Unwritten

by Kiki Hamilton

  I contemplated my answer. “No. Just curious.”

  He returned his gaze to the TV. “My flight got cancelled and I had some time to kill.”

  “Oh.” How not flattering. He had his arms crossed over his chest and I studied his long fingers and beautifully shaped nails. I remembered them. The hands of a surgeon—or maybe a pianist.

  He spoke again without looking at me. “And I guess I was a little worried about you.”

  “Like survivor’s guilt? Or because you got me fired?” I spoke without rancor, too tired or too drugged to muster any emotion.

  His features tightened in a grimace. “Take your pick.” He rolled his head toward me again and I wondered why I wasn’t angry at him. “Besides, it’s Christmas Eve. I didn’t want you to celebrate alone.”

  “What?” I jerked my head and immediately regretted it as rivers of pain rolled down my body. I sank back against the pillow promising myself I would never move again. Ever. “It’s Christmas Eve? Did I miss my flight?”

  “Yes, you did.” He pointed toward the dark window. “But the good news is, your parent’s will be here tonight and we’re having a white Christmas.”

  I scanned the room. “But where’s the tree?”

  His gaze shifted to mine, confusion knotting the skin above his amazing blue eyes. “Tree?”

  “Hello? The Christmas tree. Where else is Santa going to leave the presents?” Part of me wondered why I was giving him the Sarcasm Test—my own personal assessment of worthiness—but drugs do funny things to your mind and I was not in any condition to think too hard about anything.

  He threw a thumb over his shoulder. “It’s out in the hall. But no peeking until tomorrow.”

  I have to admit his no-flinch response impressed me. “Wait a minute.” Pieces of memory, like a jigsaw puzzle, randomly connected in my brain. “Weren’t you supposed to go somewhere—like Paris?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “All this time I thought you were pretending to be Sleeping Beauty but perhaps you weren’t sleeping after all.” He took a drink from his Starbucks cup. “They shut the airport down because of the storm. I’m stuck here.”

  For some reason his answer didn’t offend me. “But don’t you live here in New York? Why don’t you go home?”

  He looked at me with a serious expression. “Because I wanted to hear more about your writing career.”

  For a fleeting second I had this terrible suspicion he was giving me his own Sarcasm Test. I turned my head and stared out the window into the dark night. A light on the side of the building cast a glow into the darkness and I could see the white trees outside.

  “What are you working on? Tell me about it.”

  “No.”

  “Why not? What are you scared of?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Are you afraid I’ll steal your ideas?”

  I quirked my brows. “Are you a writer?”

  “No.”

  “Then why would I be afraid?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me. You’re the one who won’t talk about it.”

  I don’t know why, but I told him about the fantasy I was writing set in Victorian London. Maybe just to shut him up. Maybe because I knew that soon enough he would disappear into the night and return to the Beast, never to be seen again. Maybe because in that moment it felt like we were the only two people in the world.

  “I don’t actually have a writing career yet.” My voice dropped. “The last few editors on our submission list passed on my manuscript.”

  A flicker of a frown crossed his brows. “Aren’t there like, a million editors in New York?”

  “We’ve submitted to as many as my agent thought was appropriate.”

  He shrugged, his broad shoulders rising and falling. “Write something new.”

  I gritted my teeth. Not another one. “That’s what my agent said too, but—”

  He swiveled in his chair and leaned his arms against the silver bars. I could smell the coffee on his breath. “But what?”

  I closed my eyes in embarrassment as I revealed my most damning secret. “I can’t write anything else.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve tried for months, but I get stuck in the middle.” I glanced at him, ashamed of what I was about to say. “I’m afraid I don’t have any more stories in me. I’m a failure.” I tried to cover my face with my hands but the unexpected weight of my cast clunked into my head instead. “Ow.”

  He leaned back in his chair, no doubt trying to find the right words to comfort me. Instead he started laughing.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “You think that’s funny?”

