Marcelle unbuttoned her tailored jacket, shucked it off, and flung it over the back of a kitchen chair. Victor hid behind Lee’s legs.
“Every time the jukebox breaks, you have to call that specialty company. Every time you take the kayak out, you get mud on the top of your jeep and on the porch.” Her neck was getting red and splotchy, and her eyes narrowed down to slits. “Every time you get a fucking video game, you camp out in front of the TV and surround yourself with dirty dishes for three nights straight.”
“So? Playing video games is fun.” His voice dripped with affected calm. “Maybe you should try it.”
“I’m not twelve!” she shouted. “I don’t collect comic books that take up four bookshelves in the spare bedroom. I don’t buy box sets of Star Trek, and I don’t play video games.”
Lee grit his teeth even as he felt his face heat. “What’s your point? What does this really have to do with my dog?”
“Leland, when, when are you going to grow up?”
Lee was struck dumb. He looked at his girlfriend. Really looked at her. The crowding of her brows. Her flared nostrils. The clench in her jaw.
She looked miserable.
He took a step back and leaned against the stove, noting, too, the set of his shoulders bunched up behind his ears. The tightness in his gut. The blush of shame that had come to his face when she asked when he’d grow up.
He felt awful.
Lee drew in a long breath, let it out, and shook his head. “Marcelle… what are we doing?”
Her mouth gaped. “We’re arguing about your ridiculous habi—”
“No.” Lee held up a hand to stop her. “What are we doing together?”
Marcelle’s head snapped back as if he’d slapped her. “What?”
Lee swallowed and softened his voice. “Are you happy with me, Marcelle?”
“I…” Her mouth opened and closed twice, and her eyes widened, this time in alarm. Lee nodded, knowingly, a sad smile coming to his mouth.
“You don’t seem happy…”
“But… I… I would be if you would just grow up a little.”
Lee pressed his lips together, tamping down on his temper and shaking his head. “Marcelle, I’m all grown up. I don’t think that’s what you want,” he said, just an edge of bitterness sneaking into the words. “I think you want me to be someone else.”
“That’s not true.” Now she looked afraid. She took a step closer to him and touched her fingers to his wrist. But then she let her hand drop to her side.
“Be honest. If you knew now that I’d still be collecting comics and playing video games and buying outdoor toys when I’m sixty, would you still want to be with me?”
Marcelle’s eyes bugged. She looked horrified. “But that’s not going to happen!”
Lee couldn’t help the harsh laugh. “Yes. It is.”
“But it won’t. You’ll go into practice, and we’ll get married, and you’ll settle down…” She sounded too confident, too familiar with her picture of the future. “…and we’ll travel and play tennis and entertain… and it will be really… really fun.”
Lee felt a chill sneak down his spine. This is what she saw when she looked at him. She didn’t want him. She wanted his father.
He brought the heels of his hands to his eyes and rubbed them roughly before dragging his palms down his face. How had he not seen this before?
“I fucking hate tennis,” he muttered. Then he locked eyes with her again. “Here’s what I want. I want to keep working at the charity hospital and get married to someone who is crazy about who I am. And we’ll go kayaking and walk our dogs and sleep ‘til ten on Saturdays and eat leftover Chinese for breakfast in bed… until we have kids, of course. Three or four kids don’t let you sleep very late—”
“Three… or four?” Lee couldn’t be sure, but Marcelle’s left eyelid may have twitched.
“Yeah. Growing up as an only child really sucked. I want loads of kids,” he said, certain that he’d mentioned this before. Had she tuned him out? Or had she just heard what she wanted to hear? “We’d have to buy a bigger house, of course. One with a great room where the kids could build forts with sofa cushions and sleep on the floor in front of the fireplace on cold nights.”
Marcelle folded her arms around herself and put a fist to her lips. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you? Please say you’re teasing me.”
