by Daisy Allen
“You are terrible.”
The grin he flashes me tells me he has no regrets. And I can’t blame him. If I looked like him, I’d probably want to have some fun as well, and as someone who had been flashed that smile and fed those lines, I don’t blame the women for falling for it either.
The question is – do I allow myself to fall for them now? And do I even have a choice.
We spend the next half an hour devouring the food and arguing over who is the best Batman. The sexual tension of the lip licking and the seriousness of the dreams spilling conversation is temporarily over, and I feel more comfortable with him than I do with almost everyone else in my life.
Comfortable, with a side of complete terror of what’s happening between us.
Our spoons battle for the last piece of the decadent tiramisu, which I win, and we both fall back against the couch, clutching our stomachs.
“Oh my god. That was amazing.”
“Yeah, Brad is a lucky, and probably very soon to be, fat man.”
“Is there any way I can get her to make me lunch every day?”
“Actually, she’d be happy to. She’s great. She has a little boy, Ben, who is going to grow up to be president of the world, or a pineapple. He hasn’t decided which just yet,” Jez tells me, a chuckle on his lips.
I realize that I’m slowly becoming addicted to hearing him talk about the people in his life, and I crave to know more. I can’t help but wonder, how many of these stories I’ve heard before and how much I knew about him. But I was the one who suggested the start afresh rule and It still feels right to try to stick by it. He talks about his friends for a little while longer, nothing specific, just how they like to horse around and how he's happy that they've found some really wonderful women to be with. I could sit and listen all day; he's funny and animated and makes me feel like he's known me his whole life.
He makes me wish he has.
Somewhere in the middle of his story, I feel a yawn coming on and try to stifle it, but it takes on a life of its own and a hand over my mouth barely hides it.
"I knew it, I'm boring you."
"No," I say, although my mouth is still half open and my jaw locking. "I'm just so full from the amazing lunch. I guess I could use a nap."
"I was actually, er, I was hoping you could help me with something."
"Sure. Anything. Unless it’s eating."
"I was actually wondering, would you come to my PT appointment with me?” He glances at clock on the wall. I notice he’s not wearing a watch on his wrist. “It starts in a few minutes." I don't know what to say, I'm so touched that he'd want me there. "You don't have to, of course..."
I shake my head and jump to my feet. "Are you kidding? I'm... yes. I'd be happy to come. Just let me freshen up a bit.”
"Yeah, go ahead, I'll meet you at the elevators in five minutes?"
"It's a date," I say, before I can stop myself, and I close the bathroom door fast behind me before he can see my face flush beet red.
Stupid! Why did I say that? I run my fingers under the tap and flick them on my burning cheeks.
Because he licked your lip, you giddy school girl. And now you have to sit on your hands in case you rip his clothes off.
I can't help it. There's just... there's something about him that just makes me utterly and completely alive. Feminine, sensual... and understood. The way he looks at me when he talks, never breaking eye contact, like it matters that I listen to every word he says. And when I talk, he does the same, his head tilting to the side, his face breaking into smiles or concern depending on what I'm saying.
And the few times we've touched, it just makes me crave him more. It's been a long time since I felt a connection with anything other than my recovery, but he makes me feel like this is just temporary, and that I can't wait to get back to my life. A life I want him to be a part of.
So yes, I said it's a date.
Because he wants me to be there.
And I want to be there for him.
And already, in the space of a few days, I care more about this mystery man's recovery than I do about mine.
I run my palms over my hair, glad that I'd taken the time over my appearance today and open the door to meet him.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jez
"You really should make up some new business cards. They should just say one word on them. SATAN. Glossy red on a pitch-black background. And flaming devil horns over the font. I'll hand them out for you."
"Are you done?" Brian, my PT, says, hands on his hips.
I think about it for a moment and then nod. "For now."
"Then hurry up with the bicep curls."
"See what I mean?" I say to Noémie, who's sitting next to the exercise station, stretching out one of the elastics between her hands. She's making it look so easy, it's making me almost regret asking her to come along.
This isn't the Jez I want her to see. I want her to see the Jez benching 300 at the gym and barely breaking a sweat, not one complaining about doing a simple bicep curl with something girls use to tie up their hair. But I did ask her. Surprising myself. I just didn’t want my time with her to end. Of course, I’d prefer it to be with us sweaty, naked, her legs around my waist and her calling my name in the absolute throes of passion. But considering where we are, having her here with me during torture hour is the next best thing.
"Not at all, I find Brian utterly charming."
"That's because he's not performing torture on you."
"Is he always like this?" Brian asks her.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, to put it in professional medical terms, a whiny baby."
"Oh that. Well," she touches her temple as if thinking, and I glare at her. "I can’t say I know him that well or for that long but, I would have to say, yes, yes he is." She nods her head up and down emphatically.
"What? Get out!" I say, pointing to the door, and then grimace as a sharp pain shoots up my arm.
She laughs, throwing me a wink, her eyes lighting up. "This one time, he came barging into my room and was like, ’Oh, why don't you remember me, how come you don't know who I am?"' And she faces Brian, pausing for effect before delivering the punchline, "I have amnesia!"
