He started for the hallway. There he looked left, then right. Right seemed more promising, so he made his way toward the half-open door at the end. He could hear her sobbing as he approached and he paused to knock.
“Mackenzie...”
She didn’t respond. He hesitated a moment, then pushed open the door and entered what was clearly her bedroom. She sat on the side of the bed, head down, arms wrapped tightly around the pillow pressed to her chest. Her shoulders shuddered with the force of her misery.
His first instinct was to put his arms around her. She looked so bloody sad and alone and he’d always been a sucker for crying women. He settled for sitting beside her and resting a hand in the middle of her back.
“What’s wrong?”
She shook her head, still not looking up. He smoothed his hand in a small circle and waited. After a beat she lifted her head and took a shaky breath.
“They gave up on me. They were keeping my job open, but they’ve given it away. So it’s all gone now. Everything I’ve worked for...”
Fresh tears welled. He pulled a handful of tissues from the box on the bedside table. He pressed them into her hand and she made a hiccuping sound that he guessed was thank-you.
“If they were willing to hold your job open that long, you must be good at what you do. There’ll be other jobs, right?” he said.
She blew her nose. Her face was pink and shiny with tears, her eyelashes spiky with moisture.
“I want my job. The job I earned. I want my life back.” There was a plaintive, almost despairing note to her voice, like the wail of a scared child, and he understood that this wasn’t only about the job. This was about everything—her injuries, the loss of the life and world she’d once taken for granted, her long recovery.
“It’ll get better, Mackenzie.”
“Will it? Will the headaches stop? Will my shoulder work properly? Will I ever be able to sit cross-legged again? Will I ever be able to take on a full nine-to-five working day without collapsing in a heap for a week?” The questions fired out of her, bristling with anger and frustration.
“I don’t know.”
She hunched forward, gripping the pillow tightly. “I need to know. I want to know now that it’s all going to be okay. I’m sick of taking it on faith. I’m sick of proving everyone wrong. I need some kind of guarantee that it’s going to be all right because I can’t just keep trying and trying and trying when I can’t see the end.”
She started to cry again. This time he didn’t resist the instinct. He folded his arms around her, pulling her close to his chest. She remained locked in on herself, arms banded around the pillow. He tucked her head beneath his chin and waited her out.
After what felt like a long time her body softened and her head rested more heavily on his shoulder.
“I’m so tired,” she said, and he knew she was talking about more than physical tiredness.
“You’ll be okay, Mackenzie.”
Her breathing evened out. After a few more minutes she stirred in his arms, pushing away from his chest. She glanced at his face briefly before grabbing more tissues. The glimpse was enough for him to see she was embarrassed now that the crisis had passed. Self-conscious because she’d let her guard down in front of a man she’d shared a meal and a bottle of wine and not much else with.
“Don’t,” he said.
Her gaze found his.
“Don’t give yourself a hard time for letting it get to you. You’re only human. No one can be strong all the time. No one.”
“You have to be strong in recovery. No one else will do it for you.” Her voice sounded husky and thick.
“So, what? You’re not allowed to feel shit? You’re not allowed to have a bad day?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like I can. Sometimes it feels as though if I stop, that’ll be it. I’ll be locked in that one place—never getting better, never moving forward, never getting back everything I had. That’s why I wanted so badly to return to work. That was my benchmark. If I could fool them all into believing I was exactly the same, then it would all be okay. I wouldn’t be different. My life wouldn’t have changed. I’d just pick up the threads I dropped a year ago. But they gave up on me. They bloody gave up on me.”
She blinked rapidly, clearly determined not to shed any more tears. He thought about the scars he’d seen on her head and arm and the stiffness in her gait and it hit him that perhaps the hardest part of surviving the kind of trauma Mackenzie had been through was accepting that life would never be the same, no matter how hard you pushed yourself or willed it otherwise.
“Would it be the end of the world if everything didn’t go back to being the way it used to be?” he asked quietly.
Maybe it hadn’t occurred to her to ask herself that question.
“What are you suggesting I do? Slip into early retirement on a disability pension and take up crocheting and lawn bowling?”
“Not at all. I’m only wondering if there isn’t another way of defining normal. That’s all.”
She stared at him. He could see her mind working, feel her sifting through her response to his challenge. Although it seemed low of him to leave her now, he knew Mackenzie well enough to understand she wouldn’t want him hanging around while she grappled with redefining who she was.
“I’m going to get out of your hair.” He stood. “Spare you any more of my amateur psychology. Such as it is.”
She rose, too, quickly collecting the crumpled tissues from the bed and stuffing them into her trouser pocket. For the first time he glanced around, taking in the decor. The wall behind the bed was a muted green, the other three walls taupe. A hazy Asian-themed print hung above the headboard. Her duvet was green, the pillows snowy-white. Some clothes were draped over an antique chair in the corner. His gaze slipped away, but not before he’d noted the delicate black lace of a bra dangling over the chair back, the cups still curved to the shape of Mackenzie’s breasts.
