Gigi and Pops stood almost constant vigil by her side while I came and went, still needing to be in Ferncliff. I felt torn in two. Each time I left either Sydney to be with my mom, or my mom to be with Sydney, I lived in fear that the condition of one of them would worsen.
I wore the stress of it like a cloak. People avoided me, sympathy clear in their retreat. During those days I was not up for conversation. As she slept, I held her hand, grateful that Gigi and Pops would conveniently go to the cafeteria to give me time alone with her.
She mainly slept those first couple of days. During that time, we anxiously waited to see if she suffered any brain damage. Somehow, despite her broken jaw, the fracture to her skull was minor. She had a concussion. As long as she does not experience another one in the next six months, her brain should fully heal.
I wasn’t there the first time she truly woke and wasn’t out of it from whatever drugs flowed through her IV. Her eyes widened with shock then narrowed as they turned guarded the first time she saw me.
She didn’t want me there. That didn’t stop me from coming to see her every day. I knew when she tried to fake being asleep. I also knew that she spoke more when I wasn’t there but went silent whenever I walked into her room.
I didn’t care that she didn’t want me there; I needed to be near her. Each day I mentally cataloged her recovery. As the swelling on her face lessoned, the bruises on her body darkened. When she didn’t think I was looking, she watched me too. While nowhere near as blatant as her injuries were, I had not come out of that canyon unscathed.
An angry scratch ran from one side of my face to my mouth. There were a couple dozen or so smaller scratches covering whatever skin happened to be exposed that day. A nasty one on the palm of my left hand needed to be wrapped with gauze at first. Her eyes would flicker from it to the scratch on my cheek. She’d look away when I caught her.
Someday, I hope she won’t look away.
Her profile now is almost as it was before that day. The swelling is gone, the bruises all but faded away. You can’t see the wires that hold her jaw together. The only hint of their existence is her lips look puffy, not swollen, but full. Full in the way they would get after I kissed her hard.
Her now blonde hair is still messy from sleep. It looks as though she tried to smooth it in places while she was in the bathroom but gave up.
Carrying my plate, I move to sit next to her. She keeps her eyes to the table.
“Would you like to watch another movie?” I ask.
She lifts her good shoulder before placing her now finished glass onto the table. “If it’s all right with you, I think I’ll go lie down.”
Setting down my fork, I move to stand so I can help her.
“I can wheel myself there,” she murmurs, making me pause mid-movement.
Settling myself back down, I reply, “I’ll be in once I’m finished.”
Her violet eyes focus on mine before flittering away. “Don’t. I want to be alone.”
“Syd,” I argue, this time standing.
She wheels away from the table but I stop her, grabbing the arm of her chair. “All I want is to spend some time with you.”
Her gaze is locked on my hand. “Please let me go.”
I gulp and let go.
It isn’t until her chair is out of sight that I whisper, “I can’t.”
Slumping back into my chair, I finish my breakfast. It could be cardboard considering each bite I take is now devoid of taste. Biding my time, I clean the mess I’ve made of the kitchen. After thirty minutes, I creep down the hall to my bedroom, stopping short at the entry to my spare room when I see her chair.
That stubborn woman.
I assumed she would have gone back to my bed but instead, she went to lie down in the spare room. Her pain medication has a tendency to make her drowsy. Even though I would have preferred her in my bed, I still quietly climb into bed beside her. In sleep, she doesn’t push me away.
I’m not tired; I’m capitalizing on the fact that she is to get close to her.
Is it fair to use her unconscious state to my advantage?
Probably not.
When she sleeps, she either does it turned somewhat onto her right side, or flat on her back, like she is now. Hoping that she’ll turn into me again, like she did last night, I’m stretched out to her right. She moves in her sleep, not a ton, and not to the point that she ever disturbed me while I slept.
She didn’t.
In fact, after I destroyed us, it took me weeks to figure out how to sleep without her. Guilt could have also played a role.
In her sleep, when she moved, it was subtle, and it was smooth. She’d slowly reach out for me, and then gently curl into me. Her soft curves would fill my negative spaces. It’s been almost five months since I slept in her apartment. Last night was the best night of sleep I’ve had since then.
Lying next to her, I take the time to enjoy her unguarded proximity. It’s relaxing to watch the rise and fall of each breath she takes, to appreciate the delicate beauty of the way her eyelashes rest against her skin. She shifts and I brace against the chance that she’ll wake and be annoyed to find me in bed with her.
She doesn’t wake; instead, she turns closer to me.
A faint hint of her apple blossom lotion hits me. An unexpected memory of her rubbing it into her skin as I watch flows in the wake of its scent. She is the most effortlessly sexy woman I have ever known. Her sassy confidence is what first drew me to her, that and the fact that I couldn’t keep my eyes off her legs.
I knew she was easy to talk to from all of our run ins at Lola’s. What blew me away was how the simple act of sharing my day with her took the stress of it away. That was a first for me. Since it was new, I didn’t recognize it for how unique it was at the time.
