Yours: A Standalone Contemporary Romance

by Jasinda Wilder

  But here I am, in Ollie’s old truck, with another man.

  And I’m thinking about that man, that someone who is not Ollie.

  I’m being forced to accept that I want to spend time with him. He’s compelling, larger than life, gorgeous, mesmerizing, fascinating. I want to know more. I want to know the meaning of that faraway look he gets in his eyes. What lies behind the fleeting darkness I see in his eyes?

  I want to know what the sudden shift in his mood means.

  He apologized. He apologized. Even when he knew he was wrong, when he knew he’d pissed me off, Ollie never actually apologized. He’d say that he knew he’d fucked up, and he’d try not to do it again, and could I please forgive him? But he’d never actually said the words “I’m sorry” or “I apologize.”

  I steal glances at my ring as I drive, wondering what I’m doing. What any of this means.

  What would Ollie think? What would he tell me, if he could give me any advice in this situation? Jesus, that’s stupid. If Ollie could give me advice, he’d be alive and I wouldn’t be in this truck with this man.

  I notice Lock staring at my ring, too. The look in his eyes is so distant, his thoughts a mile deep, dark as midnight shadows, fathomless as an ocean canyon.

  I twist the diamond around my finger with my thumb, and Lock’s gaze flits up to mine. “Nice ring.”

  I swallow hard. “I’m not married.” I wince; blow out a sigh, because that’s not how I wanted that to come out. Breathe in and start over. “I mean, I was married, but I’m not anymore.” Shit, that’s not any better; now it sounds like I got divorced.

  “You don’t have to explain,” he starts.

  I cut in. “Hey, look: we’re here.” I park in front of a mom-and-pop burger place, switch off the truck and hop out before he can say anything else.

  I need to get hold of myself and get a grip on this situation.

  I just wish I knew what the situation was. I wish I knew what I wanted.

  Well, that’s not accurate. I know what I want. And I know what my gut and my heart and my head and my soul and my body are all telling me: different stories, each of them.

  Run, part of me says.

  Enjoy it while it lasts, another says.

  You’re betraying your husband, the love of your life, yet a different part claims.

  You NEED this.

  How dare you think of another man?

  God, he’s gorgeous. If he’d trim that beard and hair, he’d be…almost too much to look at for long.

  I order a bacon cheeseburger and a coke and fries, because I don’t often indulge like this. I usually eat fairly healthy—

  God, who am I kidding? I don’t eat well at all anymore. I should, and part of me wants to, because I see the weight piling on in subtle increments, in my ass, in my thighs, the backs of my upper arms, my belly. But it doesn’t matter, does it? Because I’m alone. Ollie died. He’s gone. There’s no one to see the few extra pounds. And really, it’s not that much; enough that I notice, but not enough that I’m worried about it.

  Ollie would notice it. And he’d love me anyway. He wouldn’t care. He’d tell me to enjoy life, to soak up the good times because they’re what get you through the shitty ones.

  I’m trying, Ollie. But I’ve run out of good times to remember, because they’re all tied up with you, and you’re gone.

  What else is there to enjoy? My solitude?

  The endless boring work at Beardsley’s practice? It is endless, too, because old Amos isn’t getting any younger, and I’m positioned to take over, if I were to bother going back to school to finish my medical degree.

  But it’s boring work. Stitches and temperatures, and “Here’s a prescription for Amoxicillin.” There’s nothing to enjoy. It’s not challenging. It doesn’t make my heart pound. It doesn’t scare me or require anything of me.

  I’m such a mess.

  I’m stuffing my face with a greasy burger, shoveling fries into my face, and I’m enjoying the hell out of it, all the while running in mental circles and ignoring my date.

  Not a date.

  Is it a date?

  Do I want it to be a date?

  Yes, and no.

  “Is this a date?” I ask, after swallowing a too-big bite; god, if that isn’t apropos. Bite off more than I could chew. I did just that, agreeing to go out with Lock.

  “I don’t know—is it?” He’s not being smarmy, not joking, and I don’t think it’s a line, either.

  Weird.

  “That’s not what I expected your response to be.”