Feeling like a voyeur, he headed for the living room. Strudel was out cold, Mr. Smith draped across her neck. He clicked his fingers to wake her and clipped on her lead. She gave him a dark look but lumbered to her feet obediently.
Mackenzie was standing in the doorway watching him when he turned to go, her expression rueful and chagrined and awkward. “Tonight was supposed to make up for all the times I’ve been rude to you in the past few days.”
“You don’t have to make anything up to me.”
“Right. Two doors in the face, belligerence over the fence, ridiculous preciousness and now this.” She shook her head. “You must think I’m an absolute fruitcake.”
He eyed her steadily. “What makes you think I’m in a position to judge anybody?”
She gave him a quizzical look.
“Everyone’s got their own shit to shovel, Mackenzie. Believe me.”
He started forward and she stepped aside so he could pass. She followed him to the entryway.
“Thanks for dinner,” he said.
“It was my pleasure. Sorry about the entertainment.”
“As I said, there’s nothing to be sorry about.”
He turned to go, but she caught his forearm. He glanced down as she transferred her grip to his hand. Her fingers were warm as they wrapped around his.
“More importantly, thank you for your kindness.” She rose on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You’re a good passer of tissues.”
She gave his fingers a small squeeze before releasing him and taking a step backward.
“Good night,” he said, because he wasn’t sure what else to say.
He walked away, Strudel padding at his side. The spot where Mackenzie had kissed him felt warm. As though she’d branded him with her lips.
She didn’t shut the door and turn off the light until he’d started down his own driveway. The house was cold and dark and utterly unwelcoming when he let himself in. He crouched in front of the fireplace and built a stack of kindling and paper twists. He lit a mat
ch and watched flames lick up the wood, trying to pretend that something hadn’t happened when Mackenzie’s hand closed around his and her lips brushed his skin.
But it had. Something had stirred in him, the same thing that made his gaze zero in on her breasts and backside every chance he got. The same thing that had turned him into a dazed yokel when she smiled at him tonight.
Desire.
So much for her not being his type.
He threw a log on the fire and used the poker to prod it into position, part of his brain already busy justifying his urges to himself. She was an attractive woman and it had been an unexpectedly intense evening. He was only human.... Just because he’d felt the pull of desire didn’t mean he would necessarily act on it. He’d met dozens of women during his marriage whom he’d found attractive and never laid a finger on any of them, because he took his vows seriously. As far as he was concerned, marriage—
He sat back on his heels, a little stunned at himself.
Marriage? Really?
The fire popped, sending sparks floating up the chimney and snapping him out of his shock. He’d thought he’d drawn a line under his marriage the day Edie had confirmed the affair. But apparently a part of him still lived like a married man, still felt guilty about being attracted to another woman.
Which was nuts, because he was a free agent now.
Free to make his own decisions.
Free to desire other women.
Free to act on that desire, should he so choose.
An image filled his mind—Mackenzie’s bra, a promise spun from delicate black lace and fine silk.
If he wanted to, there was nothing in the world stopping him from finding out how Mackenzie looked in that bra. Well, from trying to find out, anyway. He was single. Available.
And, apparently, more than a little horny.
For a moment, he allowed himself to wonder. Then he shut down those thoughts.
The truth was he didn’t know tons about Mackenzie. He knew she was feisty and prickly and intelligent and challenging. She had a good sense of humor and a sharp, sometimes acidic tongue. She was also sexy as hell, it turned out.
She certainly wasn’t the kind of woman a man took on lightly. Especially not a man who had next to no game where women were concerned—it had been a long, long time since he’d even thought about trying to get a woman who wasn’t his wife into bed, and he wouldn’t even know where to start where Mackenzie was concerned. He had no idea if she was remotely interested in him as a man. For all he knew, she was as likely to slap his face as kiss it if he made a move.
And no, that kiss on the cheek did not count as a sign. He wasn’t that rusty or deluded.
He grabbed a couple cushions off the couch and settled in more comfortably in front of the fire.
This being-single thing was complicated. Fortunately, there was plenty of night left to ponder the subject.
* * *
I AM AN IDIOT. I am an idiot. I am an idiot.
The refrain echoed through Mackenzie’s brain on an endless loop as she cleaned the kitchen. Who in their right mind invited a man to dinner and then had an almighty meltdown in front of him? Who did that?
You, you idiot.
She blamed the wine. She’d consumed four glasses in quick succession trying to numb the shock of Patrick’s news. Instead of washing the pain away, however, the alcohol had eaten away at her defenses leaving her weak and emotional and unable to control herself when the tide of loss had risen up inside her—as it had on and off all evening.
She’d managed to laugh and talk and put on a good show the first few times the loss had threatened, even though inside she’d been wailing and pulling her hair and rending her shirt. Then she’d had one glass too many and suddenly there had been nothing between her and the pain and fear and she hadn’t been able to stop the tears from coming.
She winced as she hung the damp tea towel over the oven handle. Oliver must think she was a bona fide head case. She hadn’t had a single normal interaction with him since he arrived. If she were him, she would barricade the doors and windows and avoid any and all future contact with the crazy lady next door.
