Saved

by Hazel James

  I blink once and shake my head, dismissing the memory of my failed relationship. “Sorry, no.”

  “See, Leonard! She’s about to fall asleep on her feet. There’s no way she can drive in this condition.” Mom’s hands are all over my face and head again, checking me for the slightest excuse to take my keys.

  “She’s fine, Mother Hen.” Dad wraps his arms around Mom and eases her backward, allowing me to adjust the beanie concealing my kiwi fuzz and escape to my Jeep. I don’t know what I’m looking forward to most on my nine-hour drive—not having to talk to anyone, or not hearing Mom complain about my choice in music. For Christ’s sake, a little Eminem and Jay-Z never hurt anybody.

  With a final wave, I pull out of the driveway and start my journey toward freedom.

  Kiki gasps. “You didn’t.”

  “I did. I’ll probably go to hell for it, but what’s the fun of having cancer if you can’t use it to your benefit?” In my defense, I didn’t plan for it to happen. All I did was slide my beanie off to scratch my head. When I caught the officer glancing between my stump and lack of hair, I might have thrown in a couple of coughs and a weak smile.

  He disappeared back to his cruiser and returned with a written warning for speeding and best wishes on my recovery. “Hey, at least I didn’t try to flash him to get out of a ticket. I wouldn’t have gotten very far.”

  “You’re rotten,” she says, laughing. “How’s the new place?”

  I tuck my suitcase in the closet and glance around my room. “Surprisingly… cute. Definitely had a woman’s touch on the décor.” The creams and browns in the bedding pick up the colors of the magnolia print above the bed. It’s rustic but feminine, making me feel like I’m living at a southern plantation instead of above an auto shop.

  “My roommate will be back tomorrow, and I met the guy who owns the building when I got here. I think his name is Kirk. He said someone else would be stopping by later this evening to make sure I get settled. In fact—” I glance at the clock on the dresser “—I should probably go so I have time to grab some groceries before they get here.” My stomach growls with approval.

  We disconnect and I head down to retrieve the last few items from my Jeep. A fully furnished apartment means I only needed to bring my clothes and essentials—great news for someone who doesn’t have a lot of cargo space. The way things have fallen into place is… strange. Not only did I get a free ticket out of Colorado Springs, but I got one that put me an hour and a half away from my sister. Maybe it’s a sign that the universe is finally done fucking with me.

  Halfway up the stairs, I hear crunching gravel and a car door slamming. That’s not alarming, considering my location, but the chipper voice of the driver? That’s something I could do without.

  “Hey there! You need a hand?” I shift my box to my left arm and hold up my stump as I turn around.

  “Just one!” I pause long enough to watch his face transform from a cheerful smile to sheer panic, then continue my path up the steps, laughing the whole way.

  Porcupines

  SHIT!

  On a list of the worst things to say to an amputee, that’s got to land somewhere in the top five. Not that I knew she was missing a limb, but still.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, trailing after her two steps at a time. “I didn’t mean that the way it came out.” She sandwiches the box between her stump and her chest and opens the screen door with her left arm, letting it slam behind her as I reach the landing. “I hope I didn’t offend you,” I call through the mesh.

  “You’re forgiven,” she shouts from somewhere inside.

  “Do you have anything else that needs to come up?”

  Several seconds later, she appears in the living room, zipping a hoodie. Why she’s wearing a hoodie and a beanie in June is beyond me. “Just my guitar.” My eyes flick from the flat expression on her face to the sleeve concealing her right arm. She’s kidding, right? Getting back at me for making an unintentional joke?

  I tip my head and smile. “Nice try.”

  “Suit yourself.” She shrugs and pushes the door open, forcing me to jump into the corner of the small landing, and treks down the stairs. And fuck me if she doesn’t pull a guitar case from the back seat. It’s almost as big as she is, but she carries it with ease. I open my mouth to say something—anything—but the only noise that escapes my lips is a faint wheezing. Sheer stupidity has me rooted in place as she goes inside again. For a man who prides himself on his people skills, I’ve never struck out so hard in my life. Frustrated and mostly embarrassed, I plod two steps back to the screen.

