by Shayla Black
In the dark bathroom, she’s on her knees in front of the toilet, gripping the side with one hand and holding her hair back with the other. There’s nothing in her stomach to vomit, so she heaves and gasps. Then I hear a sob that tears at my chest.
I can’t not go to her.
“Hey, it’s all right. I’m here.” Taking hold of her hair at her nape, I rub her back with a soothing palm.
She jumps like a startled cat. “Go!”
I try not to take her rejection personally. I suspect she’s rejecting men and emotions in general, rather than me specifically. “I won’t leave you when you’re upset. Your situation is way more public because of me. Because I was careless enough to kiss you in public last night, naively thinking that since I’m retired no one would care about my love life.”
Harlow doesn’t answer, just continues to pant and shake over the toilet. I notice that she’d rather hold on to it than to me.
“I’m sorry, baby. Let’s talk.”
She shakes her head, then manages to get to her feet. “There’s nothing to say. It’s done. Let’s look forward and not back. You’ve got a job to prepare for and you’re paying me well to help you. You don’t have time for me to lick my wounds. How many hours of sleep did you have last night?”
“About three, but it can wait. You need—”
“I need to move on. Since you should be nice and exhausted today, let’s get started, hopefully make progress with the evaluations.” She washes her hands, then reaches for her toothbrush. “If you haven’t had coffee, don’t. Let me throw myself together and we’ll dig in. Meet me in your office in ten.”
Like nothing ever happened. Like her life didn’t fall apart less than a week ago and she hasn’t been trying to pick up the pieces by herself since. If she’s not ready to talk, badgering her won’t help. I don’t like it, but there’s not much I can do now.
More and more, I find myself wanting to talk to Maxon and Griff. They’re on her side. They understand their sister. They might be able to help me know what to do next and why she’s seemingly broken. Why she wants a baby so desperately. And why, if her ex didn’t shatter her emotionally, is she rebuffing someone who wants to make her happy?
“All right, but we’re going to talk about you, too.”
“That’s not going to help your situation.”
“Paragraph three, clause B says that we’ll take breaks at your discretion but I can insist we continue with therapy or engage in non-therapeutic conversation as a low-key way to continue my verbal progress. So when I need to rest, you can talk.”
“You want to grill me.”
“I just want to know you better, Harlow. I’m not the enemy.”
She stares at me, arms crossed. “Everyone is, Weston. Despite your celebrity, you’re no different. You hired me to help you with your speech issues. If you still want to fuck, I’m down with that. But I don’t need you to be my hero and I’m not looking for some grand romance. Now get out of my personal space.”
Harlow shoves me out and slams the door, but not before I see tears falling down her cheeks.
I stare at the bathroom door she slammed in my face for a long second.
That woman is not fine. Does anyone else know that?
Shaking my head, I back away. I have maybe five minutes before Harlow gets herself together and comes downstairs in some thought-robbing outfit, gumption firmly strapped in place, demanding that we get to work. I should be using this time to do more than splash water on my face and find my wits, but as I do, realizations pelt me left and right. She’s been using sex as a newfound expression of her freedom from the ex-dipshit. She’s also wielding it expertly to avoid actual intimacy. It’s easy to fuck, so I understand why she’s acted as if we’re friends with benefits. I imagine it’s much more difficult to open your heart and make love. I’ve never actually done that, I admit. But Harlow needs to.
The question is, if I tried with her—if I could make love to her—how would she respond?
Yes, a woman who wants a baby because she craves love should want devotion from others in her life. But trust is a thin commodity with her, and she can feel secure that a baby will never hurt or deceive her. Harlow acts as if she’s otherwise avoidant of attachment. I’ve never been a huge fan myself, but I like this woman. Really like her. I want to be something more to her than the rebound stud.
I’m also second-guessing whether I should get that deep with Harlow. The guy who finally convinces her to open up and trust should be prepared to be a staple in her life for a long while. Our relationship already has an expiration date, per our contract. Is it possible we’ll still feel as hot for each other by the end of the summer as we do right now?
I don’t know. But I also know I can’t do nothing while she’s hurting.
After some grooming, I pick up my phone and scroll through my emails. I remember seeing phone numbers in messages about my house closing. It takes me a minute, but I finally locate a missive from Griff.
“I’m ready,” Harlow calls from the top of the stairs. “I’m setting up in your office. Come down and let’s get this shit started. You’ve got a second career to nail.”
With a grimace, I duck into the bathroom. “Be out in a minute.”
If I’m going to start understanding Harlow, I need reinforcements. Reaching her will be hard enough. Doing it in a couple of months sounds ridiculous. I’d leave it alone if I thought someone else could manage it…and if I didn’t have some inexplicable urge to be the man to break through her walls.
Taking a deep breath, I dial the number in the email. Despite the fact that it’s barely seven a.m., he answers on the second ring. “Griffin Reed speaking.”
“It’s Noah Weston.”
A long silence tells me he’s not thrilled. “What do you want? Unless it’s to buy another house from me, I’ve got nothing to say.”
