Saved

by Hazel James

  Early lunch with Leilani, then going to the new site. Call my cell if you need me.

  I make a quick stop at my office for my keys, her purse, and a Battles windbreaker dangling off the rickety coat rack in the corner. When I return to the locker room, I find Leilani at the mirror finger-combing the wig she put back on her head. The short style suits her small, muscular frame, but it’s the determined look on her face I find most appealing.

  Leilani might have taken a hit this morning, but she licked her wounds and came back swinging. I respect the hell out of people like that. “Here,” I say, draping the jacket over her shoulders. It’s about eight sizes too big.

  “What’s this for?”

  “It’ll hide the evidence.” She flashes a relieved smile and slides her arms into the sleeves. I slip her purse onto her right shoulder and lead the way out of the locker room, pausing momentarily to tuck the “restroom closed” sign inside the door.

  “Where are we going?” she asks as we turn down a short hallway.

  “Out the side exit so you don’t have to walk through the lobby.”

  “I mean after that.”

  “To see my favorite seamstress.”

  “Who has a favorite seamstress? And… wait a minute.” She glances around when we step outside. “Where’s your yellow car?” I laugh once at her simple description of my 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle SS. It’s been called many things—a muscle car, a money machine, and a 454 Rat to name a few—but never “my yellow car.”

  “I only drive that on the weekends.” I motion for her to follow me one row over. “Today you get a front-row seat in this beautiful antique.” I unlock the passenger door to the Ford Ranger I’ve had since I was sixteen. The odometer is pushing two hundred sixty thousand miles and the paint has seen better days, but it’s still holding on.

  Leilani climbs in and fights the sleeves of my jacket to fasten the seatbelt. When it’s clear the jacket is winning, I reach over and guide the buckle into the slot.

  “Asking for help is not a sign of weakness,” I say, my face inches from hers. I don’t normally get this close to my clients—or my employees for that matter—but I’m learning that nothing about Leilani and her mile-wide stubborn streak is standard operating procedure.

  She juts her chin out. “I don’t like it when people assume I can’t do something.” Her tone sounds more like the woman from the Jeep this weekend than the one from the bathroom only minutes ago.

  “And I don’t like it when people put words in my mouth. I never said you couldn’t buckle your own seatbelt.” I close her door with a pointed look and walk to my side, making mental notes on the way. Competitive. Needs to be in control. Only willing to accept help when it’s a situational issue. Questioning her physical abilities is a no-go.

  “For the record,” I say, starting the truck, “I will never automatically assume you can’t do something because you’re an amputee. I used to train a guy who played basketball with one prosthetic leg and he kicked my ass every time.” Leilani’s sharp expression softens, and her lips turn upward. “That’s not even the worst part. The guy was only five-foot-six.” She throws her head back and fills my truck with melodic laughter. The sound alone is rewarding enough, but seeing her face light up like that? Wow.

  “Clay?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why are you staring at me like that?”

  I lift a shoulder. “My mom always said when you see something beautiful, you should take a moment to admire it. You have an amazing smile.”

  “Um, thanks.” Her cheeks flush a gorgeous shade of bashful, and I spend the ten-minute drive thinking of ways to make her laugh again.

  Leilani peers out the windshield as the truck rumbles to a stop in front of a two-story brick house. “Who lives here?”

  “The reigning Oklahoma State Fair needlecraft champion.” I jump out and walk around to open Leilani’s door. “Before you get any ideas, I do this for all women, not just those missing limbs.” I lean forward, cupping my hand like I’m telling her a secret, and whisper, “It’s called manners.”

  She rolls her eyes and lightly smacks me on the chest as she steps out. “Are you sure it’s okay that we stop by unannounced?”

  “I do it all the time.” Not bothering to knock, I lead us inside and hang my keys on a hook in the foyer. “Hello!”

  “Back here!”

  Leilani shoots a quizzical look at me but follows my path to the living room, where we find my mother in her natural habitat—buried under yards of fabric in her favorite recliner. One of the things I love the most about my mom is that she’s never met a stranger. It doesn’t matter if she’s at the grocery store, the doctor’s office, or gardening out front, she has one of those faces that invites people in and makes them feel comfortable. Which is exactly what Leilani needs, given the sensitive nature of her issue. “Hey, Mom.” I bend down to kiss her cheek. “Whatcha whipping up today?”