  “So, this has obviously gone well.” I pause, waiting for her to return to the entryway, but she doesn’t. “If I promise not to offer any more help, do you think you could come out of hiding?”

  “Don’t give yourself too much credit,” she finally says, emerging from her bedroom. “I was going pee and getting my purse.”

  Sensing her next move, I open the door. “Hi, I’m Clay.” I don’t bother holding out my hand. I don’t know if that’s considered rude, and I’d rather not find out right now.

  “Hi, Clay.” Skipping her half of the introduction, she locks the deadbolt and starts toward her Jeep. Jesus, why is she making this so difficult? I follow her down and grab the top corner of her door before she can close it.

  “I’m here to welcome you to Oklahoma.”

  Her eyebrows inch toward her beanie. “Right. Okay then. I’m welcomed. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She tugs on the door handle, but I don’t loosen my grip. Does she think I’m just a random auto shop customer who parked in the back by mistake?

  “I don’t think you understand. I’m Clay, from Operation: OklaHOMEa.”

  Her eyes narrow as she studies me. “You’re not the guy from the news.”

  I chuckle. “You’re thinking of DH. He’s in colicky newborn hell right now, so I told him I’d come over instead and make sure you had everything you needed.”

  Nodding, she reaches through the steering wheel with her left hand and starts the engine. “I will in about thirty minutes. Thanks for stopping by.” She offers up a stilted smile.

  “Wait,” I say, gripping the door even tighter. “We don’t want to throw you to the wolves on your first day. If you’ll give me a second, I have a welcome packet for you with information on—”

  She throws her hand up. “There aren’t any wolves, and I’m not being thrown. I’m just hangry and need to get some food. Again, if you’ll excuse me.” This time I let her close her door, because the sliver of silver over her shoulder tells me the other door is unlocked.

  She greets me with a quizzical look when I walk around to the passenger side and climb in. “Excuse me? What are you doing?”

  “Usually these introductions go something like this—DH comes over, meets with his new tenant, goes over some basic information, answers a few questions, and leaves. But since you’re hell-bent on not cooperating, I’m improvising.” I pause to buckle my seatbelt. “By the way, Leilani, you still haven’t introduced yourself.”

  The furrow in her brow deepens. “Why do I need to introduce myself if you already know who I am?”

  “Because that’s the polite thing to do.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re annoying.”

  I don’t know how else I’m supposed to take that, but I’ve been called much worse. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you remind me of a porcupine,” I counter. She holds my gaze, her milk chocolate daggers boring holes into my eyes, but it doesn’t faze me. I’ve done this dance many times as a trainer and counselor. I’m nothing if not persistent.

  “I don’t think I like you,” she finally says, rolling up her right sleeve.

  “I don’t think that matters. I came here to do a job, and I’ll stay here until that’s done.” I make a show of getting comfortable in her seat.

  Her eyes roll in resignation. “Fine,” she huffs, retrieving her phone to snap a picture of me. “What’s your last na
me?”

  “Prescott.”

  Her thumb flies over the screen. For a one-handed woman, she’s remarkably efficient with texting. “Age?”

  “Thirty-four.”

  More typing. “If you try to rape me or kill me, my sister’s gonna call the cops. She’ll also call if she hasn’t heard from me in two hours.”

  “You expect me to believe that you’d let a potential rapist or murderer inside your Jeep? Please,” I scoff.

  Shrugging, Leilani puts her stump into a cup attached to the top of her gear shifter and steps on the clutch. “You never know. A lot of people thought Ted Bundy was a nice guy.”

  I chuckle as we round the front of Rhoads Auto Shop. “So, where are we headed?”

  “The grocery store.”

  “Okay, there’s one about five minutes that way,” I point out my window, “and another one—”

  “A few miles down this road, across the street from Sonic and Wells Fargo. I know. I drove by it on the way in. I just didn’t have any room for extra stuff.” Her tone dances on the line between brusque and bitchy, emphasizing my earlier assessment.

  Total porcupine.

