Only for Her

by Cristin Harber

  With a few well-practiced moves, the nurse lifts the covers, moves my gown, re-bandages me, and smiles. “Looks great. Probably still feels awful. I’ll let the doctors know you’re up, okay? And your girl.”

  My girl? “She’s here?”

  The nurse smiles again and snaps off her gloves. “Arrived a bit ago. She’s a wild one, that’s for sure.”

  Wild one? Oh… no. Shit. “Um—”

  “Grayson!” Behind the nurse, in walks crazy Mazie. That’s a face I could never forget. “You’re awake.”

  “Maze—”

  “I’ve been waiting forever for you to wake up.”

  The nurse heads for the door. “Well, I’ll let you two be.”

  “Wait, no.” But my words are muffled by Mazie’s smothering hug. “Ow, shit, Maze. That hurts.”

  She finally pops up. “Hey, you.”

  This can’t be happening. My head’s pounding. When I left Emma and ended up at basic training at Fort Benning, then stationed in the same place, I spent enough time with Mazie that we became close friends. She was one of the boys and always knew what was in my head. I told her, probably too many times, that I was in love with Emma.

  Sitting up, I ignore the sense of loss that I woke up to her, not Emma. “You have to stop telling people we’re getting married.”

  “That lines always works.” She shrugs. “Gets me in the door. I was worried about you.”

  I nod.

  “Word travels fast. I’m really sorry, Gray. Just—” She rolls her lips together. The bubbly, near-manic girl I know is speechless. Don’t blame her though. “I thought you were dead. Everyone did. The reports that filtered back were wrong. No one knew anything.”

  I should’ve been. Better men than me died. Guys with wives, with children. I take a deep, painful breath, needing a subject change. “I’m back in Georgia?”

  She shakes her head. “No. Walter Reed.”

  “Maryland?”

  She nods. “Yeah, sweetie.”

  Not far from Virginia—not far from Summerland County. Not that Emma’s there anymore. She had college and… life. “Why’d you come up?”

  “When I heard you survived, I figured no one would come check on you.”

  That’s what happens when you walk away from everyone. My head’s spinning. I want her to leave so I can be alone in my misery. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “Someone has to check on you. Besides, I needed a change of scenery. You know how I am.”

  For as much I want one girl, she wants any guy, so long as he has a tag around his neck and loves just her. Our backgrounds have eerily similar histories, and while I’ve run from Emma, Mazie’s run to any soldier with half an interest, always getting hurt. She’s a tag chaser at heart. Really, she’s not one hundred percent right in the head, and that’s why she’s my crazy Mazie.

  The guys would get a kick out of her being up here.

  The guys… are all dead.

  Flashes and explosions rock in my head. I smell fear, taste death. It’s revolting. Their screams. The blood. As though I’m living a nightmare, it hits hard and fast. Bile rushes up my throat. My stomach churns; I can’t breathe. “I’m gonna be sick.”

  “Oh! Eek. Um.” She grabs a trash can and shoves it under my face just in time.

  Shit. God. My wound kills.

  I try to block out the sounds from the room around me. My memory explodes with pain. Mazie’s talking fast, and rough hands switch the trash can for a bag. My pain radiates as I heave. My gut roils. Everything sucks in a way I can’t handle.

  Finally, it subsides, whatever it was. My heart beat slows. Cold sweats stop rushing over my body. I take a breath as my stomach calms, and I drop back. I won’t open my eyes, won’t talk to anyone. The nurse and a doctor are talking. I hear their murmurs, their questions as they mumble words like trigger, stress, and attack. I don’t care. All I want is Emma. I need her, and I fight for her memory. A story. A smile. Anything. But it’s all blank.

  “This will help you,” the nurse says by my IV.

  A slight hit of warmth bleeds into me through the drip in my arm. My muscles relax, but not my mind.

  Until… finally, it’s quiet around me. Sleep pulls me toward its dark, heavy hold. Struggling, I open my eyes to see Mazie sit in a chair near me.

  “I’m…” I work my numb jaw, running my tongue over my teeth. My body has odd sensations, all pin prickles and fuzzy feels. “Tired.”

