by H. M. Ward
"We can't stray from the paths on which fate places us. I can't be someone I'm not, Mari, no matter how highly you think of me—no matter what ghosts you think you see." He still speaks in poems. His voice is just as hypnotic as it was all those years ago, but I can hear the strain in his voice. Trystan is a survivor—he always has been—but tonight something sent him speeding into a tree. I want to know what it was. I want to know what spooked him badly enough to make the most stupid decision of his life.
"You have no right to talk to me like that. Don't spew fancy words at me and expect I'll drop my panties for you again. Fool me twice, shame on me."
"You were never the fool. I was." Trystan looks up at the ceiling, barely blinking, as he speaks. He keeps the bandage pressed against his forehead with one hand while the other rests on his side. His dark hair is crusted over with blood near the hairline. I'm surprised my father didn't shave it.
"I can't argue with you there." My voice grows colder by the moment. I don't want to have this conversation. I don't want to be in this room with him. Suddenly, things I wished for when I thought he was dead rush away with the tide of my emotions. I finally understand why my father sent me in here. I've grown especially skilled at suturing wounds. I've been studying methods of stitching skin back together in a way that diminishes scarring. There's no one here better at it than I am. That's why he asked for me. That's why my father called me here. He's not the bastard I thought he was. It's practical.
I grab the things I need and fall silent as I ready them on a tray next to Trystan's bed. As I move to examine the wound, Trystan releases the gauze, brushing his hand against mine.
"I still see your face when I close my eyes." He sounds tired and beaten.
Steel yourself Mari. Just fix him and walk away. Let his words roll off like the meaningless drivel they've always been.
I refuse to feel anything for him. I've been down this road before, and it ends with Trystan running the other way. I won't relive the past. We have different lives now. We’re different people. Trystan stills as I work on him. I try to keep my mind on work, on the practical nature of this job. I try not to think about how nice his skin feels, to ignore the relentless charge between us. Every time I brush against his skin my stomach flutters. I ignore it and focus harder on my work.
Trystan can't seem to stay still or be quiet. He squirms again even though I know the anesthetic keeps him from feeling anything. "Stop wiggling."
"Sorry. Your touch is—"
I cut him off, "Don't."
But he doesn’t listen. "It's the same. It's everything—darkness and light, stars and moonlight spilling down from the heavens into your hands. It’s perfect." His gaze is fixated on my face, his eyes burning with intensity, willing me to look at him.
Resisting the urge, I continue to close the wound. "That's nice."
Trystan continues speaking in verse, saying things I don't quite understand. "Smooth, supple grace hides the turmoil brewing within, but it's there —it's still there—dusk after dusk, dawn after dawn. Doesn't that make you wonder?"
I refuse to catch his gaze. It's bad enough that I have to touch him, but if I look him in the eye, I have no idea what I'll say. In the past, when our eyes met and our skin touched, it felt like he could read every thought, every feeling moving within me. I still feel that connection sparking between us.
"There's nothing to wonder about," I say, finishing the sutures.
Trystan smiles and laughs. It's a familiar sound, one that makes me remember better times with him. I can't help it. My gaze lifts and aligns with those beautiful blue eyes. For a moment, I'm taken back to when I first realized he liked me. It took him so long to convince me he was sincere. I thought he was. I wish I knew why he left me when I needed him most. Minutes pass, but it feels like hours lost in each other's gaze, swimming in a sea of things that never were.
"Are you going to ask me?" Trystan's voice is soft and remorseful. I know exactly what he's referring to because I'm considering whether to ask or not.
My lips part and I want to speak, I want to ask him—but I can't. I already know the answer. He left me for someone else, which meant he was never sincere, he never cared about me, and—worst of all—he never loved me. Trystan can’t help who he is. Women flock to his radiating confidence, to the poetic way he speaks. He's different than anyone else I've ever met. He always has been.
I shake my head and lower my eyes to his chest thinking that will break the spell, but it doesn't. It makes the sensation inside me grow larger. There's something at the core of my being that pulls me toward him. It has always been there and won't go away no matter what happens between us. Our souls are anchored together, and we are too close to deny it.