The chill in his voice is unmistakable, but I push on. “I’m calling about your sister.”
“What do you want? You better not be looking for permission to shine a neon light on her broken engagement and humiliate her even more in the tabloid press. Because if you are, you’ve come to the wrong place. If you mess with her again, I will cut you. And Maxon will help me dig the hole and bury your body.”
Nerves tighten my stomach. I blow out a breath. Is it hot in here or just me? I’ve got to focus. If her family is already against me, how the hell can I enlist their aid?
“That was a mistake. I’m sorry. I just want to help her. I didn’t know about her ex until less than an hour ago.”
“She didn’t tell you?” His grunt sounds frustrated. “I shouldn’t be surprised. That’s how Harlow rolls. But not knowing doesn’t excuse the fact that you made her private life public. She doesn’t need that shit, asshole.”
“You’re right.” I rush to get the words out because I feel my nerves seizing my guts. Sweat beads on my forehead. My words freeze. “Why?”
I can’t finish the rest of my question, and the final word doesn’t even sound one hundred percent right to my ears. But it’s all I can manage. I’m tired and I’m anxious. Those are both triggers for me. But goddamn it, I need to get out of my own way and help Harlow.
“Why doesn’t it surprise me that my sister didn’t tell you? Because she’s great at helping everyone else with their problems and completely ignoring her own. When she first came to Hawaii, she dove in the heap of shit I found myself in with my wife. Long story, but she kicked me in the ass when I needed it. After that, she had her own wedding to focus on. Maxon and I kept asking her if she was sure she wanted to marry this guy. She would laugh us off or change the subject or…”
Find one of the other hundred ways she knew so well to deflect the issue. “Hmm…”
It’s not much of a response, but it’s the best I can do. My brain is screaming at me, but my mouth just won’t cooperate. I drag air in, let it out, try to find calm. It’s not helping. My head is whirling like someone punched me stupid.
“Hun-huh.” I put a negative tone to my voice and hope he understands. Griff putting his pissed off aside to talk to me at all is a blessing, and I’m so fucking frustrated that I can’t form the words to have a coherent conversation.
“Figures. As siblings, we’re pretty tight. But neither of us had any idea what Harlow had up her sleeve for her wedding day. Apparently she didn’t tell her bridesmaids that she had revenge, not eternal devotion, on her mind, either. Nor did she breathe a word of it to our parents, not that they would have been able to spare the mental energy to care.”
Because their own divorce is so consuming? I have no idea and I fucking can’t seem to ask. I grit my teeth and focus hard on making the sounds in my head. I manage to growl out a “wow” that almost sounds intelligible.
Griff pauses, and I can almost feel his scowl over the phone. “Yeah. So if you’re just going to keep taking advantage of a woman who’s already in emotional distress and sling her name through the mud as your latest conquest, I wish you’d fuck off and stay out of her life.”
“Nah.” I try for a no, but don’t quite get one. I’m hopeful that distorted sound makes enough sense for me to get my point across.
“No, you won’t take advantage of her or no, you won’t fuck off?”
A question that I can’t answer with a yes or no. I’m screwed. I suck in harsh air and try to muster my verbal abilities but after an awkward silence, I realize there’s no hope. With an angry grunt, I hang up on him, then instantly tap out a text.
Sorry we got cut off. The answer to your question is neither. I simply want to help Harlow, so I called you for answers. I’m trying to understand her. Talk later?
It takes a moment, but the three little dots tell me that he’s replying.
“Are you coming sometime this century?” Harlow hollers up the stairs. “If you’re still grooming, didn’t any woman ever tell you that she can’t deal with a dude who’s prettier than she is?”
As I pocket the phone, I swallow a few times. The dizzy, overwhelmed feeling begins to subside. I stop sweating as I head out of the bedroom and down to the office. The selective loss of verbal ability is frustrating as hell. Why does this keep happening? Being tired never used to affect me half so much. I can’t remember a time before this year when I was ever anxious, much less worrying constantly that a situation will spiral out of control and I’ll lose my ability to talk it through. I want to hit a wall or growl out my anger. But Harlow can’t fix me if I lose my shit. And I’m useless to her if I do.
Halfway down the stairs, my phone buzzes again. I pull it from my pocket and scan Griff’s reply.
You’re damn right we will. This conversation isn’t over.
It sucks that he sees me as the enemy, but I don’t blame him. I’m annoyed that I can’t do anything about it now.
I canter down to the home office. When I arrive, Harlow has a pamphlet in front of her, two open books, a pencil tucked behind her ear, and a steaming cup of coffee in her hand.
“Finally, Mr. Ready-for-your-close-up arrives. Have a seat.” She gestures to a chair opposite her. “I got you a bottle of water and one of those protein bars you like.” When I eye her coffee, she hugs it protectively to her chest. “Don’t get any ideas about this java. After we’re done, you can have a whole pot. But for now I need your raw responses. And before you get any ideas, you can’t seduce me into easing up on the caffeine ban, so save yourself the effort and embarrassment. This cup is mine.”