For a moment, Lee wanted to. Marcelle wasn’t all hard edges and hospital corners. During the holidays, every time they’d passed a Salvation Army Santa ringing his bell, she’d turn her change purse inside out into his bucket. Lee would ask her to hold his spare change just to watch her do it. Whenever she broke down and played a selection on the Wurlitzer, she’d sing along in the sweetest voice. She didn’t have perfect pitch, but that’s what Lee loved about it. And the woman could spoon. At the end of the day, she’d curl into him and remind him that for all of her hard ways, she still had a few soft spots.
But this wasn’t going to work.
“I’m not teasing, Marce.” His voice had gone soft, and he watched the effect of it in her eyes. They held his for a moment before filling with tears.
Great. I’ve made two girls cry in as many days.
Tears slipped down her cheeks, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Lee crossed the space that separated them and cupped her shoulders, hating the way pain etched her face.
Marcelle opened her eyes again. “I told myself this would work out if we stuck together long enough,” she said, sniffing. “Either you’d change or I’d mellow out.”
Lee laughed a sad laugh. Marcelle smiled a sad smile.
“I guess that’s pretty stupid, huh?” Her voice was just a squeak.
Lee shook his head. “It’s not stupid. I wanted this to work out, too.” He raised a finger and tucked a stray lock of her strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear.
“Shit, Leland, are we breaking up?” Her eyes again went wide with the reality of it. Thirteen months as a couple were coming to an end in the middle of his kitchen.
Lee swallowed. Sadness. That was the sum of what he felt — with a trace of guilt at the heart of it, but the will to fight — the will to deny that this was the end — was notably absent. Still, he didn’t want to hurt her.
“You know who I am. You know what I want. None of that’s going to change.” He left it at that. No matter what he said, Marcelle would decide for herself anyway. Right on cue, she took a deep breath and stood straight.
“I guess I know what I need to do then… Goodbye, Leland.” She leaned in and pressed her lips to his cheek. Lee caught her against him one last time and hugged her, half-sorry he couldn’t be the man she wanted but wholly grateful that they both knew the truth.
“Goodbye, Marcelle.”
They held on for a moment, but then Marcelle pulled herself away and wiped her eyes, wearing a brave smile. Victor whimpered and pawed Lee’s leg, and she laughed.
“I’ve never been crazy about dogs, but he’s pretty cute.” She bent down and patted Victor on the head. He stood up and wagged. “Goodbye, Victor.”
“Yeah, he is.” Lee smiled at his dog. They’d been together all of twenty-four hours, but the puppy already seemed to be able to read his moods. They were bonding, and it was more than one-sided.
Marcelle stood up again. “If it’s okay, I’ll come by tomorrow while you’re at the hospital and get my things. I’ll leave your key on the back porch.”
As always, she thought about things that would have never crossed his mind. Her practical plan made their breakup sink in a little more.
Lee nodded. “Thanks.”
She nodded, too. “Okay, then…” And Marcelle picked up her jacket, headed for the door, and left.
Lee stood for a moment and stared at the back door. Then he collapsed into a chair and leaned his elbows on his kitchen table. Victor circled, sniffed his right knee, and popped up on his hind legs to get closer. Reaching down, Lee scrubbed the puppy’s head. “She’s gone,”
he said aloud. Victor wagged his tail, all excited. “Dude, I just broke up. You shouldn’t look so happy about it.”
The pup gave a shallow growl and a playful bark.
“It’s really your fault, you know,” Lee teased.
Again the dog barked. Lee couldn’t help but think he sounded proud.
“What? You want me to be alone so you can have me all to yourself?”
Victor jumped down and whimpered.
“Well, I don’t want to be alone, either, but that’s life.”
Again, Victor whined and pawed his leg, seeming to mime the thoughts Lee was trying not to let himself have.
“Don’t even think about it, man,” he said to them both. “Don’t you dare think about it.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
LEE HAWTHORNE LIVED in her mind, and Wren hated him for it.
Everything reminded her of him. Agnes. Rocky. Mamaw. Fruit. Tattoos. Dogs. Joss Whedon. Granola bars. It was ridiculous.
Lying in bed at night, she could feel him all over again… the tickle of his lips along her neck… the scrape of his stubble against her chin… the demand of his tongue in her mouth. The memory haunted and hurt her.