My eyes scan the toned muscles of his chest remembering the last night we were together. I touched every inch of his body, learned every curve of muscle. The pads of my fingers felt the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. His strength, his passion, everything was mine that night. I shake my head to clear the thought from my mind. Walking down that path will be too painful, but that doesn't stop him from calling me back.
"It's not what you think." Trystan's lashes lower and then raise. He fights to remain focused on me, but I know the drugs are pulling him under. He won't be awake much longer.
I grab the rest of what I need and start to clean up some of his wounds. Trystan continues to speak, saying things I don't think of during daylight.
"Everyone thinks they know me, Mari. The truth is very few people know me in a way that matters. Even fewer people truly like me. It's been lonely since Tucker died. There are personalities in this world existing purely to do good, steering us onto paths too steep and narrow to climb alone. Tucker helped me take my life in a different direction, but I walked up the mountain alone. There are very few things that truly frighten me and being alone is one of them. I'm alone, Mari. Morning after morning, there's no one around me except people who want something from me. I'm at the top of this precipice alone. I don't even belong here and, since Tucker died, I've tried to stay on this path, but I can't. I'm not cut out for this."
I can't help it. There's no way for me to listen to him speak like that and say nothing. "You're not alone Trystan."
He lifts his dark lashes, his sapphire gaze meeting mine. He watches me for a moment, sensing my sincerity, before speaking. Taking a deep breath, he breathes, "I'm not?"
Inwardly I'm still battling my inner bitch who wants to castrate him for all the pain he put me through, but the kind girl living inside my brain kicks her ass and replies. "No, you're never alone."
I shift positions to examine his other wounds and check for a second gash on his hairline. Lifting a piece of sterile gauze dipped in cleaning solution, I go to wash the dried blood from his hair, but Trystan reaches for my wrists and stops me. My heart beats faster, and my breath catches in my throat. I've been touching him all this time, and feeling the pull between us, but when he touches me, it's a million times worse. I'm about to start shaking, desperate to pull away. The intense feeling of his touch has amplified over the years. It courses through my body, lighting me on fire and sending a spark across every inch of my skin.
Before I can move Trystan speaks. "I thought I'd never talk to you again. I thought I'd never see you again."
"Same here." My heart thumps one beat at a time. Why is it so hot in here? I can't think. His hands are on me. The memory of skin on skin, of our sweat-covered bodies moving together fills my mind. It's too much. It's like he's channeling the thought in me. Gasping, I pull my hands away and stare at him with my lips parted and my hands shaking.
"Mari, there's something I've been dying to tell you. For the longest time, I've wanted to say it, to explain—" he presses his lips together and swallows hard.
I want to know so badly. I want to know why he walked away from me. I want to know why he slammed his car into a tree. I want to know all the things I missed. Something within me is crying out for him, still craving his
touch, still wishing the sound of his voice filled my ears. A shiver crawls up my spine, attacks my shoulders, and travels down my arms. My jaw hangs open with words ready to roll off my tongue. I notice the clock in the room ticking louder as my pulse roars in my ears. My chest rises and falls faster and faster.
Trystan watches me, looking up at me from the cold bed. His breath lifts his body making his beautiful chest rise and fall. There's a cut on his lip that's covered in dried blood. I don't know why I do it, but I change directions, leaning toward his mouth, carefully dabbing at the cut until it's clean. I’m so close that his scent fills my head. I wish I could stay in this place, I wish I could lie against his chest and feel his arms wrap around me once more. I'm frozen in time, staring at his mouth when the door to the room bangs open and someone barges through it yelling and cursing at Trystan.
I stand up straight and whirl around to meet the sound. Standing in front of me is a man in a black suit and shoes so shiny they look like glass. He's tall, thin, and twice my age. His face is red, contorted with anger, and he rushes at Trystan. Security is close behind.
"What the fuck are you thinking? Do you know what this means for the project? You dumb little shit! Do you have any idea?"
