by Sara Hubbard
“Sullivan Hope?” a nurse says after she walks through the sliding doors from the ER to the waiting room.
I shake Sullivan a little to wake him up, and now he’s so weak, I almost have to help him get inside. They draw blood, remove his bandages and fix him up. Eleven stitches in total, in three different places, but six of them are in his shoulder.
His hemoglobin is low, but not low enough for a transfusion so they load him up with IV fluids and he sleeps the whole time. I could leave him. Take a cab and find something else to do with my day. In fact when Nicole calls to check in she asks me to come home and go to the Cave with her and some other girls from the resort, but I feel responsible for Sullivan. Yes. That’s it. He tries too hard to put up walls and yet for me, they’re transparent. He’s not at all the guy he appears to be. And no matter how much I try to tear myself away from him, I can’t get up and walk out.
I fall asleep at some point. When I open my eyes Sullivan is staring at me, a look of confusion on his face.
“What?”
“You’re still here.”
I shrug. “Do you want me to leave?”
He shakes his head and winces as he adjusts in bed. He’s sitting up with his back against the headboard, his long body covered by a single sheet. He’s still hooked up to an IV and the bag is almost empty.
“When I woke, I thought you’d be gone. You did your job, made sure I came here and got treated. Your job’s over and you’re still here.”
“I wouldn’t leave you, Sullivan. We’re friends. That’s not what friends do.”
“You don’t have to sleep with me. You know that, right? I won’t hold you to that, not literally.”
I shrug and cross my arms over my chest. “I know. But…”
“But?”
I take a deep breath and say, “Maybe I want to,” before I can think better of it. I’m heading down a road I can’t turn back from, and it’s more than a little scary.
He studies me, nodding. “Then that’s exactly the reason why we shouldn’t.”
What? I know he’s right but it surprises me how deflated his statement makes me feel, but I have no intention of letting him know that. “You’re right.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Abby. I want to. God,” he almost shakes his fist, “I want to, but girls have a tendency to hate me very shortly after.”
“Because you blow them off.”
“I care about you. I do. I just can’t risk it. I don’t want to do anything to lose you.”
“You won’t. I’ll always be here for you, no matter what.”
My heart breaks a little. Sure, he’s privileged, but I made judgements about him, about how easy his life is, and I could be completely wrong. If my sticking around and being concerned is so foreign to him, I have to wonder if his family cares. I know he has a dad, but he won't talk about him. I would die for my family and I know they’d do the same for me—it's so sad that he can’t say that, too.
Maybe guys and girls can’t be friends without sex getting in the way. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s attractive and I’m attracted to him. We have a connection and I can’t deny it and this makes me want to run away screaming. With Dean I could have dated him and left him at the end of the summer, grateful for a nice experience and good company, but with Sullivan…there’s no walking away from him unharmed.
I open my mouth to respond, still not sure of what I’m about to say when the door swings open and the doctor walks in. “Okay, so you’re free to go. Just take it easy. Come back in ten days to have the stitches removed. The nurse will give you a pamphlet on how to care for the wounds.”
Sullivan nods and sits up in his stretcher. He reaches for his IV and he’s about to pull it out when I jump up and slap his hand away. He looks up at me with raised brows.
“You can’t just rip your IV out.”
The doctor says nothing and I glare at him for a little support. “Yes. Of course. You can’t do that. I'll send the nurse in.”
“No need, doc. I got one right here.”
I roll my eyes and refuse to take it out, waiting instead for the nurse. I’m not about to step on her toes. She comes in soon after, goes over the pamphlet while Sullivan nods and says the occasional uh huh. But I can tell he’s not listening. When we walk out to the car, he’s moving better and his colour has brightened as well.
He holds his hand out for the keys.
I laugh at him. “Fat chance. You just had Dilaudid an hour ago.”
He shrugs.
I drive him home, his eyes on me almost the whole drive, but neither of us say anything. At least not until I pull over in front of his cabin and shut the engine off.
“What's going on in your head?" I ask. "You’ve been staring at me for a half hour.”
He licks his lips, his eyes cast down to his hands. “Nothing. Just tired.”
He's such a liar.
“Call me if you need anything,” I offer.
“Hey, why don’t you come in for a bit?”
“What for?”
He laughs. “I don’t know. I thought we were friends. Can’t friends ask their friends in?”
“Sure. Friends can do that.”
And sometimes friends do a lot more.
Eleven
I SET SULLIVAN up in his bedroom, fluffing his pillows and pulling his comforter up before tucking him in.
“I’m not an invalid,” he teases, though he doesn’t put up much of a fight. Secretly, I think he enjoys the extra attention. I grab the remote and put on the news, but he snatches it and turns the channel.
“The Cartoon Network?” I ask, pointing a lazy finger at the TV.
He shrugs. “Don’t judge me.”
Afterward, I head to the kitchen to make him soup. He calls out to me to bring him a beer. Yeah, because that’s going to happen. He’s a big boy and he can drink if he wants to, but damn if I’ll serve it to him. I’ll spit in it first.
