by Alyssa Kress
~~~
"I am a failure." Erica regarded the contents of the kitchen trash can. A full helping of spaghetti marinara draped the can of tomato sauce and empty pasta packaging that had been used to make the meal. Liam had apparently tossed his dinner here surreptitiously.
Erica couldn't say she blamed him. She'd overcooked the spaghetti, resulting in a rubbery paste. The sauce had tasted metallic. So much for trying to go healthy and economical by cooking their own meal.
With a sigh, Erica threw her napkin over the discarded food and closed the lid of the trashcan. The culinary disaster might not have stung so much if she felt she were making strides forward in her business venture. She'd spent the entire day on the phone, researching places to advertise, asking old clients if they had any leads in the area. It was all background work, probably necessary, but gave nothing to show for itself.
As Erica washed her hands in the kitchen sink, she heard the doorbell. "Darn Clint." Why didn't he just use his key and save her a trip to the door?
It wasn't until Erica was at the front door and turning the knob that she recalled Clint hadn't mentioned he was dropping by. By then it was too late. She finished opening the door to find Brennan standing on the other side.
From an apparent study of his athletic shoes, he looked up. "Ah. Hello, neighbor." He tried a smile, but it seemed forced.
"Hi, Brennan." Erica hoped her own muted smile looked more natural. It was completely perverse how her heart had skipped to find him here. Meanwhile, she noticed he was standing oddly, with most of his weight on his left leg. "What's up?"
Brennan's gaze dropped back to his shoes. "Uh, I was thinking...that you could use some data I happen to have. For your business, that is."
Her heart sank. They'd discussed this before. Though she could certainly use his store's database to solicit clients, she hadn't wanted to ask for his help—yet again. What with all his assistance regarding Liam's guardianship, she already felt uncomfortably beholden.
He held up a flash drive. "This is contact information for a list of customers who've agreed to receive solicitations from ancillary businesses. Some of them might be interested in hiring a physical trainer."
"Ah..."
"It's really for Liam," Brennan explained, clearly reading her hesitation. "He can't stay here in Palmwood unless you can, right?"
When he put it that way... "Okay." Erica held out her hand for the flash drive. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." After giving it to her with a relieved sigh, Brennan turned to go. The odd stance Erica had earlier observed now became a noticeable limp.
"Whoa," she said, before stopping to think about it. "What happened?"
"Hm?" Brennan took a firm grip on the stair hand railing.
"You're injured," Erica declared.
"It's nothing." He took one careful step downward.
"That doesn't look like 'nothing' to me." Erica came out the door to scrutinize his tender progress. "That's serious."
"Just a pulled muscle." Brennan's face tightened as he descended another step.
"Quads?" Erica guessed, observing closely.
Brennan grunted, indicating neither affirmation nor denial.
"Sheesh, don't be so stubborn."
He shot her a quizzical look.
"I can help."
Finally, he stopped. "What?"
Alarm flickered through Erica. Was this a good idea? Treating a pulled muscle would require touching. However, the notion of being able to help Brennan—for a change—was very appealing. It would be a chance to even the score. She decided to ignore her flicker of alarm. "I have a certificate in sports injury therapy. Why don't you let me take a look at it?"
"Oh." He threw her a quick glance. "No. Uh, this'll clear up in a few days, I'm sure."
He didn't believe she could make a difference. Erica's determination expanded. "Inside. Now."
"No, really—"
"Brennan." Erica held up the flash drive he'd handed her. "Does this only go one way for some reason? I have to be the beggar and you the generous king?"
He turned to look at her again. A moment of silence stretched between them in the cool evening air. "Okay," he finally said. "You win. Besides, it hurts even worse than it did yesterday."
"Let's see if we can do something about that." Erica held the door open while Brennan slowly made his way back up the steps and inside.
They'd need a table, one long enough to accommodate Brennan's length. "The laundry room," Erica decided. "Once I throw a sheet on the table in there, it'll work."
"At this point, I'd take a bed of nails."
"You should have told me," Erica scolded, rather ridiculously. She and Brennan did not even have a friendship. There was no reason he would have complained to her about his sports injury. But it felt good to scold as she led the way to the laundry room, situated between the kitchen and the backyard door.
The location was a little isolated, Erica noted as she went to fetch a sheet from the linen closet. But Liam was just upstairs, and what was there to fear from being isolated anyway? Even if she felt Brennan's presence like a large male animal prowling her territory, nothing was going to happen. He wouldn't take advantage of the situation, and for her part, she wasn't about to jump him.
The main thing was she'd be able to do something for him for a change.
With a groan, Brennan hefted into a sitting position on the table. "Now, what?"
"Which leg did you pull?"
"This one." He touched his right thigh.
"All right, then. If it's not too difficult to do, lie down on your left side." These were words Erica had told a hundred injured clients, but they felt different, somehow, addressed to Brennan. It felt distinctly peculiar to order him to lie down. She cleared her throat. "Does your leg hurt in the front, back, thigh, shin?"