On the third Friday that Wren showed up for work three hours early, Rocky sent her away. In fact, he told her didn’t want to see her again until she “crash-landed on top of whatever man is driving you crazy.”
Effectively banished from work and unwilling to go back to her apartment, Wren sat in her car for five minutes, wondering what the hell she’d do with herself until noon. She could picture putting Rocky’s plan into action. She couldn’t stop obsessing about driving to Lee’s house, banging on his front door, and begging him to kiss her again. But that was never going to happen. Even if she did show up in Lee’s life, it couldn’t possibly lead to anything good. He had that girlfriend. Marcelle. And even if she was a toad masquerading as a princess, she was obviously the kind of woman Lee chose, the kind who’d been groomed from childhood to be on the arm of a doctor. She may even be a doctor herself.
Wren wouldn’t be surprised. Marcelle’s sneer of superiority had been hard to forget, and it looked like just the sort of expression someone with a healthy God-complex would wear. A doctor or not, in the social pecking order, Marcelle was leagues above Wren Blanchard, and the woman knew it. Lee knew it. And so did Wren.
She didn’t pretend that The Kiss had meant anything else. It had been stolen, shameful. A momentary indiscretion on the part of the good doctor. Wren had ended it before he had the chance to pull away and tell her that — while he might be attracted to her — he could never leave Marcelle.
And after watching Laurie long enough, she knew that there were plenty of men out there who would be content to go one step further and keep a mistress on the side. Lee probably looked at her tattoos and her piercings and her two-toned hair and thought she’d be an exotic diversion in an otherwise predictable life on a trajectory to the top. Wren prided herself that she wanted no part of that — even though she couldn’t make herself stop wanting him.
Even imagining him having the worst sort of intentions couldn’t snuff out her desire. And when she really thought about it, Wren couldn’t make herself believe the worst about him. She’d only known him to be decent — more than decent — gentle, compassionate, giving, funny. The stricken look he’d worn when she pushed him aside and fled the trap of his embrace made her heart go soft.
It was too confusing. She had to stop thinking about him. She had to find something to do when she wasn’t working.
Wren was sitting in her Mustang in the parking lot of Studio Ink when she saw Curtis, her homeless hopeless case, cross in front of her, heading down Johnston Street. She honked her horn to get his attention, but Curtis kept walking.
Firing up the Mustang, Wren decided that she’d just found something to do.
“Curtis!” Wren shouted out the driver’s side window as she idled beside him. He was just passing the law office on the corner when she finally got his attention. She pulled over.
He looked soggy. It was a mild day, but it had rained earlier that morning, and Curtis’s denim jacket was darkened with wet. He stared at Wren with unseeing eyes, arms hanging at his sides. She pulled over and jumped out of the Mustang.
“Curtis, you look awful.” His mouth hung open, his bottom lip slick with saliva. Wren couldn’t tell if he was high, jonesing, or just plain sick. “It’s Wren, Curtis. Do you know who I am?”
He gave a nod of his head. The movement was exaggerated, robotic, and Wren considered for a moment that her newly hatched plan might not actually be safe. She stared back at Curtis for a minute before making up her mind.
I can’t very well leave him like this.
“Curtis, do you want me to take you to the recovery center today? I can give you a ride, and I can stay with you until you are admitted.”
He nodded again, but Wren doubted he knew what he was agreeing to.
“Would you like to get in?” Her heart started to pound as she made herself walk around the front of the Mustang and open the passenger side door. As soon as it swung wide, Curtis shuffled his way over. The smell of him hit her while he was still several feet away.
Oh my God. What am I doing? Lee Hawthorne, if this addict kills me, it’ll be your fault.
Curtis placed a hand on the roof of the Mustang and raised his bloodshot eyes to her.
“I can get in, Song Bird?” His voice was paper thin, and some of Wren’s fears vanished at the helpless sound of it. He recognized her, and Wren felt relief.