Brian looks at me, his jaw dropping open. "Dude. Nice going."
I growl at them both, should’ve known that they’d gang up on me. "I didn't know she had amnesia! She looks so normal and sweet. Who knew that she was in cahoots with THE DEVIL?!"
"Oh, hush and do your exercises," Noémie says, flicking the elastic band at my head.
"Ow!” I yelp, rubbing the back of my neck.
"Whiny baby,” she shoots at me, and sighs, shrugging her shoulders dramatically.
Brian gets up laughing and leads me over to sit a table. He hands me a small foam ball and I hesitate before taking it.
"Come on, Jez. You can do it. I know it's hard." He pushes his hand closer to me.
I lean away from it, like it’s made of cyanide. "It's not hard, mate, it's almost impossible."
"Yeah, almost. That's the difference."
I take the ball in my hand and stare at it, almost willing for it to squeeze itself instead of having to do it myself. My fingers slowly fold in around the ball, but they barely touch it before springing open again, sweat from the effort already dripping into my eyes.
Why is this so hard? And why does it have to be my arms, my hands… my livelihood. No, not my livelihood, my life. The thought that’s always lingering in the back of my brain, that I’ll never be able to go back to playing the cello like I used to do, bores into my skull and I can barely focus on anything else. I take a breath, and try to bend my fingers in again, the stiffness making it feel like trying to manipulate concrete poles. A strike of pain flashes up my wrist and the ball rolls out of my palm and onto the floor.
“Fuck!”
I lean over, to reach for it, my arm locking at the elbow and I can’t help but growl in pain.
“Goddamn it t
o hell!” I’m breathless from the effort of squeezing a ball and bending over to pick something up. Not to mention, my body is screaming with pain now.
Brian picks up the ball and pushes it into my palm.
“Again.”
“Fuck you, Brian.”
“Do it again, Jez.”
Our eyes lock, and I’m wishing him bloody murder in my head, but he doesn’t waver.
I take a breath, and shake my wrist. It does more harm than good. I lay my forearm back down onto the table.
Squeeze, you useless things, I curse at my pale, clammy fingers, squeeze the motherfucking ball!
They twitch, but barely move. Like they’re locked in place from months of being caged in a cast.
My index finger folds forward, and the others follow, awkward and gnarled. They almost envelope around the ball, but my thumb refuses to follow and the balls slips out through the gap across the table and onto the floor again.
“FUCK!” I yell, slamming my other hand against the table. “ARGHHH!” White hot heat sears up the inside of my hand and all the way up my arm to my shoulder.
But I barely notice it. My vision fogs up with anger, with frustration and I push away from the table and stand in the middle of the room and let out a scream.
This is not supposed to be happening.
The cast was supposed to come off and I was supposed to get to go back to my life.
This. This not being able to do the absolute simplest of tasks, and yet essential to everything that I am, was not supposed to feel like medieval torture.
“Jez.” In the fog, I hear her voice.
Dammit, I forgot she was here.
Why did I ask her here? What the fuck is wrong with me?”
“Jez,” she says again and I just want her to be gone. I don’t want her to see this.
“Go away, Noémie,” I say, my voice hard and harsh.
“No.”
“Just go,” I say again. “GO!”
“I’m not-…”
I spin around and she’s right there, and I lean in, my face pulled tight, my eyes wide. “I SAID GO! GO! I don’t want you here. Fucking GET OUT OF HERE!”
She flinches, her eyes blinking and I see her shoulders tense as she jumps. She steadies herself and her eyes flood with something… fear? Pity? God, no, please not pity.
God. What is happening to me?
I turn my back to her. “Just fucking go,” I say, tired. Resigned to this broken shell. “Can’t you see I don’t want you here?”
I close my eyes, my own breath, ragged in my ears. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t even move.
Finally, I hear her sigh and her feet moving away from me against the vinyl floor.
I know I should apologize, but I can’t feel anything but the disappointment in myself crushing against my chest, leaving no room for air. I cradle my left hand against my sternum, like a wounded bird and wonder how to just disappear from here.
She’s gone. And there’s no longer a reason to be here.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Noémie
I stare at the wide expanse of his back, covered in a tight black T-shirt, like a shield. His shoulders hunched, his head bent, his arm folded, as he clutches at his own chest with his wounded hand. Every part of him shying away from me.
If you cracked open my chest at this moment, you would see my heart being fed through a shredder.
The pain that is etched all over his face is so raw and deep, it takes my breath away. I can't even imagine what he is suffering right now. Physically, mentally.
Yes, you do. My mind tries to tell me. But I know it's wrong. What I'm going through is nothing like this. Yes, I am confused, and frustrated and worried.
But I don't have this soul deep ache that he seems to be going through. And I don't even think I really understand it.
But I can see it in his eyes.
And I know that it's real for him.
And that makes it real for me.
I pivot on my heel and walk toward the table where Brian is sitting. He is watching Jez, but not saying anything. I wonder how many times a day he sees this.
What a job to have.