  Lock shrugs. “It’s an unusual situation. I really don’t know what this is.” He doesn’t look at me when he says this, and somehow the statement is loaded with meaning I can’t quite parse. “My behavior before was unacceptable.”

  “You said you’d tell me your story.” I let my gaze linger on his, try to fathom what’s down deep in those blue-green-blue eyes.

  “No, I said it was a long story, and you said you have time.”

  “Oh.” I twist the ring around my finger again, a habit I have when I’m trying not to think about Ollie.

  “If you’re not married, or not married anymore, why do you still wear the rings?”

  “Jeez, going right for the hard stuff, huh?”

  He ducks his head. “Sorry. None of my business.”

  “No, it’s fucking not.” I take a breath. “Sorry—I’m sorry. That was a little harsh.”

  “No, I deserved it. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  We eat in silence for a few minutes. The silence isn’t companionable; it’s rife, thick, and fraught.

  “He died.” I blurt it out, between bites of French fries. “My husband…he died. And I can’t bring myself to take the rings off.”

  Lock breathes out slowly, almost delicately. Wipes his fingers on a napkin. His eyes meet mine. “You must have loved him a lot.”

  “He was…everything to me. So, yeah. I loved him a lot.”

  Another long silence, as Lock hunts for something to say next. I wish I could help him with that, but I don’t know what to say next myself.

  “Can I ask how…” He fumbles to a halt. “No, that’s—never mind. Too personal.”

  I wipe my own hands, leave my trash on the table. I’m supposed to pick up after myself, but I’m being ripped apart, and I can’t think, can’t do anything but walk away, out of the diner. I don’t know where I’m going.

  I feel a presence: Utah, this time with a leash clipped to her collar, pacing ahead of Lock as he catches up to me on the sidewalk.

  He walks beside me in silence a while. And then: “I’m sorry, Niall. I shouldn’t have asked.” A bitter laugh. “You know, I think I’ve apologized more to you in the last twenty minutes than I have in my whole life.”

  “I have that effect, it seems,” I say.

  I’m crying. Not sobbing, just a few quiet tears slipping down. I didn’t even realize until Lock reaches up, gingerly, hesitantly, almost fearfully, and brushes a tear away from the corner of my mouth.

  “Fuck,” he whispers. “I made you cry.”

  I shake my head, wipe at my face. “No. No, it wasn’t you. It’s just…” I laugh, a sound halfway between bitter and rueful. “Actually, it is you. But not just you.”

  We keep walking, Utah ahead of us, sniffing, tail wagging, grinning a doggy grin, greeting every passer-by. Lock is right beside me, so close. Too close. I could twitch my wrist and hold his hand. I could lean into him. I do none of these things, I just walk and try to gather myself, try to sort out my thoughts and wade through the jumbled ocean of my emotions.

  “His name was Oliver.” I don’t know who’s speaking; surely not me. These words are pouring out, unbidden. “He was a doctor. A surgeon. He could have worked anywhere in the country, opened his own practice, or gotten a top job at any hospital in the world. He was such a talented surgeon; he had these hands that were rock solid, no matter what. Just…steady. He was steady, no matter what. Never panicked,
never got overwhelmed, always knew exactly what to do and always got it done.”

  “How’d you meet?”

  I lift a shoulder, because it’s hard to talk past the knot in my throat. It’s hard to talk without bursting into sobs. It’s hard to do anything but focus on not running away. I haven’t spoken Ollie’s name since he died, not to anyone. I haven’t talked about him, I haven’t really tried to…remember him.

  We’re away from the downtown area and into the neighborhood outside it, now. There’s a park just ahead, and I use the time it takes to reach it to suppress the imminent breakdown. We sit on a bench, once again a little too close, his thigh brushing mine, shoulder brushing mine. He unclips Utah, grabs a stick from the grass beside the bench, and throws it. Utah, instead of bringing it back, slumps to the grass where the stick landed and chews on it.