  “A baby quilt for DH and Paige since I don’t have any grandchildren yet,” she teases.

  “Sell that sob story to Heather or Danielle. They’re the married ones,” I say, holding up my hands. Mom never fails to remind us that she’s not a grandma, but since my younger sisters live out of state, I’m the one who gets the brunt of her good-natured guilt trips. When she peeks past my shoulder, I instantly know where her mind is going. “Leilani, this is my mom, Beth. Mom, this is Leilani, my new bookkeeper.”

  I emphasize the last word, hoping it implies off limits, not dating, and don’t even think about trying to set us up. Mom’s notorious for that. “Leilani needs some sewing help. I was hoping y’all could work on that while I make lunch.”

  Mom folds her quilt and sets everything in a cloth-lined basket beside her recliner. “What kind of help do you need?”

  “Um…” Leilani’s eyes flash with panic. I can only imagine how awkward this is for her, standing in her boss’s mom’s living room discussing prosthetic breasts. Without hesitation, I throw myself to the wolves to take some of the heat off her.

  “She can tell you all about that in your sewing room. And whatever you do, please don’t tell her any embarrassing stories about me. I’d like to leave here with my head held high.” Sure enough, Mom is off the recliner before I even finish my sentence, and I’d bet money she’s figuring out which story to tell first.

  I’m so screwed.

  We make it a mile down the road before Leilani bursts into laughter. “Did you really want to grow up and be a lobster?” she asks when she finally catches her breath.

  I should have known. That’s one of Mom’s favorites. “In my defense, my parents told me I could be anything I wanted when I grew up.” Her shoulders shake with a new round of giggles, and I find myself joining in, even if it is at my expense. It’s a small price to pay to see her smiling for more than a few seconds.

  “Your mom is really sweet. Thanks for taking me over there this morning.”

  “Don’t mention it.” I don’t know how Mom fixed Leilani’s breast cushion thing, but when they came out of the sewing room, Leilani had ditched the jacket and her clothes were free of white specks.

  “How come neither of you have asked about my arm?”

  Part of being a counselor is knowing when to push, but Leilani won’t ever be my client so the ball’s entirely in her court when it comes to personal information. “Well, the fact that you’re missing part of it is obvious. The rest of that story is yours to tell when and if you’re ready.”

  She nods, considering my words, then shifts in her seat. “I was on a convoy in Afghanist—”

  My cell phone cuts her off. I glance at the display expecting to see Marshall or Rebecca, but the caller ID shows “Unknown” instead. “I’m sorry, I need to take this.” I feel bad interrupting her, but unknown numbers are not something I ignore. I’ll never make that mistake again. “This is Clay.”

  “She’s fucking cheating on me.” The voice makes my stomach drop. Jonathan, my four o’clock that canceled. He spen
t most of his last appointment talking about his girlfriend and the issues they’d been having. He was hopeful they could put everything behind them and move on. That was two weeks ago. It doesn’t sound like it went well.

  “Where are you Jonathan? I’d like to meet you so we can talk about this.” Leilani sits up, her face mirroring my own concern, and switches the radio off. Thank you, I mouth.

  “It doesn’t matter. I just need you to tell that bitch this is all her fault.”

  Fuck, where is this guy? “What’s her fault, Jonathan?” I pull over until I know what direction I need to be going.

  “She said she hoped I’d drop dead, and she’s going to get her wish.”

  No, no, no. My stomach plummets to my toes. “Okay, I’ll tell her, but only if you tell me where you are.” I mash the volume as loud as it’ll go and strain my ears for any clues to his whereabouts. “Jonathan, where are you?”

  “On a bridge.”

  “All right, which one?” There’s no telling how many bridges Cleveland County has, if he’s even in the county. He lives just south of Norman, but he could be anywhere.