I walk over to the ball on the floor and pick it up and walk back over, to stand in front of Jez.
I reach up and place my hand under his chin, lifting his face up.
His eyes are shining. Wet.
And he looks surprised to see me.
I look down at the hand curled up against his chest. Pulling it away from his body, I slide the ball into it.
And I tell him what he knows but needs to hear again, "I am not going anywhere. You asked me here. And I came. And I’m staying. So, you can yell at me if you think that’s going to make you feel better. Personally, I think you’re going to feel worse about it later, because that’s just the kind of good guy that you are. But if you need to yell I can take it. What I can’t take is seeing you give up.” I take a breath, and continue, “You can do this. It's not going to be easy. It's not meant to be. I know you want to be healed and back to normal and to get the hell out of here. I get it. And I don't know what happened to you, but I know this - your bones don't fucking care what you want. You have to tell them. You have to make them. You can do this."
There’s a sharp intake of breath and the slightest shake of his head.
"Stop. We're not going to say or THINK the word 'no' for the next two minutes, okay? Just two minutes. Then you can complain and go back to being a whiny baby all you want. But just give me two minutes. Please. I’ll beg you if I have to."
His head changes from a shake to a nod.
"Now, squeeze your hand. Like you've done a million times before."
I don't look down. He lets me hold his gaze, and I can see the effort in his eyes. They almost glaze over with pain.
"N-..."
"Two minutes, Jez,” I remind him, as firmly but kindly as I can.
He holds his breath and I can see his fingers twitch in the corner of my eyes, but I won't look away.
"Fuck!" he says, and I can see the hope fading in his pupils, the light shrinking into a darkened abyss.
I push the ball away from his hand and it bounces on the floor. I replace it with my hand, sliding my fingers against his palm.
"Squeeze my hand, Jez."
There's a flicker of... something. Hope. Because hope remain when all reason is gone. It’s hope in his gaze and I see him steeling himself. In that moment, I know him. Know what motivates him, what moves him. Sometimes, someone needs something other than himself to care about.
I stare deep into his eyes, so he hears every word, feels it. "I'm scared Jez,” I tell him, “I've been in this hospital for a really long time. I was injured really badly. And I don't know if I'll ever get all of my memory back and I need you to squeeze my hand to help me feel safe. Please."
His face softens for the first time since he yelled at me, and then his brow furrows, his front teeth digging deep into his bottom lip. And suddenly my fingers feel warm, enveloped, squeezed.
"Tighter," I whisper, and my fingers are almost crushed in his hand. And then it's over. Brief, but it happened. His hand drops away from mine and he grimaces for a split second.
But he doesn't look away.
"Thank you," I whisper again. Pressing my hand to chest. It's lifting and falling with deep, deep breath.
"No. Thank you," he says. He lifts his hand to press against mine, pushing it harder against him, and now I can feel his heartbeat. "Thank you."
***
I come with him to his PT sessions the next two days. It's always an hour of intensity, and it's not always pleasant. I spend half the time trying to distract him from the pain, and cajoling him into trying. There are times I can see he wants me to leave, and times when I'm the only thing pushing him through. But he's making progress. Slow. Almost unnoticeable. But there’s progress. And it drains us. So much that as we return to our ward, we split, and I go back to my room and fall into a deep, dream
less sleep.
And then it's morning. There's no note waiting for me when I wake up, no flowers, no sign that he's come to see me.
But I am there, waiting at the elevator when it's time for his appointment again, like I wouldn't be anywhere else in the world.
By the third day, he can almost make a fist again. Not for long and not as tight as it should be, but he can hold a pen in his hand, and we celebrate by going down to the front desk and filling out a bunch of silly feedback forms.
"Tell them we want every Friday to be ‘dress up as your favorite Disney villain day’ for the doctors and nurses!” I squeal as Jez slowly traces out the words. I can barely make sense of it when I glance at it, but he seems pretty pleased with it, so I just fold it and slide it into the suggestions box.
“What next?” he asks, his voice calmer, but his eyes giving away his excitement.
“Let’s go look at the newborn babies and mess with the parents. Pretend we think our babies have been switched at birth.”
“You have an irrepressible sense of evil, don’t you?”
“It’s called cabin fever, baby.”
“You’ve got babies on the brain.” He makes the sign of the cross at me. I reach out and touch his fingers and then snap them back, hissing as if he’s burned me. “I knew it. Vampire by night… uke player… also by night. What the hell do you do during the day?”
“Wait for you to feed me, that’s what!”
“Ha, okay, it must be lunch time, let’s see what my friends brought me today. Probably my favorite since they’re still feeling guilty for having that intervention.”
“Intervention? What for?”
“Because I was being a whiny baby.”
“Ah. So, a valid reason for the intervention.”
“Hush, I’ll sic Buffy on you.”
We ride up the elevator and I pull a face at him behind the backs of the other people. He just shakes his head, but his face is grinning the whole time. The doors of the elevator open and there's suddenly the flash of camera bulbs in our faces.
Three, four, maybe even five or six people swarm into the elevator, crowding around Jez.
