“I’m terrified, Daddy,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “I love him, and I’ve terrified of losing him—one way or the other.”
Malcolm did not know that she loved him. What if she never got the chance to say it? What if she said it, and he didn’t feel the same? What if she forgave him, and he failed her again?
“Don’t be so hard on him….He’s exactly what you need….”
Maren opened her eyes, the memory making her smile. It was one of the last things her father had told her to do. Perhaps it was time to listen. Maren took a few calming breaths and pulled back into traffic. She was still on edge, still rippling with fear, in fact, but turning back wasn’t an option; she could only move forward from here.
Chapter 30
Malcolm
The day would go down as the worst in Malcolm Vashal’s life. His mother’s death. The day J.J. left him. Those seemed to pale in comparison. They’d lacked both bodily harm and humiliation.
Malcolm stared at the ceiling above his hospital bed where he could do little more than recount the ways in which his life was one fucked over train wreck, bobbing in a sea of shit.
He had been admitted to Lourdes for overnight observation, primarily, Dr. Hamilton, the attending physician had said, because of the risk of post concussive syndrome; Malcolm could not be released unless he was under the care of another adult.
Being alone is a medical liability.
Loneliness was not, Malcolm told himself, one of the four ailments for which he was receiving treatment. The concussion was his most impressive injury, no doubt. And if Malcolm thought he had a headache at the funeral, he had been grossly mistaken. Even the lights in his room seemed to shriek inside his head if he opened his eyes more than half-mast.
The injury that took second place was the two-inch gash just below his hairline and above his right eyebrow that had required 14 stitches to close. This—and the concussion—came from the corner of the granite gravestone of one Mr. Ralph Joseph Wallace, Dec. 3, 1932 - Feb. 17, 1997. If Mr. Wallace would have had the courtesy to lie for all eternity just three inches more to the right, Malcolm would have face-planted in the grass and likely regained consciousness no worse for the wear. Instead, he’d awoken moments later, covered in blood and answering urgently-posed questions in Spanish. Jorge Miguel Castrillo, a groundskeeper at Memorial Park and a native of Tijuana, had been the first to witness Malcolm at his lowest point, but he was hardly the last.
Dr. Hamilton had correctly diagnosed Malcolm’s third condition—dehydration brought on by mild alcohol poisoning—just as Dorothy Sheridan had arrived by his bedside in the ER. The fact that she was Malcolm’s emergency contact had come as a surprise to the English Department head. Malcolm could make no sense of her arrival either, until the nurse showed them the blood donor card in his wallet. Malcolm then vaguely remembered a Lourdes mobile blood drive held in Griffin Hall some years before, just after he had signed divorce papers. He’d had to list a contact in case he’d fainted, and he wasn’t about to put down J.J.’s name.
To her credit, Dorothy had been rather humane, Malcolm thought. Once she saw that he was not going to die, she left him to his misery, telling him that they would speak when he felt well enough to return to work.
“Which will not be tomorrow,” she’d said, meaningfully.
Malcolm was thankful that she had left by the time Dr. Hamilton got around to discussing Malcolm’s fourth—and finest—malady. Panic Disorder. While the dehydration likely had played a part in his collapse, the lion’s share of that episode stemmed from hyperventilation brought on by a panic attack.
“Funerals are actually a very common trigger for panic attacks,” Dr. Hamilton generously explained, running a self-conscious hand through his ginger curls. “Dealing with finality can be overwhelming.”
Alone in his hospital bed, Malcolm laughed mirthlessly as he recalled the doctor’s words.
Dealing with finality. No shit.
Malcolm did not bother to tell the doctor that it wasn’t the death of Mark Gardner that had sent him over the edge; what had stolen his breath was the loss of the man’s daughter.
Maren.
Codeine was no match for this kind of pain. And there was no escape from thoughts of her. He ran his fingers over the bandage on his forehead and felt himself brace against the ache. His one consolation was that she had not been among the onlookers who had seen him strapped to a gurney and loaded into the ambulance.