Ames walks through the door as I’m opening the can of tomato soup. He gives me a nod and I return the gesture. Without a word, he leans against the counter and watches me while I pour the can of condensed soup and a cup of water in a saucepan.
“You want some?” I ask.
He snorts and shakes his head, a smirk covering his lips.
“What’s funny?”
“Nothing. You pretending to be the little woman. It’s amusing.”
“I’m not pretending to be anything. I’m just making soup.”
“Sure you are.” His knee is bent with his foot against the cupboard; he pushes off of it brushing by me as he heads into Sullivan’s room. I bite my lip, unsure why he’s being hostile. I barely even know him. Then again, I’m not sure I care. Dean said Ames isn’t a great influence on Sullivan so as far as I’m concerned, I don’t want to be his best friend, either.
Just as I’m bringing the soup to Sullivan, Ames exits Sullivan’s room and heads for his own. He backs away, against the door, as I pass, assumedly so I won’t spill the soup. Or maybe he’s playing nice in front of his friend. Jerk.
“For you,” I say. “Eat it all.”
“Something tells me you have experience playing mom.”
I have. He can read my answer on my face. He stares at me from under his brows as he tips his head to sip his soup. “It’s good.”
I chuckle. “It’s from a can. I won’t be offended if you don’t love it.”
“Good. Because it’s probably the worst soup I’ve ever had.”
“I suspect the soup you’re used to comes in a gold can.”
“Ha ha. No. But it’s usually homemade. My grandfather had a cook and she always made everything from scratch.”
“What about your mom?”
He eyes me. “My mom didn’t cook.” He takes another sip. “And your mom?”
“She was a great cook. She used to pull a chair over to the kitchen counter when I was little and let me pour all the ingredients in the bowl when we baked. And when we made supper or dinner she
always let me do something, even if it was just to lay out the pasta in a pan of lasagne.”
“She sounds great.”
“She was great.”
“Dean told me she died.”
I suck in my lips and nod. Dean sure can’t keep secrets. He told me Sullivan’s, so I suppose I can’t be surprised that he shared mine with Sullivan. “She did.”
“Sorry.”
“Every one has to die sometime.”
“Yeah. I suppose they do.”
Silence ensues, like it usually does whenever the topic of my mother comes up with anyone, but with Sullivan, it’s not uncomfortable. He finishes his soup and sets it on the bedside table. I stand to take it so I can bring it back to the kitchen but he grabs my hand and, gently, he pulls me down to sit on the bed beside him.
“I thought you weren’t going to hold me to our deal?” I say, a little breathless.
“Just stay a bit. Talk to me.”
Talk to him? Does this mean he’s actually going to open up? I settle into the bed, putting my head on the pillow beside his, our faces so close I can smell the tomatoes on his breath.
“I wasn’t going to leave,” I tell him.
“Good.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“Why do you go out of your way for me? No one does that for me. Not even my friends.”
“I am your friend, and I did.”
“I’ve known you a week. These assholes, I’ve known for over ten years. Dean fucked off and Ames is sleeping off his hangover.”
“Well, first off, I don’t think you can judge Dean since I’m pretty sure you’re the one who punched him in the face last night.”
He nods, his face moving up and down against the silky white pillow.
“Second, where I come from, you live and die for people you care about. I’d do anything for you—you just need to ask.”
“Hmm.” He nudges along his pillow, a little bit closer. Our breaths mix together and warm my face, tickling at my eyelashes.
“Can you do something for me?” I ask.
“Anything.”
“Tell me about you. I want to know you and you never tell me anything.”
He clears his throat and rolls onto his back. I figure I’ve pushed him away again, and I'm angry at myself for pushing too hard. I move over to him, lay my hand on his chest and prop my head up with my elbow, watching him, just waiting for him to bolt. But he doesn’t. He starts talking.
“I don’t even know where to start.”
“Why did you move in with your grandfather?”
“My mother never told me who my father was. I…asked, but she would always walk away or tell me it didn’t matter, so I got curious and started looking. I found my birth certificate and my father’s name was on it. Searched him on the Internet and found out he was some millionaire for some media empire. I lived in Jersey and my dad’s company is in New York, so one day I hopped on a subway and went to his building. I asked to see him but his secretary tried to send me away. I wouldn’t go and I guess she didn’t have the heart to call security. So I sat there all day. When he walked by just before the building closed, I ran up to him and asked him point blank if he was my father.”
“And what did he say?” I ask.
“No.”
“You must've been crushed.”
He pauses before continuing. “No. That part came later.” He clears his throat. “He told me to follow him into his office. He shut the door and told me to have a seat. Offered me a drink—I was thirteen at the time, by the way. And then he said, did your mother send you here? I shook my head, told him she didn’t even know I came. He called me a liar and then asked me how much she wanted now. I didn’t answer, just ran. I didn’t understand then what was going on, only I knew deep down this man was my father and for whatever reason, he and mother decided to keep us apart. After meeting him, I was okay with it. A couple of days later my mother moved us out of a two bedroom apartment above a butcher’s store and into a townhouse in a better neighbourhood.
“We never spoke about me meeting him but I knew us moving had everything to do with my father.”
“I’m so sorry, Sullivan. He must have broken your heart.”
