Vital Sign

by J. L. Mac

  There’s an anguish in her that I find so attractive. The look on her face, the way her body seems so…fragile…all of her draws me in. She pulls me. She had even before seeing her on the beach. I exchanged brief and to the point emails with a strange woman and I couldn’t get her out of my mind. I’ve been wondering who she is, how she’s coping with her loss, all the while wishing, deep down, that I could make it better, make it right. Now I can see how she’s handling her loss. It’s obvious to anyone that she’s suffering. It shreds me but I’d be a goddamn liar if I said it didn’t make me want her more. I haven’t done the girlfriend thing since Allison and what a misery that was. But Sadie Parker has lured me in with the prospect that I could help. Maybe I find her so attractive because a part of me wants to even the score, to make her better as payment for the heart that I feel unworthy of. I didn’t deserve it. I still don’t. But maybe if I could soothe and comfort her, I’d feel less guilty.

  The uncertainty written all over her face makes me ache. I’m not an emotional man, but looking at her testing the integrity of my boardwalk is enough to drive me over the edge. Her eyes stay focused on the wood, looking almost disbelieving that it held beneath the weight of our feet. Maybe she wonders how she could be as resilient. I can’t blame her. I wonder the same thing all the time.

  “Don’t worry. It’s solid. Doesn’t look that way to everyone else, but I know different.” I mean it too. I’m sincere and I hope she can hear that in my voice because I’m not sure what else to say right now. Seems like whatever that means to her, whatever that means to me—it’s the right thing to say at this very moment.

  I watch as something burns in Sadie Parker’s eyes. It sparks then flickers just enough for me to see it. Hope? Relief? Whatever it was, I’m glad I’m the one who put it there. I wish, I hope that I can do so much more for her. So much more.

  ***

  I turn on the tap and strip off my jeans and tee, staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror as the water runs in the sink. I’ve braced myself against the sink and do my best to dial myself down. I had to get in here in a hurry. Sadie standing in my house, admiring all the shit that my mom’s decorator had festooned the house with stirred something inside me.

  Pride.

  I haven’t felt proud of myself, my things, or my life in so fucking long and then here comes Sadie. Sadie Parker, the 26-year-old widow, walked up to the balcony with me and went to the railing. She took in my view, her eyes scanning out over the sea, and I don’t think she realized it, but her lips tilted up on one side, showing the ghost of what could be a smile. God, I wish she had given that to me. I’m sure that a full-on smile from her would break my heart into pieces. She’d wound me in the most perfect way. It would be a sweet agony. I can picture it in my head; I wish so badly that I could make it happen. I can think of no better sight. The little tinge of pride that she stoked in me makes me want more. I’ve not been proud of myself or my life, but seeing her taking in all the beauty that my isolated world has to offer drives me to show her more.

  The connection I feel to this woman was so instant. I’ve never felt anything like it. Something about her, about me, about the situation that we find ourselves in—if I believed in fate, I’d say that’s exactly what it is. If fate exists, if it’s real, I would say that somehow our journeys are the same.

  Chapter Seven

  Tiny Sprig

  Sadie

  April 22, 2013

  By the time I get to my motel, my t-shirt is soaked from clutching the wet clothes to my chest in an effort to hide my bare breasts. Door number four comes into view and I begin unraveling my wad of wet clothes in search of my surfboard keychain.

  “Come on,” I mutter to myself, glancing around to see if anyone is witnessing this mess I’m in. I groan, knowing that I must have left my key at Zander’s beach house. My head drops back and I look up at the awning, wanting nothing more than to slap myself for being such a dumbass.

  Yay. More ego-wounding embarrassment.

  I drag myself into the small lobby and hurry to the desk where Dawn is standing, flipping through the pages of a magazine.

  I clear my throat and work out a weak explanation. “Um, hey, Dawn, I uh, left my key at my friend’s house after I fell into his-her-their…pool. Can you let me into my room?”

  Dawn gasps and bugs her eyes out at me. “You poor thing! You must be frozen! Let’s get you back into your room.” She grabs a wad of keys from the desk in front of her and rounds the counter, leading the way back to room four.

