Dr. Callahan gave me a stern look. “I’d prefer it if you found someone to drive you over instead.”
I chuckled and gave her a salute. “Yes ma’am.”
“I know you were wanting to increase your activity levels, but I think with these recent dizzy spells you should continue to not overexert yourself. We’ll discuss it again at your next appointment.” I shrugged into my coat as my doctor opened the door for me.
“I figured you’d say something like that,” I pouted, trying to cover up how disappointed I really was.
“Baby steps, Beckett,” Dr. Callahan lectured.
“I know,” I replied.
“I’ll see you at your scheduled appointment next month then,” Dr. Callahan said, following me out into the hallway.
“As much as I love our visits, I hope I won’t see you until then,” I said, smirking.
Dr. Callahan patted me on the back. “Me too, Beckett.”
After chatting up Lynn for a few minutes and eating a couple of her butterscotch crèmes, I headed for my car and got in. It was already five o’clock so I didn’t need to head back to the office. Though if truth were told, I’d have probably made an excuse not to go back. It was becoming harder and harder to get up and join the rat race every day.
“Maybe you should find something else you want to do,” my little sister Zoe had said a couple of weeks ago over dinner at our parents’ house.
She was eighteen, in her first year at the local university, and was firmly entrenched in that annoying idealistic phase full of fairy-tale dreams where a college education actually helped you land the perfect job and not just a mountain of debt.
I gave her an indulgent smile. “One day your pretty bubble will pop under the weight of jaded experience, little sis.”
Zoe hadn’t appreciated my attempts at humor. “I just think you’re selling yourself short by working a job you don’t even like.” She really meant what she said. What a delusional little girl.
“I sort of like a roof over my head and two hundred channels on my television. I won’t give up HBO for anything!” I had filled up my plate with more salad and waited for her to give me another dose of her teenage fantasies.
“That sounds pretty shallow, Beck.”
“Whoa, Zoe, tell me how you really feel,” I bit out.
“I just figured after everything you had been through that you wouldn’t be wasting your life being unhappy. Seems ridiculous to me.”
“It’s easy for you to say, Zoe. Mom and Dad still pay your car insurance and give you an allowance every month.” I had abandoned any attempt at keeping the conversation light, going for defensive instead. Mostly it was because she wasn’t saying anything I hadn’t already thought a million times myself.
Zoe had shrugged. “Whatever, it’s your life. Though I think it’s a good start that you finally dumped the materialistic bitch.”
Mom had gotten after Zoe for her language choice and I had lost my appetite.
It was weird having my little sister give me life advice. Life advice that actually made sense.
I quickly typed out a text after turning the key in the ignition.
Still up for that tea?
I waited for a reply, letting the car idle. The heat warmed up the interior, making me sort of sleepy.
Finally my phone dinged with an answering text and I smiled, feeling happier than I had been only moments before.
How about we get some fresh air instead?
I quickly typed out my response.
I’m not letting you bury me in the sandbox.
I was smiling when I pulled out of the parking lot.
My phone dinged.
No sandboxes. Promise.
So what do you have in mind?
A car honked behind me and I pulled out onto the street. Corin’s text came a few seconds later.
Why don’t you come and find out?
My heart began to thump a little wildly in my chest.
Was Corin flirting with me? And why did that make me feel tongue-tied and jittery?
When I stopped at a red light, I sent back my own text. One that was completely honest. Words I felt in my bones.
I’d like nothing better.
—
“Here you go.” Corin handed me a Styrofoam cup. Having tea together was becoming our routine. I realized I liked having something that was “our thing.”
“We sure are spending a lot of time outside for a girl who hates being outdoors,” I commented, scalding my tongue with the hot beverage.
“I never said I hated being outdoors. I just don’t like it when it’s hot. Or cold. Or when it’s raining. And I’m not a big fan of snow. And wind really sucks—”
“And yet here we are,” I observed, grinning at her.
“I’m trying to step outside of my box a little bit. Give me some credit.”
“Oh, I’m totally giving you credit!” She had a way of making me smile like a total idiot without even trying.
We walked, side by side, up the wooden steps until we were standing in the middle of a pretty wooden bridge that arched over a rushing stream on Ash Street.
Corin had no way of knowing how important this particular place was to me.
As a kid, I had been obsessed with photography and had taken a hundred pictures of this very location.
And then after my cardiac arrest I had spent many a day here, trying to figure out how my life had gone so horribly wrong.
It was peaceful under the trees, the late afternoon light filtering through leafless branches. It was warm and I was happy to be outside without a coat. I hated winter. I didn’t like being stuck inside.
“So here we are. In the fresh air. What sort of crazy stuff did you have in mind?”
Corin leaned against the bridge railing and drank her tea. “I used to come here a lot when I was a teenager,” she remarked.
I was surprised by her statement. Startled by the connection of this bridge that I hadn’t realized we shared.