  “Should be. They gave you a knock-out shot.” Her eyes are red, her cheeks tear-stained. “I’m sorry.” She tucks her knees up and wraps her arms around them. “I shouldn’t have been so… cavalier. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned the guys. Or stupid gossip.”

  I shake my head, dizzy with exhaustion but not in nearly as much pain. Crazy Mazie is more messed up than me. “It’s just a thing.”

  “Panic attack or something.”

  “Maybe.” My fists feel heavy. So does my soul. I rub my knuckles into my eyes. My skin feels fuzzy and funny. I want to say something, figure out how to make the hurt lessen. “I was the last guy. No one else made it home.”

  “I know,” she whispers.

  “I can’t see Emma’s face anymore. You know, that’s always been my fix. It’s not working.” I drop my hands and tears burn. “It’s been too long.”

  When I focus on Mazie, she’s watching me and hugs her legs tighter to her chest. “Maybe it’s time you fix it?”

  My tongue is thick, dry. I chew on my bottom lip, but it’s numb like the rest of me. Everything except my mind. “Maybe.”

  But first, I have to fix me. Not just my side but what’s in my head. Then I can find Emma and fix… everything.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Two weeks later

  Emma

  “Cally, Cally, Cally, honey.” I’ve been home for three hours of power sleep. “Please, baby, get up.”

  If I don’t make it to class on time, Professor Dickhead will call me out as he’s done the past two times. The jerk swears by a three-strikes rule, and today is not the day I’m losing my place in Business Management 201.

  But if I don’t get my precious baby out of bed, dressed, and into the car, we’ll never make it to the community college’s child care.

  “Mama, don’t wanna.”

  Oh, baby. Me neither. I’m exhausted. Funneling coffee. I overslept by three minutes, which shouldn’t be that big of a deal, but I have life planned to a T. I drop to my knees and cuddle her head. “I know that, snugglebug. But up, up, and”—I scoop her out of bed—“out.”

  Droopy-eyed with bedhead, she rubs her face and looks around. “Sleepy.”

  I nod. “Yuppers, me too.”

  She looks around, acknowledging her new bedroom. The excitement on her face makes this fast move worth it.

  “C’mon. Super-fast breakfast, then we gotta roll.”

  Cally buries her head into my neck. “Want a muffin.”

  “Good thing that’s what we have.”

  I hustle her down to the kitchen, and she devours a banana muffin, finishing faster than I would’ve bet. Thank goodness. That shaves minutes off the schedule. We can totally do this. It’s my mantra. Cally and I are a team. We can survive anything, do anything, manage it on our own with just a few helping hands.

  Like Cherry, who babysits at my place on Wednesday nights while I’m at Emerald’s, and my parents, who watch Cally for any shift I can pick up at the Delightful Diner, where I sling pancakes. Who knew it was possible to hate the smell of butter and batter.

  I groan for so many reasons. But this morning, there’s no time to lament barely getting by. Because if I do that, we fail, and right now, we’re so close to making it with more than just a couple of dollars a paycheck.

  Cally’s in her clothes, trying to brush her teeth, and batting away my help. She’s like me—a little stubborn but going to do it on her own if it kills her—and I love that about her.

  “Clean!” Teeth bared and lips smiling, she
nods for approval to hop off the stool.

  “Super clean, cuddlebug.” I hook her around the waist, grab my bag, granola bar, and coffee, and we’re out the door.

  I check my phone after she’s in her car seat and I’m stuck at a red light. “We’re totally going to make it on time.”

  Cally beams from the backseat. “’Cause we’re magical!”

  “You know it.”

  The kid steals my heart every day. And maybe she’s right. Magic might let me make it into class before Professor Dickhead does his daily dickheaded duties.

  Seventeen minutes later, I screech into class after dropping off Cally a few buildings over.

  “Very close, Miss Kingsley.” Professor Dickhead shuts the door behind me and launches into a verbatim recounting of exactly what the textbook read.

  My lungs pound because I ran across campus, but I made it. I tumble into my seat. All I have to do is keep this up another semester or two, combined with a couple of online classes, and my godforsaken no-pay internship will turn into a real dollars-in-the-bank-account job that pays more than school credits and gift card bonuses.