She shifts again, this time closer to me, her face turning till her right cheek is against the pillow. Sydney is just as beautiful, if not more so, without makeup as she is when she puts that stuff on. Unable to stop myself, I dip my face and press my lips to her forehead. When I back away, her eyes are open and on me.
She blinks, then blinks again before her eyes widen and she shifts away from me. “What are you doing in here?”
Watching you sleep would make me sound crazy, so I say, “I wanted to be near you in case you needed me when you woke up.”
She glances pointedly at the empty chair I could be sitting in. “And, you needed to be in bed with me to accomplish that?”
Ignoring her “back away” tone, I move closer. “I did.”
She lifts her casted arm to my chest, stopping me. “Heath.”
There’s a warning in her tone but I ignore that as well. Lifting my hand, I sift it through the tangled strands of her hair at the back of her neck to hold her there. My thumb slides back and forth over her smooth skin.
“I’m not going away, Sydney. I want to be here with you.”
“Well, what if I still don’t want to be here?” she demands.
Easing closer to her, careful not to bump, jostle, or hurt her in any way, I hold her gaze. “When you were nine or ten, you told me apple pie was boring.”
“What?”
“It stuck with me. It bothered me that you implied I was boring too.”
Her casted arm moves up my chest, her fingers pulling at the fabric of my shirt. “Heath I—”
“I felt like I had to prove I wasn’t what you thought I was. There were times when I was younger that it even annoyed me to see how pretty you were getting.”
“That’s—”
“Part of me assumed that your opinion of me would never change. That I would always be boring apple pie to you.”
Her casted hand moves up further until her fingertips press against my lips. “There’s nothing wrong with apple pie.”
Grinning against her fingertips, I murmur, “I know.”
She pulls her hand away. “Then why did you tell me that?”
Honestly, to make her stop pulling away, not that
I’d tell her that.
“The first night we were together, I had apple pie,” I murmur, my eyes watching my thumb caress her neck.
She inhales.
Does she remember that night?
Does she remember how right we were?
Can she forget the mess I made and let me get us back to that?
“I guess you got over worrying if it was boring,” she replies after a moment.
“You smell like apples.”
She gulps.
I move closer and inhale. “They’re still my favorite.”
Figuring I’ve pushed enough for one day, I lean back and look down at her. “Let’s watch a movie.”
Her forehead wrinkles. “A movie?”
Nodding, I climb out of bed. “Your physical therapy appointment isn’t until this afternoon. We have plenty of time to get a movie in. I have the sequel to the one we watched last night.”
She pushes up onto her good elbow. “I might read a book.”
Moving around the bed, I stop next to her chair and reach out my hand to her. “You can do that after the movie.”
Her eyes move to the TV in here. “Can’t we watch it in here?”
She doesn’t want to go back to my room.
I gesture toward the dresser the TV sits on. “No DVD player in here.”
Grudgingly, she takes my hand and lets me help her up.
After the movie, and then another, I give her some space while she gets changed for her therapy appointment.
I didn’t think offering to help her dress would go over well. I don’t want her to assume I’m only trying to get into her pants.
Once she’s ready to go, I move behind her chair.
“I don’t need your help,” she grumbles. “I can push myself.”
Her words don’t stop me. “Save your energy for your appointment.”
He’s pushy, stubborn, annoying and driving me insane. Problem is, Gigi and Pops are currently the President and Vice President of the Heath Mackey Fan Club. For the past week, except for when he was at work or his mom’s, he was in my space. There’s no getting away from him.
I tried to see if I could crash with one of the cooks from Lola’s because his wife stays at home with the kids and their house is a ranch style with a side door. At first he was totally cool with letting me stay with them. Then Heath had a “chat” with him and suddenly their spare bedroom was no longer available.
What the hell?
So, as long as I’m in this wheelchair I’m stuck here, which is insane.
Who does that?
Who acts that way?
One answer: Heath.
It’s also impossible to stay angry at him. I’m trying, oh Lord, am I trying.
It’s like he’s capitalizing on my weaknesses. Yesterday, before Pops left, he changed into his workout clothes and went running. You’d think that would be a blessing, that his absence would be a relief.
He came back shirtless and sweaty.
I repeat, shirtless and sweaty.
My nipples hardened.
He caught me staring and I swear he could tell my body was reacting to his.
Then he showered and after his shower, he walked into the living room wearing just a towel.
That was a cruel and unusual punishment. As much as I hated him, I never stopped being attracted to him, and here he is shoving his gorgeousness in my face.
He also hasn’t stopped sleeping with me. There’s a perfectly good bed in his spare room but he seems committed to torturing me.
At first he at least had the decency to wait until I was asleep. Now, since I haven’t been able to come up with a decent argument as to why we shouldn’t sleep together, other than my not wanting to share a bed with him, he’s made it clear whatever bed I’m in, he’s going to sleep in too.
Even worse, he does it shirtless. So, each morning this week, I’ve woken up snuggled close to his bare chest.
I can’t take much more of this.
“I’ll let her know.”
Turning my head, I look in Heath’s direction. “Everything okay?”
“That was Pops. Their next-door neighbor’s daughter went into labor. Gigi is driving her to the hospital because her car is in the shop so she won’t be able to come over tonight.”