  “Did you make that up on your own? The ‘I’m a failure’ part? Or did you read it somewhere?” He didn’t sound sympathetic or comforting. “Because that’s pretty good writing right there—lots of drama.” There was a dare in his eyes and the smile faded from his lips. “Here’s a heads up, Alexis—you can only call yourself a failure if you don’t try.”

  Chapter Ten

  Alexis rolled her eyes. “Easy for you to say, Mr. Attorney who dates a supermodel.”

  “Do you know how I know?”

  She sniffed but I could see the curiosity in her eyes. “How?”

  I leaned forward and whispered my own deep, dark secret.

  “Because I’m one of those who didn’t try.”

  Her eyes swept over me and I knew what she was thinking. But what she couldn’t tell by looking at me was that just because I knew how to dress and worked for a law firm with connections, that didn’t mean that I’d pursued my life’s passion—that I’d gone after my own dreams.

  “Yeah, right,” she snorted. “Mr. Successful Attorney who lunches in Paris—what do you know about failure?”

  “At least you’re going after your dream. I didn’t even try.”

  She was silent for a long time and I started to wonder if she was falling asleep again. When she spoke, her voice was soft. “What’s your dream?”

  I took a deep breath and plunged. After her parents arrived tonight I’d never see this girl again. “I’d like to be a painter.”

  Instead of being surprised, she was matter-of-fact. “Then why don’t you?”

  I gazed at her face. She had great dark circles under both her eyes but I could still see her striking bone structure. I imagined painting the oval of her face and wondered if I could catch the essence of her personality that came through her brown eyes. “I come from a long line of attorneys. Let’s just say there is family pressure to carry on the tradition.”

  “That’s stupid. You can’t choose your path in life because of what somebody else wants. You have to follow your own dreams. Even when it’s hard.”

  “How we doin’ in here?” Shelley, the night nurse, came bustling in. “Let’s check your vitals and then doctor wants you up and walking this evening.” She stopped at the small computer and began typing. “Says you’ve got to go to the end of the hall and back.”

  I moved away from the bed to give Shelley room to work. “Does she have a walking cast?”

  “No, she got to use crutches. I’ll push her i.v. tree for her.” Shelley finished up on the computer then stepped over and with a swift movement dropped the silver bars on one side of the bed. “Roll on your side, hon, then swing your legs over, like this.”

  I saw a flash of one long bare leg as Shelley threw the covers back. The other leg was encased in a white cast. Alexis concentrated on following the nurse’s instructions, gritting her teeth against the pain.

  I stood frozen, unsure of what to do. “Can I help?”

  “No sir. Probably better if you let us do this on our own the first time.” Shelley made a shooing motion towards the door, and I followed her instructions.

  I TOOK THE opportunity to go down to the café and get something to eat, surprised at the wide selection of choices. I put a bowl of hot mac and cheese on my tray and grabbed two rolls and a bottle of water. If there was ever a time I needed comfort food, it
was now. Part of me felt a little queasy at what I’d shared with Alexis—even though I knew I’d never see her again once I left the hospital—but what I’d revealed had been a secret I’d kept for a very long time. Only one other person had known—and she was dead.

  It was 8:30 pm on Christmas Eve and the cafeteria was mostly empty. Two doctors sat at one table, still wearing their blue scrubs, complete with hats and crocs on their feet. A nurse sat by herself, reading a paperback. I paid for my food then sat at a small table with my back to the doctors and inhaled the pasta. I hadn’t eaten since before I’d caught the cab yesterday and I was starving.

  After I dropped the tray and dishes off on the dishwasher belt, I wandered up and down the large halls, trying to kill another fifteen minutes. I passed the gift shop and ducked in, looking for… I didn’t know what.

  My cell rang and I knew without looking who it was. A twinge of emotions I couldn’t identify shot through my chest.

  “Hi Simone.”

  “Oliver, are you still in New York?”