  I’m in this for the future, for Cally. So I can raise my baby girl and eventually have a college degree and job security. But until then, I’m completely exhausted, doing the best I know how.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Emma

  TGIF.

  Thursdays are always the worst, because I’ve been on the clock at Emerald’s, then classes, then the Delightful Diner, and then my internship. I’m sitting in a client meeting and taking notes for Jeremy Rossdale, my boss, the managing partner of Creative Dynamic Worldwide. With the exception of a couple of hours’ sleep, I’ve been on the job for twenty-four hours in a row. Somewhere in there, I played a solid game of hide-n-seek and dried Cally’s tears when we couldn’t find anything that was packed.

  Moving with a two-year-old? Not easy.

  But it’s Friday—no classes and my only job that doesn’t require physical labor, even if it’s also the only job that doesn’t pay. The internship’s lack of a steady paycheck might blow, but I have a promise from Jeremy: if I get my college degree while doing mundane intern work, I will be hired as an entry-level marketing executive and have a foot in the door for if and when the art department hires. Meaning I’ll be paid to do something with a camera, even if it’s just brainstorm shoots.

  Still, the potential for a paycheck and benefits? Yeah, that I’ll bust my butt to get. It’ll be a dream-come-true job, mostly because my clothes will stay on and my paycheck will be direct deposited. No writhing and crawling on the floor for bills, no carrying trays of coffee and half-eaten pancakes for coins.

  The internship is my long-tail approach to success. Eat that, Professor Dickhead.

  I try to stifle a yawn and fiddle with the yarn-and-bead bracelet Cally made me last night. It’s pink and purple. When she showed it to me, she did a dance and sang a nonsensical song that still makes my eyes burn with tears. Such a cute kid.

  My mom came over after Cally went to sleep so I could pick up a shift at the diner. I wore the bracelet, and all three of the truckers who came in for coffee and hash browns remarked about it.

  Staying busy has served a secondary purpose recently. The last few weeks have been a roller coaster. Summerland County gossip has buzzed for days about Grayson dying overseas, and my trip to see Pops went about as well as a disaster.

  But on the upside, my twenty-first birthday is almost here, and I’ve finally been able to scrape together enough money, with a little assistance from my folks, to move Cally and me from our one-bedroom teeny-tiny, should-be-called-a-studio apartment to a real, albeit still teeny-tiny, house. I picked up the keys earlier this week.

  God, I need some coffee if I’m going to make through moving. My phone flashes with a text from Sarah, my best friend and fellow marketing intern.

  Sarah: Meant to tell you, I drove by! Super cute house. Way to go you. You don’t even touch your neighbors, it’s really something. Proud of you.

  I roll my lips to keep from smiling. The new house rocks. I’m bursting to get everything out of the apartment and into the house so it will finally feel real. Dad and Ryan moved the beds, a lot of boxes, and our necessities this week. Cherry will take Cally tonight for an auntie slumber party so I can unpack boxes.

  My phone rings, and I silence it. The caller ID shows an unfamiliar number. Jeremy looks over, his nose pinched.

  I mouth, “Sorry.”

  Again, I fiddle with the bracelet and take all the notes he’ll need. My handwriting is perfect, but I’ll have them typed and in his inbox before he leaves for the weekend.

  My phone rings again, same number. Two calls in a row make me think of emergency situations. Cally fell. Got sick. Got lost. My stomach twists.

  “I think that about wraps this up.” Jeremy stands. “Emma, need clarification on anything before we break?”

  “No, sir. Got it all.” I tap my notepad, which is covered in details. He asks to be polite, but never in my time with him have I missed something he needs.

  “Better get that.” Jeremy nods at my phone.

  “Right. Thanks.” I slip out of the conference room and head toward the privacy of the hallway to answer. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Ems.” The nervous scratch of a faraway voice reaches into my soul, wrapping its brutal tentacles around me.

  No one calls me Ems. No one but Grayson Ford. The boy I dream of, the man I dance for, the reason I’m still living, and the source of all my desperation. My throat tightens to the point that I think I’m going to choke, and an intense pounding in my chest finds its way to my ears. There is no way I just heard what I did.