"Pretty sure you were right before, and it's my quads," Brennan mumbled, lying on his side.
It was a good thing he was already wearing knit jogging pants. They wouldn't have to get into the issue of disrobing for better movability.
"Okay, I'm going to take your leg and gently stretch those upper thigh muscles by pulling it backward. Be sure to let me know if it hurts. It's not supposed to." Erica got behind Brennan and picked up his leg at the knee and ankle. It was heavy relative to its size, full of muscle. A little flutter went through her stomach, but she ignored it.
"Hurts," Brennan muttered.
Erica reduced the arc of her stretch. "How's that?"
"Good." He paused while she rotated his leg from the center position back twenty degrees and forward again. "Where'd you get the certificate?"
"Cal State LA, night school."
"While you were working?"
"Uh-huh. I was employed by a gym back then, but wanted my own customers."
"And eventually a gym of your own." Brennan apparently remembered the whole conversation. "This is starting to actually feel good now."
"Pain rarely gets rid of pain. Probably should ice this when you get home."
"Okay." Whatever skepticism he might have owned toward her ability seemed to have disappeared.
Satisfaction coursed through Erica. She continued working on stretching his muscle in a silence that grew oddly relaxing. She really enjoyed that he was needing her.
Her brows knit as she suddenly wondered why she should enjoy him needing her. Meanwhile, it was gratifying to feel the muscles in his leg relax and to see the tightness that had been in his face soften.
"Why did you start drinking?"
Erica only realized she'd blurted the stupid question out loud when his leg jerked. The relaxation on his face also disappeared.
"Sorry," she backpedalled. "That was completely out of line—"
"No," Brennan interrupted. "Not really."
It wasn't? Erica didn't think the answer was any of her business.
He took in and released a deep breath. "Not at all out of line," he claimed.
Biting her tongue to
keep from saying any more idiotic things, Erica resumed her rhythm of stretch and relax, stretch and relax.
Brennan closed his eyes and seemed to make a determined effort to regain his state of relaxation. "I was a star in high school."
Erica bit her lip. Now that she'd started this, might as well see it through. Besides, she was curious. "A sports star?"
"An everything star: sports, academics, student government. You name it."
Erica continued rotating his leg, waiting, wondering how this connected to drinking.
Brennan kept his eyes closed. "I wasn't allowed to let anything slip. Once I became a star, I sure as hell had to stay one. That was what I thought, anyway. Had to keep the record for baskets scored in a game. Keep the four point whatever average. Keep the prettiest girl by my side for every party."
Erica tilted her head, pondering this. She'd never considered there might be a downside to being the high school brain or sports legend. "No room for failure," she translated.
"No room at all." Brennan visibly swallowed. "Meanwhile, though, there was this voice in my head, a sneaky, snarky voice that kept warning me I was going to screw it all up. Because it was all a masquerade, not real. In reality, I was nothing but a weak, stupid troll."
For a moment, Erica's stretching rhythm hitched. She knew that voice.
"A six-pack made the voice shut up." Brennan opened his eyes and regarded the wall across the room from him.
Erica's throat felt tight. If that were true— No wonder so many people turned to the stuff. For her part, she'd simply resigned herself to living with the nasty voice, the one that told her she wasn't good enough, that of course she was going to fail.
"That's— Well, I can kind of get that," Erica admitted, surprised to find this was true. He'd been young, inexperienced, and had put himself under tremendous pressure. The temptation to find relief must have been enormous.
Brennan sighed. "The truth was somewhere in between. I was neither the superstar nor the troll. It wasn't until I dried out I was able to come to terms with that."
Really? He'd come to terms with the voice? "But—how? I mean, I'm still hearing that voice." Erica was a little surprised to hear herself admit this. But she was even more surprised by Brennan's reply.
"I know."
Stunned, she halted work on his leg.
He pulled his limb away from her and slowly sat up.
All she could do was stand there, dumb.
Seated on the edge of the table, Brennan looked at her. "I know the world you grew up in," he stated quietly. "I built my own version of that hell. It's not hard to imagine what having a father like that would do to his children."
Pins and needles broke out all over Erica. He understood. Somebody understood what she'd never been able to articulate. It had been hell. Her gratitude felt so overwhelming she wanted to cry.
And when she looked into Brennan's amber eyes, she saw he felt the same way.
That stunned her more than anything at all. What? Why would he feel like crying? Did he need someone to understand him, too?
Looking away abruptly, Brennan hopped down off the laundry room table. "Oh, wow," he said, in a vastly different tone of voice. A no-longer-intimate, normal-sounding tone. "That feels much better." He threw her a quick, almost guilty, glance. "Thank you."
Erica felt thrown off her own railroad tracks. What had just happened here? Had she just felt a moment of connection, incredibly deep connection...to Brennan?
Somehow, she managed to reply. "You're welcome."
The only indication Brennan, too, might have been a little thrown was the speed with which he left—through the backyard door.