I stand there for a second, stunned, before I remember myself. "Sir, you need to leave!"
I step between them and put my hands on my hips, glaring at the man. He laughs. "Bedded her already, Trystan? Can't you keep it in your pants for five goddamn seconds to take care of work? This project," he says waving a folder of papers through the air, "starts next week!" I see something printed on the tab on the top of the folder, but the guy is waving it around so much I can't read what it says. "Tell me you're not the asshole I think you are. Tell me you know your fucking lines." The man is looking over my shoulder, glaring at Trystan.
I'm too short to block his view, and he ignores me like I'm the nobody he thinks I am. Fuck that. I snap my fingers in his face. When he looks down at me, I let him have it. I shove my finger into his chest and push hard. "No one talks to my patients like that in this ER. Get your ass out the door before I have security throw you out!"
He laughs. The dumbass laughs in my face. "Women always get this way around him. I hate to break it to you, honey, but Trystan Scott doesn't give a shit about you. He's talking about someone else. He always talks about her when he's like this, so don't think he's into you. That little shit isn't into anyone except himself." He screams over my shoulder again, yelling at Trystan, "You cost us millions, you little prick! You should have—hey!"
I lose it. I've never done anything like this in my life, but suddenly my clipboard is in my hands, and I swing right at the guy’s head. I clock him with the backside of the clipboard above his ear. "I SAID GET OUT! LEAVE! NOW!"
He retreats one step with each word I say. He cowers as he backs away from me, covering his ear, which leaves the other ear wide open.
WHACK
I hit the other side and rise on my toes to scream in his face. "GET THE HELL OUT OF MY ER AND NEVER COME BACK!" My eyes narrow to thin slits and I'm ready to claw his face off.
Security arrives as the man crosses the threshold of the room. "You crazy bitch! You hit me! I'll tell your supervisor and have you fired before you can blink. Get a doctor in here now!"
Tipping my head to the side, I smile. "I am a doctor. Get the fuck out."
The man works his jaw and looks back at the security guards who are reaching for his arms. He shakes them off, angrily glaring at Trystan over my shoulder. "Here's the fucking script. You better show up, and if makeup can't cover that mess on your face you're in deep shit, kid!" He throws the folder over my shoulder into the room, papers flying everywhere.
"Enough of that," the guard says, pulling the guy by the elbow and turning him around. He's swearing, but I'm no longer listening. I slam the door shut and turn around, pressing my back to it, breathing hard.
Trystan is sitting up and looks like he's about to fall over. He must have tried to stand. His head sways in a circle as his eyes flutter closed. His hand touches his head, and he falls to the side. I rush at him, managing to get there before he falls to the floor. "Trystan, you can't get up. You've got a lot of medicine in your system. Don't sit up. Don't stand, okay?"
My arm is under his shoulder as I lay him back down on the table. When I pull away, he holds onto my hand for a second. "Thanks, for that."
I try not to smile, but I can't help it. "Dad is going to kill me. I hit that man with a clipboard."
The corners of Trystan's lips twitch as he adds, "Twice."
We both laugh for a moment, and when the room goes silent, I look down at the papers on the floor. Bending down, I pick one up. It's a script. Holding up the sheet, I ask, "What was this all about, anyway?"
Trystan sighs and closes his eyes. He presses a hand over his eyes and tells me. "That asshole was a representative of the studio filming a movie I’m supposedly doing. We start shooting next week. There was shit I was supposed to be at last week, but I blew it off."
"Why?"
His eyelids lower, and those long dark lashes obscure his gaze. He glances to the side for a beat and then back up at me, grinning. "I can't learn my lines." He shrugs, and then winces. "I haven't acted since high school. That was almost a decade ago, and I had help—Tucker and you. Agreeing to do this film was a mistake. I can't focus on the words, and nothing is sticking—not a single phrase. That's why he was pissed. Plus I ruined my face."
"Your face will be fine. You had the best doctor around stitch you up. They can cover that with your hair and the makeup department can hide any bruising still visible when filming starts." I'm quiet for a moment, thinking.