During his examination, Dr. Hamilton had asked if this was Malcolm’s first panic attack. When Malcolm had reluctantly admitted that he’d had six in as many months, the ginger-haired doctor had raised his ginger eyebrows before recommending that Malcolm see a psychotherapist. The good doctor had even provided a list of referrals.
That list sat folded on the faux wood night stand by his bed. He plucked it up, opened it, and read over the half dozen names and credentials. It was the second to last name on the list that intrigued him. Between the contact information for Jody Hollier and Richard Strother was the listing for one Carlos Navarro, LCSW BCD. One side of Malcolm’s mouth kicked up in a wry smile. If nothing else, they could talk about soccer.
His smile faded. What happened today could never happen again.
It’s either therapy or the AMT.
Malcolm picked up his phone and added Navarro as a contact. He would call in the morning.
Navarro and Madeleine.
He had not heard from her in three weeks, and if La Fuente de Piedra was a dead end, he needed to know. And he needed her help in finding something to take its place.
Anything.
If he threw himself into his translations and worked at screwing his head on straight, perhaps getting over Maren wouldn’t be impossible.
Malcolm shut his eyes against the thought. There was no getting over her, and, in truth, he didn’t want to. He cradled his love for her like a newborn child, one he would never get to see grow up.
His eyes watered, and he brushed them roughly with the back of his hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. The nurse seemed to come in nearly every half hour. He’d be damned if she caught him crying.
Such a pussy.
He sniffed fiercely, jarring the vice of pain in his head. Restless, he sat up straighter in bed and checked the time on his phone: 6:54 p.m. An interminable night loomed before him.
“God help me,” he muttered.
And at that moment, the nurse knocked on his door. Except it wasn’t the nurse. The door to his room opened, and there she stood.
Malcolm didn’t allow himself to gasp. He didn’t even breath. Standing in the doorway, Maren winced—clearly shocked at the sight of him—and a hand flew to her mouth. She looked poised to flee, like a startled fawn, and Malcolm felt his whole body tense, ready to pounce and give chase the moment she darted—hospital gown and IV bag be damned.
“May I come in?” she rasped, weakly.
The breath he was holding left his lungs in a rush.
“Of course!” And he made to rise, throwing back the starched blanket when she darted forward in protest.
“No! No! No! Don’t get up,” she insisted. “You’re hurt!” Maren crossed to him and grabbed his hands in the way she had claimed him twice before.
Her hair spilled over her shoulder as she pushed him back into his bed and perched on its edge. The blood orange of her sweater set off the blush of her lips and cheeks, deepened the maple of her eyes.
She was too beautiful. Malcolm didn’t let himself hope.
She hates me, he reminded himself.
“I’m so sorry,” Maren said, her eyes welling.
Raising his brows in disbelief was painful, Malcolm learned.
“What are you sorry for?” he asked, memorizing the feel of her small hands in his. Her fingers were cold and slender, but her grip was strong. Was she sorry because she was leaving him? Was she sorry that she could never forgive him?
“What I did to you today was terrible,” she said, wid
e-eyed.
He shook his head.
“It’s no less than what I deserved.” Malcolm remembered her loathing expression at the cemetery. His remorse threatened to choke him. “It’s my fault you weren’t by his side that day. You missed his last words because I interfered. Maren, I’m…I’m…”
He gaped at her like an idiot. Sorry was a grossly insufficient word. In fact, there was no word in English, no word in Spanish. Nothing that could capture the despairing shame and regret he felt.
“I’m so…”
Maren raised a hand and pressed a finger to his lips to silence him. Her brown eyes were limpid with a sad wisdom.
“Malcolm…my father’s last words were not for me,” she said with a humble shrug. “They were for Laurel and my Aunt Jackie. Before I left that day, I think he told me everything he wanted me to know.”