“Oh yeah?”
“Being here helped to clear my head. When inside I was screaming, just standing here, staring out at the stream, all that noise went quiet. And I could breathe. For just a few moments, I could forget…”
Her voice trailed off and I wanted to ask her what it helped her to forget. I wanted to know so much more about her.
I wanted to know everything.
She didn’t continue. She didn’t tell me anything else. She let her words die out and I was left wanting so much more.
But I knew by now that you didn’t push Corin. You had to wait. Be patient. Even if it sucked.
“I wish I had thought to bring my camera,” I said suddenly.
Corin gave me a small smile but didn’t comment.
“I used to take pictures of this bridge when I was younger.”
Corin looked up in surprise. “You did?” I nodded. “So you grew up around here.”
“Sure did.”
“Huh,” was all she said and turned her attention back to the stream.
We were quiet for a while. It wasn’t a weird, awkward silence. It was actually sort of nice. Even with Corin picking obsessively at her thumbnail and my trying not to be obvious as I stared at her.
“You have a camera on your phone,” Corin said after a while.
“Yeah, I do.” I frowned, not getting her point.
Corin sighed and looked exasperated. “You can take pictures with your phone, Beckett,” she said slowly, as if I needed help with comprehension.
I pulled out my phone and swiped the screen, finding the camera icon. “You’re right.” I grinned at her, holding my phone up and quickly taking a picture of her before she could protest.
“Hey!” Corin yelped, holding her hand up in front of her face. “I’m not the subject here!”
I looked down at the photograph I had just taken. Corin was looking directly at me, her mouth slightly open, the wind blowing her hair across her face. My breathing hitched a fraction.
“Let me see,” Corin demanded, grabbing the phone from my hands. “Oh god, I look awful! How do you delete it?”
I quickly took the phone back. “No way, that one’s a keeper,” I told her. There was no way in hell I’d delete that picture.
“If you use it for blackmail later, I’ll have to do something really horrible and nasty to you,” she threatened without any real heat.
I quickly took another picture of her. Then another. “How are you going to stop me?” I asked, lifting the phone up over my head as she tried to pull it out of my hand.
“How about I push you into the stream, smart ass!” Corin pressed her body against my front as she craned up on her tiptoes in her attempts to grab the phone.
Then I wasn’t playing anymore. Because all I could focus on was the feel of her. Our faces were only inches apart, and while her eyes were trained above our heads on my outstretched arm, my eyes were glued to her face.
Her lips.
The tiny dimple at the corner of her mouth that peeked out when she tried not to smile.
The slope of her neck as she arched her back.
Then all feeling headed south.
I went very, very still. So as not to alert her to the sudden presence of my very noticeable hard-on.
Corin jumped and finally got the phone from my grasp. “Aha!” she shouted, finally looking at me and the pained expression I was sure she would see.
I knew the moment she realized how close we were. She tensed and started to move away.
Before I could think, I snaked my arm around her waist and held her in place. “Don’t,” I pleaded softly, holding her as close as she would allow.
And for a moment we stayed like that. Her dark brown eyes troubled and confused. We were both breathing heavily and I wanted to kiss her.
Quite possibly more than I had ever wanted anything in my entire life.
Just do it already. Stop being such a pussy!
But before I could act on my impulses, Corin wiggled out of my grasp and gave me a shaky smile. She held up the phone and took my picture. She looked at the screen.
“Payback,” she chuckled, handing it back to me and moving to the other side of the bridge. Purposefully away from me.
I looked at the photograph she had just taken. It wasn’t very flattering. I looked as though I was in pain. Which, I was. I discreetly adjusted myself and started thinking about a naked Betty White.
“I think I’ll stick to taking pictures of trees for now,” I conceded when it was safe to look at her again.
“Good idea. I’d hate to have to push you over,” Corin warned.
And then, just like that, our moment had passed. And I was more than a little disappointed.
The sky was clear and the dark branches of the trees stood out starkly against the deep blue. I took a few pictures and was pleased with the results.
Corin watched me take photo after photo, saying very little as I did my thing. It was amazing how easily I fell back into the headspace of a photographer. Looking for the right light and angle.
I realized quickly how much I had missed it.
“Okay, Ansel Adams, let me see what you’ve got there.” Corin held out her hand and I gave her the phone, watching as she scrolled through the pictures, not saying a thing.
Shit. What if they sucked? That would be embarrassing.
Corin finally looked at me and shook her head. “These are fantastic, Beckett. Why in the world did you ever stop taking pictures?”
I felt an immeasurable amount of pride at her compliment. For some reason, her opinion mattered more.
I took the phone and looked at the pictures. “I started playing soccer. And that took over. I found that I didn’t really have time for anything else. Sports became my new passion.”
Corin frowned. “You can have more than one passion, Beckett. And I think you gave up on something incredible.” Her voice was tight with an emotion I didn’t understand.