  I surveyed the rows of little stuffed animals on the shelf in front of me in search of a gift. “Yes. The airports are shut down—no flights in or out.”

  “But how are you going to get here?”

  “It’s probably going to be a few days before I can get there.” I shook my head at the stuffed animals—not quite right— and spied a chocolate indulgence basket. Probably not a good idea while Alexis was still on an i.v.

  “But it’s Christmas!” Simone wailed. “You must get here.”

  An image of Simone, with her silky black hair and lithe figure, popped into my head. “I want to be there, but there’s nothing I can do right now.” I picked up another item and looked at it. That might work.

  “Hmmpf.” I could imagine Simone pouting on the other end. “I will not celebrate Christmas until you get here, Oliver. Please come as soon as you can. I have exciting news and I want to tell you in person.”

  I TOOK ALEXIS a bright bouquet of yellow lilies and white daisies, though there were others that looked more Christmas-y. But I liked the sunny combination.

  When I entered the room, she was tucked back into bed and asleep again. The i.v.’s had been taken out of her arm, and the slender silver tree pushed against the wall behind the bed. That was a good sign. Her face looked paler than before and while I understood the need, I could imagine how difficult her walk must have been.

  I put the flowers on a little stand in the corner, where she would see them, and stood by the bed, telling myself I should leave.

  IT WASN’T LONG before she woke again. The nurses had rolled in a pale green recliner that almost extended flat and I was trying—unsuccessfully—to doze on that. I had made a deal with myself that once her family arrived—I would go.

  Her groan of pain woke me. I sat up and reached for her good hand.

  “Alexis,” I said softly, watching her face. “You’re okay.”

  Her eyelids fluttered open, her mouth pinched with pain. “Everything hurts,” she whispered. “I feel like I’ve been in a car wreck.”

  I opened my mouth to explain that she had been, when she squeezed my fingers.

  “I know, I know.” She rolled her head on the pillow. “Oh, look at those pretty flowers. Where did they come from? It must have been my mom. She knows lilies are my favorite flower.” Her voice was just a whisper. “When I have a little girl I’m going to name her Lili.”

  The image of Alexis with a little girl named Lili was surprisingly clear in my mind and for the first time I wondered if she had a boyfriend.

  Chapter Eleven

  To my surprise, Oliver had stayed. They’d taken the morphine drip off and I was now taking pain pills, which made me much less groggy but barely cut through the ache that was my entire body. We talked for hours, about this, that and nothing. Whatever I’d thought of him before—I’d been wrong. He was funny and sweet and obviously very smart. Somehow, despite that fact that he lived in a different world than I did, he was easy to talk to.

  “Tell me about your favorite Christmas,” I said, in an effort to distract myself from the waves of pain that rolled over me.

  “Why don’t you tell me about yours?” he countered. “Since I suspect you already know which one was your favorite and I’ll have to think about it.”

  I smiled despite the pain. How did he know that?

  “They’re all favorites, but there is one that I count as the best.”

  A dimple on his left side winked at me. For a second I caught my breath at the sheer beauty of his features. I didn’t know why he was here with me, but I was going to enjoy it while it lasted.

  “Tell me,” he urged.

  “It was when I was a teenager. My father had been a part-time member of the National Guard, but after 9/11, he got called up to active duty, which of course, we never dreamed would actually happen. He left in January for Iraq and was gone the entire year.” I closed my eyes for a second at the horrible memory of him leaving that day. “It was terrible. There were all these reports on TV of bombings and attacks on military personnel and every day we wondered if he was okay. He’d never been gone before. My mom and sister and I had to do everything ourselves.

  December came. We had this one beautiful fir tree in our backyard that we could see from our kitchen and family room. Every Christmas we would put lights on it with a star on top. It looked so pretty sparkling out there in the dark.