  “I’ll get the key back tomorrow. I’m sorry about that,” I offer quietly from behind her as she unlocks my door.

  “Oh, honey, it’s no big deal. People lose these room keys on the beach every summer. Good thing I get a good deal on those cute little surfboards, huh?” She smiles and winks as she holds the door to my room open for me. She’s clearly proud of her lovely little motel and I can see it. She wears her pride like a badge. It’s a little heartwarming even for me, the chronically bitchy Ice Queen.

  “Yeah, I guess so. Thanks, Dawn.”

  “No problem, hon. Need anything else?”

  I shake my head no and smile.

  “Okay. I’ll see ya later.”

  “Bye.”

  The door clicks shut and I secure the deadbolt, lean against the back of the door, and sink to the floor in a heap, but not before I shamefully scrunch the collar of Zander’s shirt up to my nose and inhale. I close my eyes, draw him in, try not to hate myself for doing it or hate Zander for making me want to do it.

  ***

  I run my wrist beneath the stream of water to make sure that it isn’t too hot and, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, peel myself out of my clothes. Zander’s clothes. The white t-shirt hangs from the tip of my fingers. It’s soft. Feels good. Smells even better. I meant to drop his shirt to the floor but I can’t. The long-lost, purely female part of me won’t drop it. I look at myself in the mirror. My breasts are full and round, my nipples tight. My cheeks are just the faintest shade of pink. The mirror has begun to fog so that my reflection is a little obscured, which makes looking at myself much easier because right now…I ache. I ache so badly. The long-lost butterflies that Zander planted in my stomach today have roused another long-lost part of me.

  Desire.

  Dragging my gaze from the blurred reflection of myself, I look down to Zander’s shirt in my hand. I know what I’m about to do. The tingling sensation gathering between my legs is driving me forward. It’s fueling my courage with an endless amount of blind passion. I don’t have to look at myself. I don’t have to think. I just want to feel. Pulling the shirt to my face, I inhale. With my eyes shut, I imagine him wearing this shirt. I imagine Zander standing so close to me that I seem to melt into him. I can picture his arms around me, his hands tangling into my hair. His mouth is on my neck, nipping at the tender spot beneath my jaw, pushing his hips forward until I can’t stand the wait any longer, his breathing ragged and needy against my skin. Fuck, he would feel so good. I just know it. My core clenches at nothingness, prompting my hips to undulate towards vacant space in front of me. I use one hand to easily slink Zander’s shorts down my legs. They fall to the floor with a soft whoosh. I step out of them and go to the tub. The water is perfect. I flip the drain toggle upward and water quickly begins to fill the tub. I step in with Zander’s shirt still pressed to my face. The tub is oversized and perfect for me to sink down in. The cool ceramic coating sends a shiver through me as I get comfortable. I rest against the back of it, letting the shirt trail down the front of me.

  The smell of him is all around me. Thoughts of him fill my head. My free hand skates leisurely down my stomach and around my navel. A wave of self-induced goosebumps spreads across my skin. With my eyes still shut, breathing in his scent, I let my fingers drift to my slick center. A small gasp escapes when the pad of my middle finger glides easily across my clit. It’s easy to picture him here with me, making my body hum with need. My finger m
akes pass after pass over my sensitive, slick knot of nerves. Heat rushes. Arousal builds. My hands shake, moving frantically, desperate for release. My hips thrust forward, bucking back and forth, seeking resistance and friction. A sob-like moan strangles from my throat. My eyes water. I draw my knees up closer, letting them open as wide as the sides of the tub will allow them. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut as the first glistening hints of climax spring forward deep in my core. A growing tightness steals my breath.

  One.

  Two.

  Three more passes from my diligent finger and the world falls away and implodes simultaneously. My other hand goes to my center and I plunge two fingers into my channel just in time to feel the body-racking spasms tear through me. I gasp and moan and cry out almost all at once.