Malcolm didn’t dare move. A frail filament of hope seemed to have descended into his private hell. He was sure that if he reached out for it, it would fail him. Impossibly, Maren moved her finger past his lips to his chin, which she tilted up until she was peering into his eyes.
“Do you want to know what he told me?” The light in her own eyes had changed. There was still the sadness, but beside it was a hint of wonder. He felt a lock deep inside him slide home.
“What did he say?” he managed.
“My father thought you were perfect for me, Malcolm,” she said, tearing up again. “He told me to forgive you, and then he told me that he loved me.”
Malcolm let go the breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and he sent a silent prayer of thanks up to Mark Gardner. Hesitantly, he reached for her, letting his fingers brush against her cheek, and he pushed past his fear.
“Maren,…I love you,” he said, letting loose the words he should have never held back. Then they tumbled out of him. Reckless. Countless. “I love you…I love you…”
Somewhere between the second and third vow, he slipped a hand behind her neck and pulled her in, speaking the words against her mouth until there was no room for them. He kissed her, madly, tasting her honeysuckle tongue, her salt tears. Despite his certainty that she would shove him away and leave him forever, she kissed back, leaning into him and gripping his shoulders until he felt bold enough to tug her from her chair and into his lap.
At this, she splayed her hands against his chest and pushed back.
“Malcolm! Wait—”
But he cut her off.
“I love you, and I’m so sorry,” he rushed. “If you never forgive me, I understand. I can live without your forgiveness, but I’d rather not live without you.”
“Malcolm,” she started again.
“I know I’m a prick sometimes. Maybe even most of the time—”
“Malcolm—”
“And I’ll probably always be superior and aloof and unsociable,…” he stammered, clutching her waist lest she try to slip away. “But I’ll never abuse your trust again. I promise. And I’ll honor your relationship with your family as sacrosanct. I’ll—”
Maren fisted the neck of his hospital gown, and gave it a little shake.
“Stop talking, Malcolm!” she ordered.
He stopped, arrested by the blazing look she gave him. And when she saw that she had his full attention, her eyes softened and took on their humble cast.
“I hold grudges,” she confessed. “It’s my worst flaw.”
Malcolm shook his head in denial.
“No, you are fiercely loyal,” he countered, squeezing her arm. “It’s one of the first things I loved about you—”
“And I hate feeling out of control,” she added, ignoring him. Then her voice gentled and her eyes let him all the way in. “But I don’t always realize when I can’t handle it all, and I suck at asking for help.”
Malcolm bit his tongue, ready to hear her out at last.
“Of course, I forgive you, silly.” She leaned in and nipped his bottom lip before straightening up and locking eyes with him. “And I love you completely.”
“Oh, thank God!” he managed, before crushing her to him, kissing her with abandon. She giggled into his mouth, and it felt like he was swallowing stars. Then he was conscious only of the miracle of her body—so soft and ripe—pressed against him, the dizzying relief that made him feel weightless and aloft, and his all-encompassing love for her.
Maren pulled him tighter and ran her fingers through his hair.
“I’ve missed you,” she sighed against his lips. “I’m so sorry. I was cruel.”
“Mmmm…” He kissed her cheek, her jaw, her neck. “I survived.”
“Only just,” she said, lighting her fingertips gently against the edge of his bandage. “I think you’re the one who needs a helmet.”
Just then, Malcolm’s nurse came in to find them tangled together, laughing. She tried to look stern when she spoke, but there was the hint of a smile on her ample face.
“I guess you’re going to be discharged after all,” she ventured.
Malcolm wasted no time confirming her supposition. The process was almost slower than he could tolerate, especially the caregiver instructions that the nurse painstakingly covered with Maren.
Malcolm’s beloved turned out to be disappointingly adherent to the rules, demonstrating this immediately upon the nurse’s exit when he made to attack her again.
“Uh, uh, uh,” she sang, pushing against him. “You’re to rest. Doctor’s orders.”