"That part doesn’t matter as much. They needed me, and this isn't going to happen. My agent is going to be pissed." Trystan sucks in air and releases it swiftly.
Before I have too much time to think, I say it. "I'll help you. I'll run lines with you."
Trystan drops his arm and looks at me, stunned. His dark brows bunch together and his lips part slightly. He pushes up on his elbow a little, lifting his head off the bed. "Why would you do that for me?"
My stomach is in my throat. I don't want to think about why I said that. The answer is somewhere inside of me, but I'd rather not face it this second. So I smirk and shrug. "Because you need a friend, and so do I."
"You do?"
I nod. "Yeah, besides—if you don't listen, I’ll get to slap you with my clipboard."
He smiles at me, lying back and closing his eyes. After placing his hands on his abs and lacing his fingers together, he opens one eye, and says, "You're such a badass, Mari. I like this side of you."
Chapter 11
Mari
Tired doesn't begin to describe how I feel as I get ready to leave the ER. My limbs feel as if they are made of lead—I can barely move. I’m stiff all over, and my feet are dragging as I hand Rose the rest of my paperwork, ready to head out.
“So,” she says without glancing up at me from behind the desk or accepting my paperwork. Her fingers move swiftly across the keyboard for a few seconds before she lifts her gaze.
I know what she’s getting at, and I’m too tired to get into it right now. “So.”
“Are you going to tell me? Or do I have to dust off my sleuthing hat?”
I lift a brow at her. “You have a sleuthing hat?”
“It’s metaphorical, and don’t you dodge the question.”
“I’m sorry. I missed the question, and I’m tired. I’m leaving, Rose.” I force my folders into her hands and swipe my card through the time clock.
Rose stays in her chair and makes one of those old lady noises that makes me want to spill my guts. “Mmm-um. Well, you know where to find me when you’re ready to come clean about your past with that boy.”
I laugh lightly. “No one has called Trystan Scott a boy in nearly a decade.”
“I’m old enough to be his mother, so he’s still a boy to me. And you’re a girl, and it’
s plain enough to see you two have a history. What happened after high school?”
My jaw drops and I slap my hands down on the counter. Another nurse looks up at me, startled. I lean in toward Rose and whisper-yell. “Did you Google me? Why would you do that?” My voice is way too high. I might as well confess. Whatever she's thinking will be way worse than what actually happened with Trystan.
“I did not Google you! I Googled him. Then I read his Wiki page and happened to see that he also attended your high school, which I recall because I already know everything about you. So, is there a juicy story there, Mari? A sordid love affair with the rock star before he became someone?” She’s trying not to smile and folds her hands under her chin.
“Oh, God! Rose, you’re off base here. And don’t smile, your face will crack.” I start looking for my keys. They should be on the counter, but they aren’t. Damn it, Mitchell!
Rose laughs. “Come on, you know something about him, or you wouldn’t be acting all squirrelly. Lay it on me. I’m an old lady and need to live vicariously through you young people.” She tips her head to the side and grins. I know if I don’t offer something she’ll hound me until I crack, so I throw her a bone.
I make a sound in the back of my throat and flop my head on her desk. “Yes, we were in high school together. We got locked in a closet once. Fun times.” I lift my head and grin. “I’ll tell you about it sometime.”
Her lips form a big O and her dark eyes nearly fall out of her face. “You did not do that to an old woman!”
“You’re not old, Rose!” I turn and start to walk away.
She calls out behind me. “And don’t I know it. I’m your younger, tanner sister from back in the day. We’re twins separated at birth.”
The corner of my mouth pulls up. I turn, walking backward as I say, “That means Dr. Hardass is your dad, too. I’ll be sure to get you a seat at the dinner table, right next to him.” No one likes sitting next to Dad when he eats. Everything has to be perfectly displayed—all outlines squared off to his napkin, plate, and placemat. When he eats in the cafeteria, he does the same thing—and yes, he brings a placemat, because he’s him.