  “Grayson?”

  It’s him. The him who ruined my life. Who made my life. Who confused my mind to the point that I can’t figure out if I’ve been destroyed or set free. The him who… is… dead.

  I tremble and press against the wall, feeling a wave of weakness. I’m unsure if I’ll crumble to the floor, praise God, or just melt.

  “You’re—alive?” My voice breaks. Tears spill. I want to throw my phone and run. But I can’t.

  “Yeah… maybe not the guy you knew, but it’s me.”

  There’s a gravity to his voice that rolls through me. Three years have passed since he broke my heart. Three weeks since Randall confirmed Grayson had died.

  Gray was supposed to be my best friend. He was supposed to be the one I loved forever. But he never saw the tears stream down my face. Never knew the hurt and humiliation and anguish. He just disappeared into the night, and I had to hear from the county gossip machine that he was in boot camp at Fort Benning. I didn’t even know if it was true. I even thought about just showing up there one day.

  I cried myself to sleep for what seemed like an eternity, waiting for him to call, to explain. To do something that would show I hadn’t been in love with a soulless liar. But I was.

  And still, I am.

  Pathetic.

  “You there?” His voice is deeper. Darker, as if he’s damaged. There’s something to it, almost as if I can touch the coarseness running through him.

  “I’m here.” I can’t hang up. An overwhelming hope bleeds through me, wishing that somehow, errors of the past will magically mend.

  “Been a while.”

  I’m wordless.

  He mumbles something, and it sounds as though his hand runs over his mouth. I can picture him threading his fingers into his hair.

  “You’re mad. I get it. I deserve it, that’s the goddamn truth.”

  Mad? Is he kidding me? I survived my freshman year at community college while pregnant, a newborn’s constant waking while pushing myself to work three jobs, then I mourned him. Mourned!

  “I’m not mad. I’m—” I take a deep breath, trying to fend off a screwed-up mixture of vicious anger and nervous breakdown. “I’m at work.”

  “We gotta talk.”

  What? My shirt is strangling me. My stockings are too tight.
Coming unglued seems too easy, and I hurt, so deeply and so raw, that I’m shaking. Crumbling.

  “Emma?”

  Two options: talk or hang up. But I do neither. I’m in shock. Like clinical what-the-fuck-do-I-do-now shock. I swallow the knot in my throat and force my mind-mouth connection to forge something. Anything. “I’m here.”

  I want to sound mature. Maybe even unaffected. At the very least, I want to sound as if the tornado that is my life didn’t start the night he walked away. The love of my life—whom I hate—has come back from the dead? All I want to do is kill him! Or maybe hug him. I don’t know.

  “Hell, Ems,” he growls. “I’m sorry.”

  My lips pull between my teeth as I fail to ignore the shivers skimming across my shoulders. He sounds like a man. Like sex and heat. His words coat me, holding me, and I hate my visceral response to just his voice.

  But it’s been years… “You don’t get to call me Ems. Never. Not again. No one calls me that.” Even though it’s one of the sweetest sounds I’ve ever heard. If a word could hug and forgive, Ems could do that.

  Grayson’s breath drifts into the phone and whisks over me, stirring me to the point that I can’t stand. I head to the intern office space, and my chair catches me as I fall, wondering the whys and the nows of this call. No matter what I think, I can’t muster enough of a regret to hang up.

  “Emma…”

  As it turns out, my drawn-out first name has the same sinful effect as “Ems.” I hate it—and really don’t. “What?”

  “I need a minute.” As fast as my heart rate picks up—I’m nervous and protective of my world—he tacks on a growly, “please.”

  The word has just enough sweet Grayson Ford attached to it. Memories tumble through my mind, all ignited by his rough, graveled timbre. I pinch the bridge of my nose, knowing I should be angry. I should be a woman scorned. But I’m not. I’ve always had the hope that this call might happen. And God, when I thought he’d died, I fell apart.

  “The guy you knew… he’s gone. But some things don’t change, Emma, and you saving me is one of them.”