He shakes his head. “No. I’ve never loved my father. He couldn’t break my heart if he tried. He’s a cold, heartless bastard and I feel nothing for him. Never have.”
“So then how did you end up with your grandfather?”
“My grandfather never knew about me. Apparently my dad had a prenup that stated his wife would get half of everything if he cheated, which he did, and I was proof positive of it. My father kept me a secret from everyone and he made my mother keep his secret too by bribing her. My mom didn’t have much so she had no problem taking his money. But one day, she got hit by a car while crossing the street. Killed instantly.”
“Sullivan, I’m so sorry.”
He shrugs as if he feels nothing at all.
For the longest time I, too, tried to pretend I didn’t care, but it ate away at me and still does to this day. I’m sure he’s putting on an act, because if he spent the first fourteen years of his life with only his mother, how could he not be attached to her?
"In my mother’s will, she stated that John Sullivan Hope was my father and he was to have custody. When social services called him, he wouldn’t return their calls. So they called my next of kin, my dad’s father. He took me in…after a blood test.
“And he and my father fought hard over me. My dad thought I shouldn't be part of the family. That I needed to go away, be adopted by another family. I wasn’t one of them. So instead of that, my grandfather and my father came to an agreement that I'd spend my time in a boarding school on the other side of the country. They told everyone that I was adopted. They made themselves look like saints, taking in a nameless boy and giving him a good home and a proper upbringing when in reality my father was the biggest prick on Earth...probably would have shoved me in a dumpster when I was born if my mother had brought me to him.”
“I…don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. Now you know.”
I feel worse than before I asked. Sullivan had no one. No one that wanted him and loved him. Probably not ever. He was always on his own. Even his mother took bribes to keep him from his father. Did she love him? Treat him with love? I wrap my arms around Sullivan and squeeze, tears streaming down my cheeks. He chuckles and I rise up and down with every breath he takes. My head tucks into the crevice of his neck. His arms don’t surround me, not right away, but when he hears me sniffle he closes them around me.
“Don’t cry for me, Abby. You can’t miss what you never had.”
What's he talking about? Parents, love? A family? I want to be all that to him. And more.
In the middle of the night, I wake with my head on Sullivan’s chest and my arm around his middle. He lies on his back, his breathing quiet. I move my head up along his chest and look up at him, see his eyes flutter open. We just stare at each other. I wonder what he’s thinking? I know what I’m thinking and it scares me senseless.
I’m falling for him. I can feel it. It’s a long fall but here I am, jumping into a dark hole, not knowing how I’ll come out on the other end. This feels exactly like the leap of faith I took when I leapt from a plane, attached to Sullivan. He gave me strength then, the push I needed, and now, looking at him, I get that same push. And I jump…
His hand lifts to touch my cheek, his thumb gently stroking my skin. I close my eyes and press my face against his hand before turning and kissing his palm. His hands move to my shoulders and he guides me up to meet him. Our faces linger in front of one another’s.
“Abby,” he breathes.
“I want you,” I tell him. “I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted anything quite so much.”
He presses his mouth to mine, first just a soft, quick kiss. But then he comes back in for more, his lips parting and his tongue diving in to meet mine. He g
roans against my lip, his hands exploring my body. With splayed fingers he slides them down my shoulders, skimming my breasts before reaching my sides and gripping the hem of my shirt.
This is happening.
I want this to happen.
He leans his forehead against mine.
“Don’t hurt me,” I whisper.
He shakes his head and cups my cheeks. In this moment I feel completely lost in emotions and I fear I’ll never find my way back out—I’m not sure I will ever want to. He breaks away to stare into my eyes, searching. “Never.” He means it, and I pray he can follow through. Right now, I’m at his command.
He pulls my shirt off and tosses it to the ground before pushing me back onto the bed. He hovers over me, running his hand down my neck and collarbone and over my breasts. My nipples pebble as he runs his thumb in circles around them before following the same path with his tongue. My back arches, pushing my breast and my nipple further into his mouth. My panties are so moist and I want to break free of them. I start to pull them down, but he grips my wrist.
“No. Not yet,” he says.
All of his movements are slow and gentle—torturous—as he explores my body with unequalled control. His touch is gentle but also firm, enough to make me moan and call out his name. My hands skim over his shoulders and I grip them, pulling him up from my chest to press tender kisses over his wounds before kissing the line of his collarbone and running my hands down the firm curves of his chest muscles. I feel his skin quiver under my light touch, and he whispers my name over and over again, awakening a need I’ve never felt before—at least, not like this. The urge to have him deep inside of me is almost too much to ignore.
“Sullivan,” I breathe.
Our tongues dance and before long, he clutches my wrists to hold them out on either side of my head as he makes his way back down my body. I tilt my hips up, begging him to take me but he shakes his head.
“Not yet.” His tongue swirls around my nipple and he traces kisses down my belly before pulling down my panties and shorts.
I’m self-conscious. I’ve never had a guy touch me down there before. My first experience with sex was rushed and over as soon as it began. Letting a guy kiss me between my legs makes me feel embarrassed and I put my hands on his shoulders, trying to urge him up.