  I wipe my cheeks with the heels of my palms, breathe deep. “I was an ER nurse in LA. I’d just—shit, it’s still hard to talk about, seven years later—I’d just lost a patient. This twelve-year-old kid got shot four times in a drive-by. He cut class to play basketball with his friends, and he caught some stray bullets and died. I couldn’t save him. Delaney and I did everything we could, but we lost him. I had to take a break, you know? You can’t go through something like that unscathed. I was outside, sitting alone, trying to not completely lose my shit, I guess. Ollie came up, sat beside me, and offered me a cigarette. I was like, no thanks, I don’t smoke. And he explained that he didn’t either, but when you go through something exceptionally difficult, sometimes you just have to smoke. And then he told me I should leave the hospital and work for MSF, Médecins Sans Frontières—Doctors Without Borders. I liked him, and he made it sound exciting and challenging, so I did it. I left LA, left the hospital, left my friends, and joined MSF. Went to Africa and—” I shake my head. “You don’t want to hear about Africa. It was…rough. But Ollie and I fell in love, and got married eventually. Had a week’s worth of honeymoon in the Bahamas, and then Dominique called, told us there was an earthquake in Haiti. The one in 2010? We were there, ground zero. That was…bad. Real bad. We never really got any time off after that, until we finally got rotated back stateside for some downtime. And then, on the way back down from visiting Ollie’s parents up in northern Cali, we got in a car accident. Ollie died.”

  I can’t go on. I can’t go there. I just can’t.

  I’m up again, walking. Running, really, back to my truck. I feel him behind me, but I ignore Lock, ignore Utah, ignore the stares. It’s all too much. I’m sobbing openly, running. I reach my truck, throw myself in. Fumble my key into the ignition. Twist it, shove the gearshift into reverse. Back out way too fast, nearly hit Lock, hit the brakes. He slides in, Utah leaping easily into the bed. He’s watching me, eyes worried, brows drawn. I hate the look on his face, the pity, the compassion. The understanding.

  I’m home and in my driveway without any memory of driving there. Just sitting in the silence, breathing, crying. Windows down, a hot Oklahoma wind blowing dust across my face.

  And that’s when it hits me: the silence.

  The radio is off. The radio is never off.

  Lock is in the passenger seat, and Utah is the truck bed.

  “God, why can’t you leave me alone?” I snarl.

  “Because you don’t want to be left alone.” His voice is low, almost inaudible. Soft, compassionate. Fucking compassion. Makes me shaky, angry, and weak. “You don’t run away if you don’t want to be chased.”

  “Oh, yeah? How the hell would you know?”

  “Babe, I’ve made an art form out of running away from problems. You’re talking to a bona fide expert.”

  I jab at the radio. “Did you turn this off?”

  “Yeah. I can’t stand that twangy, honky-tonk bullshit country. Newer stuff is okay, but that?” He gestures at the radio, which is now blaring an old Hank Williams Jr. song. “I can’t stand it. Not my thing.”

  “Don’t touch the radio. Don’t ever fucking touch it.” I adjust the volume to where it belongs: audible, but not too loud. Where Ollie had it.

  “Um, all right. Sorry?” Poor bastard sounds genuinely baffled, and with reason. I’m a volatile disaster.

  I breathe out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry, Lock. I’m being a bitch, and you don’t deserve it.”

  “I don’t know about that.” My left hand is on the steering wheel and he, brazen as you please, reaches up and takes it in his hand, twists the diamond on my finger. “I don’t think you’ve ever really dealt with any of this.”

  I want to curse him out, want to shout at him, want to hit him. Because he’s right, and I hate him for it. He has no business knowing anything about me, about my life, about my emotionally fragile state. So instead of doing any of those things, I shut off the truck and lurch out, walk past my house and into the endless acres of rolling field that is my backyard.

  I don’t know where I’m going or what I intend to accomplish, and I don’t care. I don’t know if Lock and Utah are following me, and I don’t care. Mainly because he’s fucking right again, in that I run because I want to be chased. And I don’t want to want that. I want to be content alone. I want to be stable and strong and fine, and I’m not.

  I’m lonely.