  The year my dad was gone we put the lights up, but decided we couldn’t turn them on until he came home. We’d look out the windows and the yard would be all dark—which just emphasized that Dad was gone. Then on Christmas Eve, we’d been to my aunt’s for dinner and came home about 8:00. I was looking out into the dark backyard missing my Dad, when suddenly the lights on the tree lit up. I’ll never forget how it looked—all sparkly with the star glowing on top—it was magical. Then my Dad walked in the door.” I smiled at Oliver. “That was my best Christmas ever.”

  “That sounds like the best Christmas ever. I’m glad your Dad made it home safely. What does he do now?”

  “He owns a hardware store. Tell me your best Christmas.”

  Oliver ran his long fingers through his hair, the muscle in his arm flexing through his sweater. “Let’s see, my best Christmas. It had to be the last Christmas before my mom left. When we were still a family.”

  A twinge went through my chest at the wistfulness in his tone and I wondered if maybe I shouldn’t have asked. “Are your parents divorced?”

  “No.” His tone turned matter-of-fact. “My mom died when I was ten. Right after Christmas. My Dad remarried the next year. To a woman who is—a challenge.” He spoke under his breath. “One of the many reasons I will never get married.”

  My heart lurched into my stomach. “That must have been hard for a ten year-old to understand,” I said softly.

  “It’s hard for a twenty-five year old to understand.” He shrugged. “I’ve watched what my step-mother has done to him.” There was something sharp, almost brittle, about him. “I don’t ever want to be in a position where someone can do that to me.” He rubbed his face with both hands, careful not to touch the knot above his eye. He shook his head. “Gah! I can’t believe we’re even talking about this! How did we get on this subject? Tell me more about your writing.”

  “My Dad always said there are no guarantees in life.” I ignored the fact he was trying to change the subject. “Everything worth doing takes a leap of faith. Our future is unwritten—we can make it what we want it to be.”

  He stood up and propped his hands on his hips. “You’re not going to start calling me Grasshopper, are you?”

  Heat crept into my cheeks.

  He leaned forward and my heart started racing. For a terrifying moment I thought he was going to kiss me.

  “Alexis.” He stared into my eyes and I held my breath. “Maybe you should take your own advice.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Cleo, the morning nurse came in at two am
and gave Alexis a pain pill. After she left, Alexis held her hand out to me. I slid my fingers around hers and she squeezed, a shy look on her face. “Merry Christmas, Oliver. Thank you for staying with me.”

  I smiled and reacted without thinking. I leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. “One of my best Christmas’s ever.”

  The pain pill took effect almost immediately and her eyelids dropped lower and lower.

  “Mine too,” she whispered before her eyes closed.

  I stood next to her bed and stared at her sleeping face—the contours were becoming so familiar. I traced their edges with my eyes, making mental notes. She was beautiful, without a doubt, with an oval shaped face and elegant bone structure; a high forehead, a small chin and defined cheekbones. On impulse, I pulled my cell from my pocket, turned it to silent and took a picture of her. Just so I wouldn’t forget.

  The walk down the hall toward the nurse’s station didn’t take long. Cleo was at a computer typing notes as I stopped next to the little Christmas tree they’d decorated for the floor. There was only one other nurse working at this hour and she was in a patient’s room. I took the small package from my coat pocket and placed it under the tree along with the other packages.

  “Why Santa—” Cleo’s husky voice made me straighten— “you’ve lost weight.” Her lips curved in a grin, but her eyes measured me over the pair of red readers perched on the end of her nose.

  I shrugged and held my hands out. “Just the delivery boy. Can you make sure she gets it?”

  “Of course, but why don’t you just give it to her yourself?”

  “I think she’ll like it better if she finds it under the tree.”

  Before Cleo could respond the elevator dinged to announce an arriving car. The doors opened and a haggard-looking man and woman hurried onto the floor.

  “Hello.” The woman clutched her bag, her middle-aged face drawn and worried as her husband pulled two small suitcases along behind him. She spoke with a British accent. “We’re here to see Alexis West?”