I reached out and took her hand. Once again, just needing to touch her.
“You’re right. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned since almost dying, it’s to hold onto the things that matter. To the things, the people, that make you happy.”
She didn’t say anything. I couldn’t tell if I had made her uncomfortable yet again. She averted her eyes and stared out over the water.
Suddenly a pure white butterfly flittered down and landed on Corin’s shoulder. She was completely unaware.
“Don’t move an inch,” I warned her. She stiffened but the butterfly didn’t move. I once again lifted my phone and zoomed in on her profile, the butterfly’s wings lifting in the breeze.
Corin pushed her hair behind her ear and the butterfly took off.
“What was that about?” she asked.
I showed her the picture and she gave me a strange little smile.
“I think this one is my favorite,” I said.
She never replied.
And I was okay with that.
Chapter 11
Corin
I had been lying in bed for hours, my mind spinning in a million different directions.
I was thinking about things I wished I wouldn’t. Things I couldn’t stop obsessing over no matter how hard I tried. I was thinking about the past. Things I could have done differently. Stuff I should have said when I had the chance.
My parents.
Not as the vibrant people they had once been, but the weak, miserable invalids who had withered away into nothing.
I would give anything to remember the good things. But my brain didn’t seem to work like that. It focused on the negative. The horrible.
No reprieve. Constant. Unyielding. My memories were my worst enemy. They invaded my present and wouldn’t let me move on.
I was immobilized with thinking about them.
I went to the dark places I tried so hard to forget.
Dad’s cough sounded wet and I remembered his physician saying the cancer had moved to his lungs.
He was having trouble breathing, his skin ashen from being deprived of oxygen. The tube the nurse had put in his nose stood out starkly against pale skin.
His eyes were open but they weren’t looking at me.
They were looking through me.
And I imagined dying this way. In pain. Barely lucid.
It wasn’t the first time I felt the fear.
And it wouldn’t be the last.
I had seen my fair share of counselors to try and get a handle on my grief and anxiety. Most of them had been after my mother had died because my dad had insisted on it. I would talk about stages of grief and coping with my feelings in a healthy way.
Blah, blah, blah. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Not to say that their points weren’t valid. I’m sure there was a reason they had gone to school for so many years. They had to know what they were talking about. But I hadn’t wanted to hear it.
Nope.
No way.
I had been way too numb to take any of it in. The counselors would open their mouths and all I heard was static. Nothing they said would make the horrible hole in my chest close up and disappear. I didn’t care how long they went to school or how fancy their degrees were.
Finally, after a few months my father had stopped making me go. Not because he picked up on my resistance, but because he had just been diagnosed with his own terminal illness.
Then my life became consumed with caretaking. I didn’t have time to take care of me and my emotional well-being.
Now here I was, years later, stuck in that same headspace I had inhabited as a teenager. In so many ways I still felt like that messed-up girl who had just lost her parents. I felt stunted. Unable to move on.
Stuck.
During the day I could go about my routine and almost think about other things. The pottery studio. Doctor’s appointmen
ts. Support group. These things filled my hours.
But at night I only had my thoughts for company. My scary, irrational thoughts that threatened to undo me completely.
After hours, I finally willed myself to sleep only to have my dreams take me places I didn’t want to go.
I was buried under six feet of dirt. Enclosed in a coffin I couldn’t escape from.
I scratched at the wooden lid, fingers bloodied, nails pulled from their beds. I screamed and screamed hoping someone would hear me.
But no one heard me.
I was alone.
Trapped.
In an unyielding death.
I couldn’t wake up. I was stuck. In the nightmare. It wouldn’t let me go.
And it didn’t end when I woke up, drenched in a cold sweat, my body shaking.
Being awake was worse than the terror of my dreams.
I wanted to cry. To let these terrible feelings out somehow. I felt like a bottle of soda that had been shaken up but the cap was still securely in place. The pressure in my chest was unbearable.
I hardly ever cried. I kept it inside. Mixed up with the pain and misery that had become the most familiar and constant thing in my life.
I felt the ache in my chest resume and I had a hard time breathing. Now there was a ringing in my ears that was so loud I couldn’t hear anything else. The room started to tip and spin and I was getting nauseous.
I jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom, barely getting to the toilet in time before I emptied the contents of my stomach. Bile and acid because I hadn’t been able to eat dinner.
Cold sweats. Thumping heart. Endless dark thoughts that left me spiraling.
My ever loyal cat, Mr. Bingley, came into the bathroom and curled up on the mat beside me as I lay out on the cold, hard tiles. I pressed my cheek into the floor and shivered uncontrollably.
They had come for me again.
The butterflies.
My once benevolent protectors now my sadistic torturers.
The panic attack took on the form of this beautiful childhood memory and made it something ugly. Something scary.
The fluttering in my chest, the suffocating weight of fear. The buzz in my ears that drowned out my ragged breathing.
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