  “How the fuck could she do this to me?” he wails, ignoring my question. “I gave her everything she asked for, including that stupid fucking car she just had to have. That’s what she used to meet up with that fuck stick. Do you know how much of a slap in the face that is? I’m paying for her slutmobile.” He’s not slurring his words, so drugs and alcohol don’t seem to be a factor.

  “I don’t know why she did it, man. That’s really fucked up. Let’s go get a beer and talk about this. What bridge are you at?” His sobs are my only answer, and my anxiety kicks up a few notches. “Jonathan, please. I want to help you, but I can’t do that if I don’t know where you are.”

  “The bridge between Lexington and Purcell,” he says, his breath hitching. I throw a silent thank you to God for the additional miracle. That bridge recently re-opened after being closed for repairs. Thanks to all the news coverage, I know exactly where it is.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I pull a U-turn and race to I-35. “Okay, Jonathan. I’m coming. I’ll be there in about thirty minutes. I want you to stay on the phone with me. You don’t have to say anything. Just stay on the line.”

  “Fine, but no cops. Promise me.” Fuck. I’d feel a hell of a lot more comfortable with them there, but I can’t risk doing anything that will break his trust in me and push him past the point of no return.

  “I won’t call the police as long as you stay on the line.” I put the phone on mute and glance over at Leilani. She hasn’t said a word since my phone rang. “I’m sorry about this. I don’t have time to drop you off at the gym.”

  “Don’t be. This is your job, and from everything that’s happened in the last few minutes, it’s a very important one. I just hope we make it in time.” Worry lines sprout between her brows. “Can I do anything?”

  “Pray for no traffic,” I say as we merge onto the interstate. Her reaction to Jonathan’s call proves my gut instinct in the grocery store. Battles is my baby, and it’s important that I have employees who understand the heart of what we do. If this was a test, she’d pass with flying colors.

  The drive takes eons, but I finally reach the end of the half-mile long bridge. “Jonathan, I’m here. I’m on the Purcell side and I’m going to drive until I see you, okay?” He doesn’t answer, but I hear him clear his throat so I take that as a good sign.

  “There,” Leilani whispers, pointing to a man standing on the other side of the guardrail a few hundred feet ahead.

  “I see you Jonathan. I’m in a dark blue Ford Ranger. I’m going hang up and get out now.” I end the call and turn to Leilani. “Stay in the truck. I left some distance between us so he won’t see you and feel ambushed.” And so you won’t see the fallout if I fail.

  Leilani nods and grabs my hand. She doesn’t speak, but her face says everything.

  Good luck.

  Be safe.

  I’ll be here waiting.

  “Thanks,” I whisper. Seeing Jonathan so close to the edge—literally and figuratively—makes me as angry as it does sad. Did I miss something in our counseling sessions? Could this have been prevented? Did I have any role in his path to this bridge? “Hey, man. Thank you for calling me.” I do my best to keep my voice neutral; there’s enough emotion swirling around without me adding any more to the mix.

  His head snaps up, his red-rimmed eyes wide. “Don’t worry, I’m not coming any closer right now.” I sit down on the road about ten feet from him, partly to emphasize my point but mostly to keep me from pulling a John Wayne-style grab. Those rarely go well for the patient or the negotiator. “Do you want to come sit beside me?”

  He shakes his head and focuses on the water beneath the bridge, shifting his feet back and forth along the concrete. My eyes are glued to his hands as if my gaze alone will tighten his grip on the railing. I’m afraid to move or say anything that will give him cause to let go, so I sit for who knows how long reassuring him that I value his life and won’t leave him.

  “You know what the real pisser is?” he finally says. “Steph wants me to drop dead, but I don’t think she’ll even care when she finds out I did.” His voice is flat. Resigned. And that scares the shit out of me.

  “So many other people will care though. Your mom. Your brother. The guys you work with. Me. None of us want you to die.” A car slowly passes behind me, but I don’t dare turn around.

  “They’re all going to think I’m a fool for trying to work things out with Steph.”