  Needing to find neutral ground, I opt for small talk. “Your license plate says you’re from Colorado. What made you want to move down here?”

  She cuts a glance at me. “I thought you knew all about me already.”

  “Nope, just your name. DH handles everything. Like I said, I’m just helping out.” I prop my arm on the windowsill and tap my fingers to the beat of Outkast quietly pumping through her speakers. I didn’t peg Leilani for a hip hop fan.

  “I’d been there for a few years and was ready for a change of pace. The military itch or whatever,” she says, waving her hand. “This seemed like a good place to start.”

  “Air Force?”

  “Army,” she corrects.

  I nod. “What’d you do?”

  “I was a thirty-six bravo.”

  My ears perk up. “Finance, huh?” They held the power over when and how I got paid, so I always tried to make friends with them.

  Leilani’s eyes find me again, but this time she’s surprised. “How’d you know that?”

  “I was a ninety-two romeo.” Her mouth moves like she wants to ask me a question, but closes just as quickly. The gentleman in me wants to take it easy on her and give her the answers she’s looking for. The counselor part of me overrules. If she wants to know more about my service or my job as a parachute rigger, she’ll have to put her quills away and ask. “Where were you stationed?” I continue as we pull into the parking lot.

  “Fort Lewis. I deployed from there and got out in 2015.”

  I point to her arm. “Medical retirement?”

  “Yup.” She doesn’t elaborate and I don’t pry. We’ll have time for that later.

  We exit her Jeep in silence, and she leads the way into Homeland, yanking a buggy from the row closest to the door. Her unseasonable attire earns a few double takes from the customers shucking corn in the produce section, but Leilani doesn’t seem to notice. She’s oblivious to everything but the signs hanging at the end of each aisle. I match her footsteps all the way to the cereal section, where she loads up on four boxes of Fruity Pebbles and a box of Kix.

  “Well that explains why you’re so short. All that sugar stunted your growth.”

  She juts her chin out. “Kix doesn’t have sugar.”

  “Oh, but it does.” I turn the orange box on its side and point to the nutrition panel.

  “Barely,” is all she says before steering to the snack aisle. She drops a family sized bag of caramel popcorn into the basket and cocks an eyebrow, daring me to say something. I don’t. The health and beauty display on the endcap gives me an even better idea.

  It’s time for some passive-aggressive supermarket fun.

  Leilani’s desire to ignore me works to my benefit; she presses forward, leaving me with the golden opportunity to snag a bottle of anti-diarrheal medicine from the shelf. I wait until her back is turned to slip it behind the popcorn. “So, the paperwork DH gave me said you were undecided about a job. Have you given that any more thought?”

  “Not really. I figured I’d drive around to a few banks and see if anyone is hiring.” She pulls up to the peanut butter and scans the labels, then tosses a jar into the buggy.

  Chunky. Interesting. “Want any help?”

  “Nope.” Standing on her tip toes, Leilani reaches into the void on the shelf where the Nutella should be. “Dammit,” she whispers.

  “Problem?”

  Her eyes track upward to the surplus of chocolate hazelnut spread perched on the top shelf. “No.” She uses her foot to nudge a few jars of marshmallow fluff out of her way and steps on the bottom ledge. Her stump finds purchase under the lip of the peanut butter shelf and then she’s scaling aisle three like a sugar-crazed Spiderwoman. Her determination is only half as impressive as her smile when she lands on the linoleum with a jar of Nutella in her hand. And just like that, I know all I need to know about Leilani Moretti.

  For now, anyway.

  “What do you think about working at a gym?” I ask as we continue our treasure hunt through the store.

  “Doing what? Training?” She grabs a package of Oreos.

  “Numbers. I’m opening up a second location in a few months, and I need someone to help me get my shit together.”

  She stops. “You own a gym?”

  “Should I be offended by your tone?” I tease. “Yes, I own a gym. A very successful one, hence the new location. I thought you might like doing the same type of job in a more relaxed atmosphere, but if you want to pull a nine-to-five in business suits…” I lift a shoulder.

