I witness the transition of the night sky from deep black to dark blue, to faded purple, to gray. Spencer stirs from undisturbed sleep while I provide pain pills, water, and a few slices of toast. My mind whirs, preventing me from resting: what do I do about my class? How do we get back to the city? What about after we get back?
This is but one reason I prefer avoiding romantic entanglements. There is too much uncertainty. There are too many feelings. To wide a margin for error or broken legs.
Can we just stay here for four weeks? Better yet, Spencer can stay, under the expert care of the housekeepers, bellhops, and porters. I'll go back to New York, and… and what? Pretend this didn't happen?
I call my contact for the yoga class, explaining the situation.
"Well, of course," she says.
"Of course what?" I ask.
"You must go home and take care of him."
"But—" I came here to do a job and even that I messed up yesterday. I should take today to redeem myself. I glance over my shoulder at Spencer whose eyes open when mine land on him.
She continues, "Don't try to apologize. These things happen. We'll find a replacement. But don't worry; we'll have you back next year."
"Are you sure?" I ask, but my question is less are you sure that it's okay for me to bail on my commitment and more are you sure I can handle this? I've never done this before. I don't even know what this is.
We exchange pleasantries and she promises to be in touch.
"I'm sorry," Spencer says from across the room.
"Don't be. Accidents happen." Uncertainty laces my words. I mean, I'm not a heartless bitch. Accidents do happen. I'd take care of anyone, anytime, give them the shirt off my back, feed the hungry, and relieve the needy. This is different. This is Spencer.
"Accidents happen and you happened, Kat." His voice is slow, laconic, and filled with warmth. It's the pain pills for sure. "Thanks for staying with me."
I don't dare tell him how many times I thought about leaving. It was all I could do not to beg an orderly at the hospital to pump me full of tranquilizers and strap me to the bed. Guilt is an ugly, dark thing inside me and I mash it down. It's guilt only because I don't want this to become something it isn't. But what is it? That's the question.
Another voice in my head demands. What are you afraid of? Maybe that's the question.
"Are you up for the drive?" he asks.
"Are you?"
"As lovely as this place is, I'd like to get home and see my doctor tomorrow."
"Yeah, sure."
"Keys are in my jacket," he says, pointing.
"I'm driving?" I ask.
"Unless you can fly…"
I'm not sure if that was a joke or if the dosage of pain medication has kicked in because the way he looks at me suggests he sees an angel. I begin to gather up our things. Yes, I can drive, but whether I want to is another matter entirely.
Chapter 10
Peahen
Accelerator, break, clutch. Blinkers, windshield wipers. We're buckled in. The key is in the ignition, but I'm as frozen as the icicles hanging off the eaves of the lodge.
I'm waiting for Spencer to say something about getting a move on; he can't be comfortable squished into the passenger seat, even reclined, but we timed his pain management to make the ride as smooth as possible for him.
The sky overhead hangs with dense gray clouds. The ride is under five hours. I've driven along the entire eastern seaboard, during an ill-conceived trip to get out of Manhattan one college spring break when Mother Nature dumped more snow than the streets could handle.
I can do this. I grip the wheel. I turn the key. I'm sliding and then falling into memory.
Yogic breathing. Stay present. Still the mind.
I am safe. I am in control of the car.
The tires crunch over the snow until we reach the main road where the damp cement spits under us. The narrow lane widens and I make a cautious turn toward the highway.
A black SUV with New York plates honks in frustration as I take an agonizingly long time reaching the speed limit. It swerves out from behind me with another blare of its horn. Spencer remains sedate beside me.
By the time we leave Vermont, gentle flakes drop slowly enough that I count them on the windshield, turning on the wipers when I reach twenty, then thirty flakes, and when snow frames the glass, I lean forward, my heart pounding in my throat.
I see the slide. Feel the loss of control. Butterflies bump in my belly. My father's voice, then my mother waiting for his response before the world went darker than night.
I blink my eyes. "It's a memory, that's all." I exhale.
I tell my phone to call Navy. I can't think straight enough to calculate what time it is in Europe, but she's my sensible best friend. She'll know what to do. Should we get off the road? Find somewhere to stay? What if we freeze to death? What if I can't get Spencer into the hotel room—that certainly wasn't a problem before.
Navy's phone rings faraway and hollow.
I swallow, but my throat is dry. If I leave her a message, she'll hear the fear in my voice and I don't want her to worry.
I drop the speed a few more miles per hour; the defroster blasts white noise instead of music on the stereo as Spencer confidently drove us north in a similar storm.
Another SUV blows by us. I follow the glow of red taillights until they disappear. The number of car lengths I can see ahead closes until the headlights reflect off a white wall of snow.
If we were playing two truths and one lie, the only true thing I could tell him right now is that I am terrified.
I drop into first gear.
From the passenger seat, Spencer says, "You can do this." His voice is quiet, comforting, and solid. In his tone, I don't hear him asking me please to get us home safely, he knows I will; he's sharing his reserve of confidence with me. His hand grips mine and then moves to my leg, so I can keep both hands on the wheel, not letting go until the sky gradually opens again and we're back in New York where the snow is merely a sprinkle.