I narrow my eyes at her and open my mouth. “Mean.”
Relieved that the constriction on my words seems to be easing up, I watch as she laughs. “Yeah, I’m a regular bitch. Just ask half my Facebook friends. But name-calling won’t stop me from getting the best assessment possible. It’s critical that I know exactly what’s happening with you. Our time is short and this won’t be an easy problem to tackle. I want to see you succeed. I want to help you, so let’s do this.”
Suddenly, she’s positive and upbeat, supportive and sweet. Like she didn’t just slam the bathroom door in my face and shove me out of her private pain fifteen minutes ago.
“Sure.” I take a drink of water and gnaw into the protein bar, hoping that, even if I can’t have coffee, the hydration and calories will help me focus. “What’s first?”
“I have to ask you a few questions for background. We’ll discuss some of your medical stuff, too. Then we’ll hop into the assessment. It’s a few hours long.”
It sounds like torture, especially when she sips coffee, flips through notes, and looks too damn beautiful doing it. “Sure.”
I grit my teeth and grip the table so I don’t jump on her—or her cup.
“Have you ever had a problem speaking before these episodes began?”
“Never.”
She jots notes on the assessment. “Have you had a hearing exam in the last twelve months?”
“Yeah, the neurologist insisted we check everything from top to bottom after the concussion in the NFC Championship Game but before the Super Bowl. That came out clear.”
“Brain scan? I know they aren’t completely indicative of issues, but did your neurologist find anything? I know CTE can’t be diagnosed without an autopsy, so he wouldn’t have laid that label on you. Let’s not resort to that to get a diagnosis, okay?”
She’s teasing me. Leave it to Harlow to joke through a serious subject. I think she handles everything rough with humor or deflection, maybe a touch of sarcasm, too. “Let’s not. The scan I had back around the first of February looked good but…”
“These things develop over years and decades, yeah. Tell me when you first noticed your difficulty with speech.”
“I couldn’t speak for a few hours after my last concussion. I could think, but that’s the first time I became aware of the disconnect between my brain and my mouth.” I don’t admit how much that worried me. But I sweated until my words returned. “Then again after the Super Bowl, I was supposed to go straight from the field to the shower, then to a press conference. I got through most of my canned statement all right, but when the reporters broke in and started pelting me with questions about my future in football and what I intended to do if I wasn’t extended another contract, I remember feeling my words freeze up.”
That’s when panic really set in.
“The idea of never playing again made you anxious, I take it?”
“I already knew I was done. For my health, I had to be. Admitting it felt impossible. I intended to announce my retirement that night, but I couldn’t—literally. I cut the press conference short by stomping out. The press painted me as pissy about the question, but I was frustrated about being unable to make my announcement after a reporter handed me the perfect segue. Later, my coach covered for me, telling everyone that I’d been dizzy and severely dehydrated.”
“I remember seeing a clip of you on the news. The press made a big deal about your curt responses and abrupt end. So that was the first time you’d been unable to speak in public? It caught you off guard?”
“Yeah. I was stunned that I suddenly couldn’t talk. I was especially baffled since I hadn’t suffered another concussion that day.” I still have no idea why it happens selectively. I mean, I’ve pinned it down to being tired or anxious. The combination together is almost a guarantee that I’ll fuck up.
“What did you tell your coach?”
“About that night? Nothing. I said I didn’t feel good. He made up the
rest of the cover story. I went to a team party that night that lasted into the wee hours before I had to be up for more interviews the next morning. I was fine. We did Disney World and the White House. No problems. So I thought I was all right, that the whole incident had been a blip. Then it happened again when I realized I couldn’t avoid announcing my retirement. Then again when my sister got married. I couldn’t finish the toast I had planned.” I’d had to plead a migraine to everyone, lie that I couldn’t read the words swimming in front of my eyes.
“It’s happened twice in the past couple of days.”
Three times if I’m being picky. But she doesn’t need to know about my conversation with Griff just now. So I simply nod.
“Does anyone in your family have this same issue? Or ever had trouble in the past?”
I shake my head. “They all seem normal. No one has ever expressed any problem. Samaria is actually really good off the cuff. She’s in sales.”
Harlow taps the pencil’s eraser against her temple and stares at the paper in her hand. “Any new medications in the last six months? Something that may have altered your brain chemistry?”
“No.”
“Did you tell your neurologist about your problem?”
“I haven’t seen him since February.”
She gives me a long-suffering sigh. “You could have called him when the problem persisted.”
“And admit I had a problem at all?” I send her a quelling stare in jest…mostly.
“Oh, I get it. You he-man, so you’re macho enough to self-diagnose and self-treat.” Harlow rolls her eyes.
“No. I’m manly enough that I don’t have problems I can’t overcome on my own.”
“Ever think about changing your name to Conan LoneWolf?” she pokes. “A little suggestion: next time you have an unexplained phenomenon with your brain, maybe you should, you know, call a doctor. Get an expert medical opinion.”
She’s right, but I can’t help teasing her back.
“Why would I do that when I can find a hot woman to help me instead?”