Malcolm knew that his pouting amused her, but he had to content himself with mere handholding until he was officially released. He tried to resist the obligatory wheelchair ride through the hospital doors, hating to look so helpless in front of Maren, but the orderly who escorted him would not yield.
“It’s alright, Malcolm. Once we’re out of the hospital, you won’t have to follow anyone’s rules but mine,” she teased.
Malcolm grabbed her hand as she walked beside his wheelchair and pressed it to his lips. Following her rules would be his every wish.
He felt more than a little out of sorts to be shepherded into her car like an invalid, but once they started the drive to his house, he could only savor the profound happiness at the turn his life had taken in the last hours. When Maren reached for his hand as she drove, he could not contain his smile.
When they arrived at the house, Maren was like a regular
bodyguard—or nursemaid—gripping his elbow as he walked from the car. He took advantage of her proximity to steal a kiss while he unlocked the door, pulling her inside with clear intentions.
“Settle down, boy,” she laughed, pressing lightly against his shoulders. “You need to take it easy tonight.”
“Impossible,” he said, reaching for her waist, but she scooted out of reach with surprising speed. “I just got you back. I have to touch you. Come here.”
She took his hands in hers and gave him a sympathetic smile that told him she would not yield.
“You need to lie down, Malcolm.” Her voice was soft, but insistent. She pulled him by the hands through the living room and down the hall. They were headed for his bedroom, so he was not about to put up a fight. He would lie down, but sleep held no interest for him.
“I will if you will,” he murmured as they entered his room.
Maren ignored him. She dug in his dresser drawers and came up with a white undershirt and a pair of boxers that she tossed on the foot of his bed. Malcolm had put on his now-ruined suit before they’d left the hospital, and without a word, Maren placed her hands on his chest and, with the slightest pressure, guided him until the back of his thighs hit the mattress, and he sat on the bed.
Maren’s eyes were faux innocence when they met his, and she stepped between his legs, unbuttoning his shirt, which now bore lurid blood stains along the collar. His hands found her waist again as she undressed him, and he slid his fingers under the hem of her sweater to graze her taut abdomen. Her warm skin convinced him that he could live in a world without words.
“No,” she whispere
d, stepping back again, and this time she pushed the shirt past his shoulders, so for the moment, he could not reach her body. But she had the nerve to skate her fingernails down his chest, giving him over to a delicious shudder.
“Oh, God, Maren,” he panted, pulling his arms free. “Please…”
She slowly shook her head.
“Nurse Walters made it very clear that sex was out of the question tonight,” she said, seeming to admire his abs as her fingers played over them before settling onto his belt buckle.
“Then you’re going to kill me.” He gave a laugh that turned into a gasp when she tugged at his belt. He stilled her hands with his, shaking his head. “I mean it. You can’t undress me if I can’t undress you.”
Maren gave him an even-keeled smile and slowly stepped back.
“Okay, then, Malcolm,” she granted. “If I can trust you to change for bed without further injury, I’ll go find us something to eat.”
Malcolm frowned, which hurt, and the wince that followed hurt, too.
“I’m afraid I don’t have much,” he said, gently pressing the heel of his hand between his brows and willing his face to relax. “I haven’t felt all that hungry lately.”
Maren surprised him when she brought her lips to his cheek and gave him three honeyed kisses, sending a thrilling tingle down his spine.
“Neither have I,” she said. “I’m suddenly starving. Be right back.”
And she sprang away before he could say another word. Malcolm kicked his shoes off and unzipped his pants.
I’m not dreaming, he told himself. She’s really here.
He was grateful that he could hear her clanking around in the kitchen as he finished undressing and pulled on the boxers she’d set out. Malcolm decided that he’d save the t-shirt for her.
“Ricardo is being very forward with my ankles!” Maren shouted from the kitchen. “Should I feed him?….Don’t you dare get up, Malcolm!”
A grin of epic proportions took over his face. Malcolm loved the way she yelled across the house. It was so familiar and so foreign at the same time.
Fall Semester Page 35