  Leilani takes the bait in the frozen foods section. “How many hours each week?”

  “Depends on whether you want part-time or full-time.”

  She raises an eyebrow as she haphazardly tosses a supreme pizza into the basket. “And the pay?”

  “Negotiable, based on experience.”

  She leads us to the dairy case for a gallon of milk, then moves to the front of the store. “What’s the catch?”

  “No catch. Just a job offer. You also have one from Kurt, the owner of the auto shop below your apartment. You can read more about that in your welcome packet.” I unload the contents of Leilani’s buggy onto the conveyor belt before she can tell me not to, then pluck a grocery store gift card from the display above the candy and step into the line next to her. When it’s my turn, I take a five from my wallet and hand it to the cashier.

  And that’s when I hear it.

  “What the hell? I didn’t—” I move back to Leilani’s lane just in time to see her cashier scan the jumbo-sized bottle of anti-diarrheal medicine.

  “Good thinking,” I say. “With all that junk food, your stomach’s bound to get messed up.”

  Leilani’s eyes snap to me. I can tell she wants to say something not meant for polite company, but she holds her tongue and finishes her transaction while I load her bags in the buggy. I save the one with the medicine for last, making a show of placing it on top. Her scowl remains in place as she steers the buggy past me, but the reflection in the dome-shaped mirrors above the exit gives her away.

  She’s smiling.

  First Impressions

  A LOW RUMBLE OF THUNDER vibrates the small kitchen window above the sink, a bass line to the melody of raindrops pinging against the glass. The storm has held steady all morning, as have Mom’s calls and texts making sure I’m not in danger of tornadoes or lightning or flash flooding in my second-story apartment. I find it relaxing, though.

  The rain, not her calls.

  Before my accident, I loved playing my guitar in the barracks—the unsightly cinderblock walls did wonders for the acoustics. But the best was when it rained, which, in the Pacific Northwest, was ninety percent of the time. I’d park myself in front of my opened window and belt out acoustic versions of my favorite hip hop songs. Even though I haven’t been able to play in mor
e than three years, I can’t bear to part with my guitar. Maybe one day I’ll find a prosthetic arm that isn’t a pain in the ass and I can figure out how to attach a guitar pick to it.

  For now, Spotify and my KitchenAid mixer are doing the trick. I said in my application that I’d bake cookies if they chose me, so here I am, up to my elbows in flour after an early morning trip to the store for baking supplies. I briefly considered making some laxative cookies for Clay, but given his amount of side-eye yesterday, I’m not sure he eats junk food. He’d probably give the cookies to someone else who’d end up sitting on the pot all day.

  No, I’ll find another way to exact my revenge.

  But the most interesting part about yesterday wasn’t Clay’s grocery store stunt—which was pretty damn funny. It was his complete lack of concern for my appearance. Sure, he felt like an ass when he thought he offended me, but after that, everything seemed… normal. I saw the way the other customers looked at me. Clay was either oblivious or adept at hiding his thoughts. Regardless, he never asked about my beanie or why I was wearing a jacket in the summer. And it’s not that I hate talking about my cancer, it’s just not the first thing I want people to know about me.

  It’s hard to get people to see you as anything else once you’re dubbed The Girl With a Disease.

  You’d think it would have been the same for losing a limb, but it wasn’t. When people looked at me, they saw a woman who survived a Humvee rollover and didn’t let physical limitations slow her down. Plus, I had my hair and boobs—two defining parts of any woman’s physical identity—so I still looked “healthy.” With cancer, there’s always a lingering doubt, and doubt is a close cousin to pity and fear. That poor girl. Will it come back? Can she beat it again? Is she going to die? And I get it. It’s a normal human reaction that I’m probably guilty of myself. But Clay skipped all that and went right to practical jokes and job offers.

  And to think, all I wanted when I went to the store was some Fruity Pebbles and cookies.

  Kiki said I’d be stupid to say no, and she’s right. One of the things I was looking forward to down here was exercising without Mom breathing down my back about over-exerting myself. Now I’ll have the perfect place to do that, and I’ll get paid.