  My breathing slows, my body relaxing languidly against the tub. I thought that I’d feel better afterwards. I thought a little release would serve me well, but I was so fucking wrong. A burgeoning melancholy more powerful than I’m prepared for stalks up to me and engulfs me right here in the bathroom.

  Maybe it’s the release making me so weepy? Or it could be the usual gamut of emotions raging inside me that’s making me feel like a punching bag that has seen far too many rounds.

  I haven’t had an orgasm in two years. The last time I had any type of sexual release was the night Jake and I were shot. He had come home, showered, and prowled into our bedroom in search of me. I opened my body to him and we made love in perfect silence. That was the last time.

  Since Jake, I haven’t—I never did anything like what I just did. I guess in my mind, I felt like he deserved to be the last one that I shared that with. Yet here I am, sprawled in a motel bathtub, crying guiltily because not only have I gone and ruined the fact that Jake was the last time, but I just got myself off clinging to another man’s t-shirt. It wasn’t Jake that I was picturing hovering above me, it was Zander. I feel guilty for doing it but I feel even guiltier for enjoying it. I feel most guilty for the tiny sprig of hope that just bloomed somewhere in my soul. I know that that little sprig of hope will flourish if I allow it to. The knowledge that I could free myself from a prison of grief has my heart swelling. It makes me so painfully emotional.

  ***

  While the television in this motel room isn’t some high definition flat screen, it tunes in movies just fine. I’ve been sprawled on the queen bed in my pajamas watching a crime-thriller movie marathon for hours.

  It has kept my mind off my run in at the beach…for the most part. I can’t believe I wandered right to Alexander McBride. I tried to forget the way he looked at me, especially because I know I liked the way he looked at me. The bath felt good. So good. The water was hot and I lingered for a long time, letting it wash away my embarrassing, awkward, frustrating afternoon, except it didn’t work. Not at all. In fact, it probably made it worse.

  “Alexander McBride. Zander,” I mumble to myself, working his name over in my head. Something about that name seems familiar. I scrunch up my eyebrows and think hard for a moment.

  Someone with the same name in high school? College?

  It could very well be that his name is just one of those ones you swear you’ve heard before but you actually haven’t. Either way, I’m certain that if I knew this man, I’d remember him.

  You don’t forget someone that attractive. Admitting that he’s gorgeous has me feeling guilty all over again. I shouldn’t be checking out some stranger the way I did today. I definitely shouldn’t be getting myself off to him. I shouldn’t be so drawn to him, but I am. I’m married. Not to mention the fact that said stranger is also the man who lucked out and got a life saving transplant from my husband. It’s the biggest conflict of interest I’ve ever run smack in to.

  Honestly, the fact that he looks so enticing probably has everything to do with the fact that I haven’t been touched by a man since Jake. I don’t plan on it either. I feel bad enough for what I did in the bathtub. Jake was my first and last. I gave my body to him when we said our vows. His death doesn’t mean that I get to renege on that promise. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t—I couldn’t—be with another man. The private thoughts about Zander are as far as it’s going to go.

  Looking never hurt anyone, though, and denying that Zander is something to be admired is just dumb. Anyone with decent eyesight can see that man was blessed with perfect DNA where aesthetics are concerned.

  He’s got hair the color of cinnamon. It’s short on the sides but long enough on top to look slightly mussed up even though his hair was combed to the side a little, displaying a jagged part. He probably uses his fingers to part his hair. Or maybe it just falls that way when he gets out of the shower. Either way, his style suits him well. His sideburns are closely groomed and perfectly straight. His eyes are a sapphire blue with gold-flecked eyelashes that any woman would die to have. The sun literally shined on him and made those lashes of his glitter. Men should not be allowed to have long, full eyelashes that glitter in the sunlight, showing off natural highlights. That should be reserved only for women like me who have to slather on mascara to get any kind of volume. He has high cheekbones and a sharp, defined jawline. There are traces of laugh lines around his mouth, but they’re only traces, as far as I can tell. I didn’t see any lightheartedness in him today. A little ache of dismay fills my chest at the thought that he may not smile or laugh much. I mean—I know that I don’t smile or laugh, either, but for some reason I don’t care about me and my lackluster existence, just his. I bet he has a great laugh. I imagine it’s one of those laughs that feels contagious. He has a dusting of facial hair that gives him a kind of rugged look that I’m sure only looks even better when he’s laughing or smiling. A little tug at my heart has me closing my eyes, thinking about the stunning man that I met today.

