerbrook Inn. “Look at how I screwed things up with Meg. She made everything easy, and I made it all hard. I always knew I was better off alone and that pretty much proved it.”

  For some reason a lump gathered in Suzanne’s throat. Maybe from spilling her guts about Cal, or maybe what Zack had just shared made her sad. “Why would you think that? That you’re better off alone?”

  He shook his head. “It’s complicated. But...well, I didn’t grow up in one of those nice families where you go shopping for school clothes every fall and get visits from the tooth fairy.”

  “Neither did I,” she informed him.

  His face changed. “You didn’t?”

  She shook her head. “My mother died giving birth to me. I had four older brothers and a father, but...it wasn’t like they looked out for their baby sister. I wasn’t really one of them—they bossed me around. We lived on a farm in rural Indiana, and I cooked and cleaned and washed the clothes. My dad was...old-school about certain things being women’s work. He didn’t know how to relate to a daughter, and I think he resented me for taking my mother away. All in all, I felt like an alien in my own home.”

  “I guess you didn’t stick around any longer than you had to?” he asked.

  She knew he himself had left home as a teenager, but she didn’t know why. She shook her head. “I worked hard enough in school to get a scholarship. I picked nursing because...because...” She hadn’t thought about this in so long, and it made her unexpectedly emotional. Damn wine.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because I always wondered what my life would have been like with a mom. And if anything could have been done to save mine. I wanted to be a labor and delivery nurse, thinking I’d save lives and make sure babies had their moms. But...” She stopped, smiled softly. “I got interested in orthopedics and took a different path. Maybe, deep inside, I got afraid. Of being in delivery rooms, and how it would feel if something bad happened. Nurses—they need to be tough. Tougher than me. That’s why I didn’t last in the field and just wasn’t a very good one.”

  “Don’t say that, Suzie Q.”

  She met his gaze. “Why not?”

  “You’re a good nurse, trust me. I know from firsthand experience.”

  She replied dryly, “Yes, I felt very accomplished when my only patient curled up in a non-responsive ball this afternoon. Let me just add that to my résumé.” She regretted the words as soon as they left her, though—so she kept talking, to keep him from thinking about his woes. “Nope, I was happier after I gave up nursing. It’s a florist’s life for me. It sucks when a plant dies, but no one has to mourn it.”

  “Well,” he said, looking almost sheepish, “I still think you’re a good nurse.”

  And for some reason, this time the compliment brought a flash of warmth to her cheeks. She felt almost bashful as she said, “Thank you, Zack.�
�� Then took another sip of wine before asking, “Why did you leave home?”

  He narrowed his gaze and said, “That’s top secret information. I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you.”

  She couldn’t help thinking the answers were at the heart of what made Zack Sheppard tick. It would help her care for him better if she understood him more. And beyond that, just like Meg, she simply wanted to know. What she’d said so casually before dinner was true—she cared about him. Despite herself. “Come on,” she prodded playfully. “I told you my sad tale—now you have to tell me yours.”

  “Nah,” he said, dropping his gaze to his nearly empty pasta bowl.

  She considered it at least a small triumph that he wasn’t replying as combatively as the last time she’d asked about his past. Which encouraged her to keep trying. “Why not?”

  He smirked pleasantly. “Let’s just say it’s not fit dinner conversation.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Is any of this?”

  A small laugh left him.

  And she let a wide smile unfurl across her face. “You laughed,” she said. “You actually laughed. Proving that life is, in fact, not all doom and gloom after all.”

  “Damn you, Suzie Q. You did it again.”

  “Did what?”

  “Got my mind off my troubles.” Though his expression turned more wooden then. “Even if saying that takes me right back to them.”

  “Well...just don’t go there,” she said quickly.

  “Can’t avoid thinking about the crap forever. That’s the problem, Miss Q. At the end of the day, it’s always gonna be there.”

  But at this, she just shrugged. “So is everything else, including reasons to laugh, and Dr. Phil, and meatballs. You just have to focus more on...the meatballs. Were they good?” she inquired with a hopeful smile.