Darn.
Heath got a hospital chair for his tub so I’ve been able to sit and shower. I just cover the cast on my leg and the one on my arm with garbage bags and use his detachable nozzle. I haven’t mastered washing or conditioning my hair one handed so Gigi has been washing my hair every other day.
“I can help you wash your hair.”
My breath catches. “What?”
“I can help was—”
“I heard you,” I murmur.
He moves to the back of my chair and starts to pull me away from the table.
“Wait,” I say, putting my good hand on the wheel to stop him.
“Come on, Syd. You’re going to argue that I don’t have to do this and that you don’t want your hair washed, but that’s all crap and we both know it. It’s not like you’ll be naked. I promise I won’t even get your clothes wet. Why don’t you stop being stubborn and let me take care of you?”
He had a point. Arguing with him never seemed to get me anywhere.
“Oh, fine,” I grumble.
He pushes me to the bathroom and turns the shower chair around so that the back of it is toward the showerhead. Then he offers me his hand and helps me into the tub. Before he starts the water, he grabs a towel.
“Lean back, babe.”
Babe.
My chest tightens at his endearment.
I lean my head back. He arranges the towel so that it covers my chest and my shoulders. I should close my eyes and protect my heart from what I see. His face is right above mine. His eyes are not on mine but on my hair as he gently works the elastic that holds my messy bun together free.
Turning, he sets it by the sink. When he turns back, he starts to finger comb my hair. Bliss is what causes my eyes to flutter closed. His hands feel so good.
He’s careful, slowly taking his time not to hurt me by pulling too hard. Then he detaches the showerhead and sets in on the floor of the tub behind me. He turns on the water, and my eyes open as I listen to him adjust the temperature and test it. Next, he lifts it. In case the spray hits my face, I close my eyes again once he starts to wet my hair.
He doesn’t get my face wet at all, though. He’s careful, working quietly to soak my hair. My eyes open when he shuts off the water. His face is back over mine as he begins to work the shampoo into my hair. If him finger combing my hair earlier felt like bliss, this must be heaven.
His strong fingers massage my scalp as he lathers my hair. His hands are much larger in comparison to Gigi. He can easily hold my entire head in his hands. This was a mistake. From this point forward every time Gigi washes my hair, I’ll now wish it was Heath. I blink up at him.
He catches my eye. “This okay?”
Unable to manage words, I nod and watch as his face breaks into a smile.
Shit.
Shit. Damn. Hell.
It hurts. It physically hurts inside my chest to see him happy to take care of me. I close my eyes trying in vain to erase his smiling face from my memory. It’s impossible though. No matter how hard I try, I can’t let Heath Mackey go. I’ll pretend I’m in a salon and he’s someone, anyone else.
I’ll pretend he’s Howie Mandel, though why the first person I’d imagine to wash my hair would be a bald comedian, I have no idea.
He turns the water back on; again ensuring the temperature is nice and warm before he rinses my hair. Next he reaches for the conditioner.
When he worked the shampoo into my hair, he started at my scalp and massaged it through the rest of my hair. With the conditioner, he starts at the ends, his hands under my head, almost cradling it as he massages my head again.
If my mouth could hang open and my tongue could lull out in a pant, it would. My eye
s flutter open to gaze up at his face. Why does he have to be so handsome? Maybe my heart wouldn’t melt around him if his face weren’t so expressive. I want to trust what his eyes are saying. I want to believe all of this.
He doesn’t look away and continues to cradle my head in his hands as his fingers massage my scalp.
When he said he’d take care of me, he hadn’t lied. Its proof is in each moment he has been with me this week, no matter how frustrating his presence has been. He’s carried me, fed me, taken me to my appointments, watched over me and now washed me.
Not since I was little has anyone ever taken care of me the way he has. Our eye contact breaks when he moves to turn the water back on. As he rinses the conditioner from my hair, I silently pray he does not notice the single tear slide from the corner of my eye into my hairline.
I’m not sure why Heath washing my hair made me so upset. I guess I don’t understand what has changed. Why is he doing all of this? I haven’t changed; I’m still the girl he didn’t pick.
Turning off the water, he takes the towel he draped over me to dry my hair. With his help, he gets me back into my chair.
Gigi brought my hairdryer from my apartment. Heath makes short work of drying my hair. I’m grateful the air from the dryer pushes my hair into my face. It gives me an excuse to close my eyes and not look at him.
There are many things Heath has done for me over the past week. I’m not sure why but this feels the most personal. Sitting there, somewhat helpless, looking up at him as he washed my hair stripped me bare. He could have made a mess of it by clumsily splashing water into my face or getting one of my casts wet, but he didn’t. No, he was so careful with me, almost treating me as if I were a piece of fine china.
Strangely, I hate him for it.
No, that’s a lie. I only wish I hated him.
That would make being near him much easier.
Once my hair is dry, I reach for the brush but he pushes away from me.
“But—” I argue.
He pushes my chair out of the bathroom and into his bedroom. “You’ve been sitting down too long.”
“No, I haven’t. I feel fine.”
Why Lie? (Love Riddles #2) Page 10