She trudged into the bathroom and squeezed toothpaste onto her toothbrush. The woman in the mirror had puffy, bloodshot eyes and a rueful expression on her face.
Well she might.
She brushed and flossed, then headed for bed. She stopped in her tracks in the doorway, pulled up by the sight of the twin indentations on her quilt. One for her, one for him.
God. What a ridiculous evening. The poor man.
Mr. Smith sniffed at her heels and she bent to give him a good-night pat before shutting him out in the hall. Then she changed into her pajamas, crawled into bed and tried to pretend that she hadn’t lost it spectacularly in front of the lovely, warm, kind man from next door.
Flashes of her own self-indulgent monologue came to her as she squeezed her eyes shut.
I need to know. I want to know now that it’s all going to be okay. I’m sick of taking it on faith.
He must think she was the worst sort of self-pitying sook—in addition to being emotionally unstable, of course.
His parting words came to her then.
What makes you think I’m in a position to judge anybody? Everyone’s got their own shit to shovel, Mackenzie.
At the time she’d thought he was simply being kind—continuing to be kind, really—but now she thought...maybe not. There had been a look in his eyes as he’d spoken, a sort of hard, lonely bleakness....
Something else he’d said slipped into her mind. It suited me to get away for a few weeks.
It occurred to her that maybe she wasn’t the only one struggling with a less-than-stellar life right now. The thought that she might not be alone in her messed-up state, that maybe she hadn’t made as big a fool of herself as she’d imagined, loosened the tense knot in her belly. Maybe, as Oliver had suggested, she was allowed to have a bad day occasionally.
Maybe—revolutionary thought—she could even afford to cut herself some slack.
It wasn’t exactly a philosophy she was familiar with. Everything she’d achieved in life she’d gained through hard work and determination. She’d attacked her recovery with the same zeal—every exercise a challenge, every milestone achieved a victory and a spur.
She had no idea how to turn off that part of herself. No concept of what it might be like to hold herself to a lesser standard. But maybe she needed to try, because, as she’d said to Oliver, she was so, so tired.
Tired of the constant fear she would never be able to reclaim her old life that sat behind her breastbone.
Tired of pretending to the world that everything was just dandy, that having her body torn apart had been a mere hiccup, a temporary hitch in her stride.
Tired of pretending to herself that she was still the same woman she’d been twelve months ago.
Would it be the end of the world if everything didn’t go back to being the way it used to be?
She’d never really asked herself that question. She’d been so busy trying to make it as though the accident had never happened. But maybe she should be thinking less about resurrecting the past and more about what the future might hold. Maybe it was time to stop trying to alter an irreversible reality and instead work out how to live with it.
A few days ago, the notion of moving toward acceptance and away from defiance would have felt akin to heresy. Tonight...tonight it felt timely.
* * *
MACKENZIE WOKE TO the sound of birdsong outside her window. As always, she started planning her day the moment her brain came online, allocating time to all the things she needed to do, making lists in her head. Breakfast, then she needed to ramp up her rehab exercises so she could return to her regular workload. She had three days of downtime to make up for, after all.
She also needed to do something about getting a job. She wouldn’t be fit for full-time work for a few months yet, but she needed to put her ear to the ground so s
he could find out who was where and what was happening and what opportunities might be on the horizon. She could renew her subscription to Inside Film Magazine, the industry bible, call a few contacts, put out some feelers....
She flung back the covers and swung her legs to the floor. Instead of standing and plunging into the day, however, she simply sat there.
Not eight hours ago, she’d posed a number of questions to herself—or, more accurately, Oliver had—and she’d decided they were worth considering. Yet here she was, ready to embark on yet another day of pitting her will against her injuries, trying to alter reality by sheer dint of willpower and determination alone.
But what if this was her new normal? What if all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put her back together the way she’d once been? What would the world look like if she ceased trying to shove a square peg into a round hole?
Or, on a simpler, more practical level, what did she really want to do today, rather than subject herself to a grueling rehab session that would leave her feeling weak and potentially nauseous?
It was a novel question and it occupied her for all of five seconds. Then she stood to let Smitty in before returning to bed and pulling the covers high, because she knew the answer: she was going to stay warm and snug with her dog and read one of the books stacked on her bedside table. Then, when her stomach dictated, she would make herself something delicious for breakfast—pancakes, perhaps, or waffles. Then, and only then, she would figure out what else she felt like doing.
Smitty didn’t need to be invited onto the bed—it was his favorite place in the world, and he was up in a flash. Mackenzie ran a hand along his back and smiled as he turned to lick her wrist. She picked up a book and wriggled herself into a comfortable position. Her conscience nagged at her for the first twenty pages, telling her to get moving and sweating and striving. She ignored it and continued reading until finally the nagging stopped and she was simply being.
How very...interesting.
After a while, a warm feeling of well-being stole over her and she found herself remembering the kindness and gentleness of Oliver’s touch as he soothed his hand in circles on her back last night.
The Other Side of Us (Harlequin Superromance) Page 8