  “No, they’re going to think she’s a fool for walking away from the best thing in her life.” I pause, letting my words sink in. “I’m going to stand up now and take a few steps toward you.” I rise slowly and wait two full seconds between each step. “I’d really like to see you on the other side of this guardrail, Jonathan. I promise I’ll do everything I can to help you through this if you just climb back over.”

  His brows draw together. “Why do you even care?”

  “Because you’re important to me. I enjoy the time I spend with you at the gym and I’d like to see you back there.” I’m only about four feet from the railing, and Jonathan’s at least fifty pounds lighter than me. As long as I get a good grip, I have no doubt I can haul him back over. “I’m going to take two more steps now.” He turns his head toward the water, and my stomach lurches. “Please don’t jump. Let me help you.”

  “I’m scared,” he confesses. I still can’t see his face, but his voice hints at a new round of tears.

  “I know you’re scared, but you’re not alone. I’m going to take another step, okay?” With his back facing me, I open my stride and close the distance between us. “Jonathan, don’t do this. Turn around and I’ll help you.”

  I wait for an eternity, but he eventually faces me and nods his head. My arms are around him in an instant, my wrists locking tightly behind his back. I don’t let go when his feet hit the concrete and sobs wrack his body. I don’t let go when the faint sound of a siren draws near. I don’t let go until paramedics approach us with a stretcher. Weak from emotional exhaustion, Jonathan collapses on the gurney and the medical staff takes over. I spend the next fifteen minutes telling the police what happened and who in Jonathan’s family they can contact.

  “Just curious—who called you?” I ask when I’m done answering their questions.

  “A passing motorist who saw you sitting on the ground.” I nod and lumber to my truck, desperately trying to keep my emotions in check. That lasts right up until Leilani throws herself into my arms and I give in to an onslaught of post-adrenaline fatigue.

  I wrap my trembling hands around her and bury my face in her neck, hoping my embrace tells her everything I feel.

  I’m so glad he lived.

  I wasn’t sure he would.

  Thank you for being here.

  Ugly Duckling

  A SHRILL RING SLICES THROUGH my morning music mix. Careful not to roll my eyes too hard, I finish co
ating my few lashes in black and accept the call.

  “Hi, sweetheart!” Mom lifts the phone, giving me a front-row view of her nostrils. We’ve been FaceTiming once a week since I moved to Oklahoma—her idea—and we go through this every time. You’d think after four weeks I’d learn to look away.

  “Hey, Mom.” I drop my lip gloss into the middle drawer and unlock Rebecca’s side of the Jack-and-Jill bathroom, though I’m not sure why I bother. She’s one of those get-up-fifteen-minutes-before-we-leave kind of women, so her busting in on me has never been an issue.

  “How are you feeling? When’s your doctor’s appointment? Are you going to be okay while we’re gone?” Mom’s eyes dart around the screen while she analyzes my face. Dad’s taking her on a Mediterranean cruise for their anniversary, and although she’s excited, it’s killing her to be even farther away.

  Me? I’m looking forward to not being nagged for ten days.

  “I’m fine, this afternoon, and yes.” I toss my phone on the bed so I can change. After the fiasco on my first day, Clay ordered embroidered shirts for the entire staff. He didn’t want me fighting with a nametag or feeling out of place for being the only person who didn’t wear one. And to top it off, he never brought up my meltdown or treated me differently because of it.

  “Are you still liking your job?” Mom asks my ceiling.

  That’s another question I get every week. I think she’s hoping I’ll hate it and want to come home. “It’s great,” I say, pulling on my yoga pants. Beats the hell out of business suits at a bank. “We’re about three months out from opening Battles 2. I didn’t realize how much goes into a project like this, so the whole thing has been a learning experience.” I retrieve my phone and flop on my bed. I never told Mom about the call I went on with Clay. She’d have been on the first flight to drag me back to Colorado.

  He hasn’t talked about it either, other than letting me know Jonathan is making progress at an inpatient treatment program. I’ve never met anyone who cares about people like Clay does. It’s like you’re the only one in the room when he’s talking to you. It was odd at first, since I couldn’t tell if it was genuine or if he was trying to flirt with me. Not that I’d mind if he was—he’s dedicated his mind and body to Battles and holy fuck, it shows.