I feel like cheering when the white carpet of road reveals black asphalt. I want to pump my arm when billboards and traffic crowd the roadway. I could kiss the steering wheel when I maneuver into the underground garage and stow the car. Instead, I kiss Spencer.
"You did well," he says. "I kept my eyes closed because I didn't want to distract you."
"Are you suggesting your eyes are a distraction, Mr. Davis?" I ask, still strapped into my seatbelt.
"My eyes, my hands, my—" he shifts. "Ow. My leg. Almost forgot."
"Let's get you upstairs."
Thank goodness for elevators and my own apartment. I feel the need to retreat.
After I get Spencer settled in, I pop back to my place to shower. Tears flow freely with the warm water as I come down from the adrenalin of the drive. Yesterday rushes toward me, but I put a hand on my hip as though to say the little getaway is over. That was all too much for this gal. I'm not above admitting when I'm in over my head. I'll help Spencer out, but I can't handle the rest.
When my hair dries, I stand outside his door and knock, remembering our first encounter: he was the Hottie in 7G, the player, the booty call, the hook up. Those were our roles and we played our parts well.
I wait for him to appear, bare chested, arms flexing when he leans on the door, his head resting on his upstretched arm.
No, he's in bed with an injured leg, either sleeping or unable to answer.
I try the knob. His apartment smells like spicy soap, like winter, and chocolate. The stainless steel appliances and the dark wood and marble of the kitchen remind me of how easily I succumbed to cookies.
"Spencer," I call softly.
A hand appears over the edge of the couch, with a wave. "I'm here." When I round to the other side, he brushes his hands over his face. "I'm sorry, Kat. I think I was in denial for most of the ride. I'm sorry you had to look after me last night and drive back here through the storm. It was sweet and brave and—
"
"It's fine. You would have done the same—" My words sound forced, but his smile tells me he truly would have done the same.
The guy who has had countless women in this apartment—who probably has a black book hiding somewhere filled with the names of girls who'd drop anything to dress in a sexy nurse costume and come to his bedside—, looks up at me apologetically. Something has shifted between us, but I haven't yet identified what. "I'm going to hire help for the next couple of weeks, but want to thank you—"
Before I can stop them, the words tumble out of my mouth. "There's no need." A smile is appropriate in this situation and one finds its way onto my lips. "I'll take care of you."
We go back and forth for a moment—he gives me every opportunity to recant my offer.
I don't. I don't know why, but I don't.
He gives me a spare key and a kiss. We watch reruns of Sex and the City. At midnight, I make sure he's comfortable and then creep back to my apartment. Twenty-two tiny, uncertain steps with a copy of his key in my hand.
I wake around four to my phone buzzing. I panic; worried he fell while going to the bathroom or burns up with a fever.
The little bubble on my phone says I wish we were in front of the fire at the cabin.
I exhale with relief. Me too.
I wish you were lying beside me.
I should have made it clear I'm not a snuggler from the outset. Then again, I had every reason to believe he wasn't either. I could come over. Do you need anything? I write.
His response bubble blinks until his message appears. I need you. Then On top of me. Then Naked.
I see the game we're playing. Maybe he should wait until he gets the okay from his doctor before engaging in strenuous activity. What would you do with me if I were lying naked on top of you? I reply.
We sext, safely apart, divided by the wall between our apartments, until the sun comes up.
In the coming days, I dash between teaching yoga classes and taking care of Spencer. He's the model patient, not demanding, very sweet, even sending flowers to the studio and having meals delivered for us. In the evenings, we watch Sex and the City, play scrabble, and chat. Yes, we chat, I know, weird.
*
We're a week into Spencer's recovery and at his doctor's office. Dr. Swan is middle-aged and has a trim beard. I have traumatic flashbacks of months of physical therapy and overhearing doctors whisper their doubts about me ever having the use of my legs again.
After reviewing the most recent X-rays Dr. Swan says, "I think you'll be out of the cast in three weeks."
"Really?" I ask, lighting up.
"It's healing well, no reason to think otherwise." He turns to Spencer. "Stay off it. No activity for another week and then you can move around, but just a little. The more gradually you move back into walking, the better chance it has of healing clean."
"The team at the hospital thought more toward eight weeks and talked about surgery…"
"They were being cautious. She's been taking good care of you," the doctor says with a smile. "You're a very lucky man."
"I am," Spencer agrees.
The nurse comes in with a piece of paper outlining a few simple exercises Spencer can do to maintain muscle tone and circulation. He and the doctor confer in low tones and then both guffaw—they're probably arranging a round of golf for after he's back on his feet.
When we return to our building, a box waits for me in front of my door, leaning heavily on his crutches. Spencer waits outside his door and says, "Ooh, do you have a secret admirer?"
I cast him a smirk. "Several."
He somehow still looks sexy with an air cast on his leg, joggers, a hoodie, and waiting for me to open the parcel. "Go ahead, I won't be jealous."
I pull out a pair of black spiked heels with studs. They look like they'll knock someone's socks off. A little note says For when I can walk again.
"How did you know I wanted these?"