  I noticed a small, thin scar on his cheek when we met on the beach today. It can’t be more than a half an inch long, but it’s there. It makes me wonder where he got it and why in the hell that teeny tiny scar makes him even more attractive. I find myself wanting to touch it. I want to run the pads of my fingers along the line of that scar. I imagine brushing my lips over the scarred tissue.

  “Oh my God,” I groan, reaching for the pillow beside me and burying my face in it.

  I’d love to stay here all night chiding myself just like this, but my stomach is protesting my lack of sustenance. Food and Zander now occupy my mind more than the detective on the television set.

  I reach for the telephone on the nightstand and press “1” for the front desk.

  “Beachcomber Inn,” Dawn greets.

  “Hey, Dawn, it’s Sadie Parker in room four.”

  “Oh, what can I do for ya, sweetie?” she chirps happily.

  “I was wondering what restaurants deliver here?”

  “Oh, okay. Well, there’s Ugo’s Pizzeria just down the block. They have great Italian food. I have their number if you want it. And then there’s Big Daddy’s Smokehouse. It’s a little place at the end of the street. They have the best pulled pork sandwiches. They don’t deliver, but it’s within walking distance,” Dawn explains. Just as she draws in another breath to undoubtedly list other options, a knock at the door has me scrambling to my feet.

  “Uh, Dawn, gotta go.” I don’t say goodbye to her. I hang up the phone and stand up from the bed, unsure of what the hell to do. I glance around for my purse. I have pepper spray on me at all times, like Jake always insisted. I grab my purse and begin rifling through it for the small bottle.

  Whoever’s at the door knocks again. I finally get the pepper spray in hand, shake it a few times, and tiptoe to the door. I lean forward to look out the peephole. My shoulders relax when I don’t see anyone there. Had to have been someone with the wrong room number. Maybe one of Ugo’s delivery guys. I unbolt the door and open it, pepper spray in hand, just in case.

  Zander.

  My shoulders slump in relief and the awkward realization of just how relieved I am to see him again doesn’t escape me.


  He’s standing just outside the door of my room wearing a plain white t-shirt, jeans, and flip flops with canvas straps that appear to be frayed on the edges. His blue eyes wash over me. “Smart girl,” he says quietly, noting the pepper spray in my right hand by motioning his eyes down toward it.

  “Oh. Um, yeah. Jake, my husband, he makes me, made me, carry it everywhere.” I stumble over my own words, still mixing present tense with past. I don’t know if I’ll ever get it right. It’s just another uncomfortable detail of my pathetic life.

  Zander nods then holds up a very familiar surfboard key chain with the number four on it. “Thought you may need this.”

  “Yes, I do. Thanks for bringing it by.” I hold out my hand for the key just in time for my stomach to announce that I’m starving.

  Zander arches his eyebrows, making the first clear display of emotion I’ve seen on him yet. I can feel my cheeks redden; my second round of embarrassment in Zander’s company. First I partake in a wet dress contest and now my stomach is making noises that sound like they should only come from a man seven feet tall and five feet wide. So embarrassing.

  “Hungry?”

  “Yeah. I was just about to order some dinner when you knocked.”

  “Wanna go eat?” The way he speaks in choppy little sentences has me wondering if he ever talks much at all. He’s like a primitive or something.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’m just going to take it easy since I’m supposed to meet you for breakfast in the morning,” I make it a point to remind him.

  “So we can meet now. For dinner.” The way his eyes swallow me up makes it difficult to refuse.

  Truthfully, I don’t want to refuse him. I want to be near him. I want to hear him speak. I want to watch his chest rise and fall as he breathes. I want to study him like he has studied me. I want to know him.