  My hormones are a raging, boiling maelstrom. I’ve always revved high in that area. I hadn’t exactly been a nun before I met Ollie, and after we finally admitted our feelings for each other and started getting it on, we went at it a lot. Like, crazy rabid bunny fucking, as often as we could. And then one day Ollie died, and I’ve been alone ever since. Utterly alone. And my emotions have been such a delicate, porcelain thing that even taking care of myself has been hard. I couldn’t. It felt like a betrayal of Ollie to touch myself, just to alleviate the pressure of built-up need. Everything is a betrayal, and that’s the problem. Breathing, living, existing, wanting, needing—everything is a betrayal of what I had with Ollie.

  It’s too much.

  I can’t hold everything in anymore.

  I can’t tread water anymore, can’t flail half-drowning in stagnancy anymore.

  I collapse, suddenly.

  The grass is knee-high, and when I collapse, it covers me. Buries me. Tickles my neck and my nose, and the stalk-tips wave in the breeze. Blue above me—endless blue dotted with shreds of white.

  I feel Lock lie down in the grass beside me, and I hear Utah leaping and prancing around somewhere, barking.

  “What do you want from me, Lock?” My voice trembles, because I’m approximately sixty seconds from total meltdown.

  “I plead the Fifth.”

  “You keep following me. And I don’t know what you want from me.”

  A sigh. “I don’t know, Niall. I just…I can’t leave you alone, not when you’re obviously—”

  “A fucking disaster?”

  “Yeah, basically.”

  “Thanks,” I laugh, bitterly.

  But the bitter laugh turns into a hiccup, which turns into a sob, and then the floodgates are opened. And I can’t stop it. It’s all coming out. The loneliness, the missing Ollie, the self-recrimination. I can’t express it except to cry.

  When a long arm reaches toward me, I don’t even think about it. I roll into him, bury my face against his shirt. “I miss him,” I mumble, between sobs. “I miss him so fucking much.”

  “Hell yeah, you do. How could you not?”

  “And I’m lonely. I want him back, but I’m also just…lonely. But I don’t know how to do anything but what I’m doing. I can’t go back to MSF, and I just—I want to be near him. I moved down here because this is where he grew up. That truck is his truck. I wear his T-shirts to bed, just—just to be closer to him. To feel him. Because…because I don’t. I don’t feel him anymore. And I don’t know what to do. I don’t know—I don’t know anything.”

  “You don’t have to know anything.” His words are puffed against my hair.

  So close. Too close. Too right.

  I’m lying against his
left side, and I hear his heart thumping. It’s a steady, familiar, reassuring beat, a rhythm down deep in his chest just under my ear.

  For a moment, just a moment, I let myself just…feel it. Pretend this is okay. Pretend I’m allowed to have this, enjoy this.

  I even tilt my face up, look into his eyes. He has his other arm propped under his head, and he’s looking down at me. There’s a kind of shocked expression on his face, as if he can’t believe I’m here, in his arms.

  I can’t believe it either.

  It feels right.

  It feels okay.

  His beard tickles my face, so I move up a little.

  And then—Jesus, I don’t know what’s coming over me, what’s devouring me, taking me over. Something hot and more volatile than anything I’ve ever felt, this sense of need, this hunger, this raw urgency.

  I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know who I am, what fucked up puppeteer is manipulating my strings.

  I kiss him.

  I lift up, grab a fistful of his thick beard and tug his face down to mine and I kiss him.

  And for a split second, less than a heartbeat— my lips on his is the entirety of everything, it’s life and breath and the sky above and the earth beneath and the wind all around—but then his palm comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb nudges my chin and his tongue flicks against my lips and his hands grip my hips and bring me up to lay on top of him.

  And that breaks the spell.

  “Fuck!” I roll off him, crawl away literally on all fours through the grass. “What the hell am I doing?”

  “Niall, hold on a second—” he says, coming after me.

  I whirl on him, slam my fists into his chest. “NO! You need to leave me the fuck alone! Just leave me alone. You mix me up, you confuse me, you make everything—seem too easy. Nothing makes sense when you’re around.”

  He grabs my wrists in gentle fingers. “You mean everything makes too much sense when I’m around.”