"I saw you browsing them while Carrie was freaking out. I think the episode was called The Drought."
"Working on watching the entire collection for a third time?" I ask, joking about how we've watched the entire Sex & the City series once through already.
"If I must."
"I love them," I say, clutching the shoes to my chest.
His smile is sleepy. "I'm going to rest."
"I'll be over tonight after my class to help you with your exercises."
"And dinner?"
I nod.
"And the rest of season five?"
I smile.
Is this how domestication begins? I once told Navy that I'm a peacock—she corrected me with the gender appropriate peahen—; I want to spread my wings, but I'm afraid I'll just fly right into Spencer's arms. Plus, peahens don't wear shoes like this.
Chapter 11
Meow
Like a champ, Spencer endures the exercises the nurse suggested: leg lifts, extensions, and gentle resistance. When we're done with our third round, he scrubs his face with his hands.
"My friend Omar is a personal trainer maybe he can come over—"
Spencer shakes his head. "It's not that."
"Are you restless?"
His eyes flash dark for a minute and his lips part. "Maybe you could show me some yoga."
"Yoga?"
"You were teaching a couple's class at the resort, right? Are there any poses we—"
I try desperately to hide my smile. "It wasn't that kind of yoga."
His eyes trail the curves of my neck before moving down. "We could get creative…"
"Are you trying to say that you're—?"
He releases a long, low laugh. "Interested in increasing my range of flexibility?" He hangs onto his cool confidence. "I thought I could handle you being here every day taking care of me."
"Seems like you're doing okay."
He lifts his hands from his lap, exposing the bulge in his joggers.
"Oh."
"Day and night and night and day. Having you so close—" He stifles a moan and turns toward the window, biting his knuckle.
"Did the doctor give you the okay to…?"
"He said to wait until the end of the week."
"The end of the week is tomorrow."
"Technically."
In the meantime, I take care of the bulge, acting out some of the sexts I've been sending.
*
That night I lay in bed, awake. Instead of preparing my yoga class for the next day like how Olympic athletes do a visual run through before a big competition to make sure they have their routine down, I consider what positions would be best for us with his leg. The place between my own legs flares with excitement. I throw off the covers and move through a few poses on the bed, seeing if they're doable. Mew gives me a long side-eye when I disturb his position as king on the comforter.
When I'm still up at midnight, I let myself into his apartment. It's technically the next day. He's breathing softly and when the mattress shifts with my weight, he rouses.
"What are you doing here?" His voice is husky with temptation.
The clock on the table next to his bed blinks 12:05.
"It's tomorrow," I whisper.
His mouth is on mine. His hands are greedy like this is his first time with a girl, but without the clammy, unskilled grip I remember from my teens. I remain on the beginner syllabus of poses until my groans of anticipation threaten to wake Mrs. Hess and her dogs down the hall.
I try an intermediate pose involving an intricate twist of arms and legs. He makes a sound, but not of pain. It's a deep release. Mine follows and at last, I sink into sleep.
The first night at the cabin, we dozed, but didn’t hit that deep, restorative rest that leaves a person waking fresh and energized—or as an unfortunate, but cute guy I once hooked up with said, "Bright eyed and bushy tailed." Puh-lease. Who says that?
The second night in the cabin, I stirred every time Spencer made a peep, like a new mother nervous about her baby—not that I'm thinki
ng about that scenario. No, not at all.
When my eyes pop open the morning after our yoga-pades, the first time we've shared a bed since the resort, I'm ready to run, but mostly because for the first time in my life, I properly wake in a man's arms. My head rests on the place that connects his arm to his chest. There's a name for it in yoga, but I can't think of it. His palm rests on my hip. He's angled slightly so his other arm drapes gently toward my hand. I squeeze. Yup, we wake up holding hands.
Who have I become?
"You look bright eyed and bushy tailed," he says when I arch to kiss him. I don't hate the expression anymore. In fact, I hope to look bright eyed and bushy tailed every morning.
I don't get up. I don't want to. In fact, for the next three nights I sleep at his place, being sure to give Mew lots of attention when I go next door to shower and change. Spencer is getting around better, but still needs help with things—or maybe that's just what I've been telling myself.
I find myself leaving more and more of my belongings at his place until I wake up during the third week of his recovery and we're brushing our teeth side by side at his bathroom vanity. Our brushes shush in time.
I grip the flecked marble counter, stabilizing myself. I don't know what to do with the spit. How did my toothbrush even get here? I avoid meeting his eyes because I don't want either one of us to acknowledge the frothy paste breaching my lips as I scrub my teeth.
There's a second bathroom, but he'll think it's strange if I suddenly run in there, and is likely to hobble after me, trip on—my eyes widen—the laundry, our laundry, overflowing from the basket. Oh dear Lord.
Frozen, like a scared rabbit, but not feeling at all bright eyed and bushy tailed anymore, I realize I've been brushing my teeth for a full three minutes now. My dentist would be proud.
Spencer washes his face, patting dry the sexy shadow of stubble along his jawline. He turns to me, his head tilted to one side and points at the sink.
I shake my head.
How Not to Fall in Love (Love, Hate, and Other Lies We Told #2) Page 6