“Yes, Curtis. Please get in. I want to help you.” At her words, his body listed against the car as if he’d reached the last of his strength.
“Thank you, Song Bird. I’m awful tired.” He lowered himself down onto the seat and closed his eyes before Wren could even shut the door. When she did, she let it click home gently, pausing a moment to work down the lump in her throat. The look of suffering in his eyes reminded her of Laurie’s at the end.
She ran back to the driver’s side and got in. Curtis might be agreeing to get help now in a moment of weakness, but he could come around and change his mind any second. And if he came around, she doubted he’d know where he was.
Wren kept the window rolled down. The smell rising off him almost choked her, so she drove with a knuckle pressed to her nose. She made a right onto Johnston Street, and, from the seat next to her, Curtis groaned, and then, to her horror, a belch squished through his lips.
“Oh, Curtis, please don’t puke in my car,” she whispered. “Lee Hawthorne, if this guy pukes in my car, it’ll be your fault.”
Trying to strike a balance between speed and stability, she took the corner onto Vermilion with care so that the movements of the car wouldn’t make Curtis feel worse. Still he moaned.
“Four more blocks, Curtis. Hang tight.” The light in front of Don’s Seafood was green, so she sailed through it, passing Agave and Parc Sans Souci. Wren hoped that Cherise hadn’t spotted her from the patio of the restaurant. She’d know for certain that Wren had lost her mind if she did.
She came to a stop for the light on Jefferson, and as she waited for it to turn, Curtis raised a hand as if to signal a halt. His eyes were still closed, and Wren had no idea if he was trying to stop her or trying to stop his world from spinning. On impulse, she reached up and took his hand in hers. To her surprise, he held on tight.
“We’re almost there.”
She pulled up to a parking spot directly in front of the building, but when she killed the engine, Wren had no idea how she’d get Curtis out of the car. He was much bigger than she was, and in his state, she didn’t think he could make it on his own. She was also more than a little worried he’d get out and wander off if she left him in the car to go in search of help.
His eyes were closed still, so she tested the waters. She watched him while she opened her door. He didn’t move. Didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t make a sound. She gently shut the door, but forty-eight-year-old car doo
rs didn’t close as noiselessly as one might hope, and Curtis’s shoulders jumped a fraction at the sound, but he didn’t wake.
Releasing a breath in relief, Wren watched him for another second before readying herself to sprint. Halfway to the entrance, she learned that ankle boots and a full-length skirt weren’t the best clothing options for sprinting, but she made it inside without falling on her face.
A young woman in pink scrubs smiled at her from behind the reception desk.
“Welcome to ARC. How can I help you?”
A little breathless from the sprint and her rescue mission, Wren panted. “My… friend needs help. I’ve been trying to get him to come… for a while, and he finally agreed.”
The woman looked over Wren’s shoulder in confusion. “Your friend?”
“Yes… he’s… well, he’s in the car. I’m not sure if he’s sober or not. He might just be sick,” she stammered. “But he needs inpatient care. Can you take him?”
The receptionist, whose nametag read Lily, gave her a patient smile. “Does he have insurance?”
Wren froze.
“Um… no, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t,” she said, her heart sinking. “Do you have a program for someone who can’t pay?”
This time Lily’s smile was genuine. “Actually, we have five beds for indigent patients, and one of them just came available this morning. If your friend consents, he can be enrolled in our thirty-day inpatient program.”
Thirty days.
It didn’t seem like much, but it was probably the best offer Curtis could receive. And thirty days with a bed and three squares a day would at least make him stronger.
“Let’s hope he consents,” Wren said.
Lily picked up her phone and called someone named Carl to report to the admitting desk. When Carl arrived, he filled the doorway. He looked like a defensive tackle, but his eyes smiled, and Wren liked the way his curling eyelashes gave him a boyish look.
She led Carl to her Mustang, and, to her relief, Curtis still snoozed in the front seat. It was something of an effort to get him to understand what was happening, but once he gave his verbal approval that he wanted to check in, Carl had no trouble hoisting Curtis out of the car and up the steps of the recovery center.
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