Authors: Katherine Owen
"He's fine. He's sleeping," she says after a few minutes.
"Good," I say and resume my ritual of eating her pancakes. "These are amazing." I hold up my fork.
I listen for her, but still jump when she touches my right hand.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. Here's more," she says.
"You're not going to tell me what you put in these; are you?"
"Not today," she says.
I hear her movements get farther away. There's the sound of running water from the faucet and then the sizzle of the pan as it meets up with the water. The identifiable routine of washing dishes emerges. She hums a little as she works. Maybe, she's not pissed at me over Kate anymore. I finish the last of the pancakes, somewhat content with the familiarity of sounds and the simple domesticity of the situation.
"You're so different than Ethan," she says in a low voice, jarring me from my reverie. "You can live with the silences forever; can't you?"
I'm immediately confused by her hot and cold ways, and my apparent inability to understand her or read her signals. It takes me a minute longer to answer.
I wish I could see.
Part of me wants to tell her that, but I resist.
"I guess so. What do you want me to say?" I ask.
She doesn't answer my question. Instead, she asks one of her own. "How long? How long before your tour is officially over?"
"I have the paperwork. I haven't looked at it."
"You haven't
signed
it."
"I can't fucking
see
it."
"Show it to me."
"Why?"
"Because I can read it to you. You've wanted to go over the estate paperwork. Let's do both now. Let's read your paperwork from the Navy, and I'll look at the estate documents you sent me, and you can explain them. We're awake. We need to talk about it."
"I don't know."
I run my hand through my hair, frustrated that I can't see, frustrated by her blatant interest in my release paperwork, and even more frustrated by her sudden enthusiasm for having the estate discussion.
Where the fuck has she been all these months? Why do we have to do this in the middle of the night? Why now?
"You're not going to like everything I have to say," I say with an edge to my voice.
"I know," she says with disquiet. "Where's the paperwork?"
"My dad's office."
This sense of foreboding comes over me. I allow her to guide me down the hall, though I could have done this by myself. Still, my free right hand reaches out automatically and follows the subtle Braille markings along the walls. A part of me savors the touch of her, this one last time. The truth is this: she most certainly is not going to like everything I have to say about the Lazy J or even about Ethan, himself.
And somehow, she'll blame me. That much I do know.
*≈*≈*
Chapter 15. Catalyst
Jordan
April 28th. The day taunts me from the page. We spent a lot of time planning for that day. Ethan and me. It was the day he was supposed to return home from Afghanistan. For good. Now? It doesn't matter. He's home all right, buried in the cemetery, here in Austin. The loss of him weighs me down. I didn't think it would be so hard to see the date on the page, but it is. My hands begin to shake, and I put Brock's release papers down on the desk and clasp my hands together to keep them from trembling.
"So, it looks like you're approaching a kind of deadline, within a three- week range, where they won't recall you back to serve your term, unless you're medically fit to return." My voice has this lyrical quality to it. I sound like his mother. I catch my lip between my teeth and have to hope he didn't notice the catch in my voice.
"Unless I can
see,
" he says.
"Yes."
"A few more weeks then, hoping for a fucking miracle," he mutters.
"Yes."
"Do you have any in mind?"
Brock's attempt to be flippant doesn't quite work. His distress is still palpable. He has this stoic, proud look as he sits across the desk from me, but, I notice his hands shake just before he clasps them behind his head. He leans back in the chair and sighs.
"I'm sorry," I say.
"I know."
I sink back against the chair across from him and nervously tap its leather surface in a regular rhythm.
The room is cold, and so are we.
He leans forward, rubs his eyes for a moment, and then holds his face in his hands. I'm overwhelmed with sympathy and something else.
"I just want to
see
."
"I know," I say. "But then, you'd have to go back."
"I want to go back. My whole team is there. They need me."
With irritation, I grab the sheaf of papers, lean across the massive desk, and shove the documents his way. He looks disconcerted by my sudden action and fumbles with a key, and after a few unsuccessful attempts, unlocks one of the desk drawers and throws the paperwork inside. He barely misses his fingers when he slams it shut and turns the lock with the key.
"God damn it," he says in a low voice. He looks so unhappy.
I experience this unexpected urge to reach out to him. I blink rapidly and attempt to get a handle on my emotions. I press my body back further into the chair as physical distance from this man becomes paramount.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I touch my forehead and feel the instant heat. What do I want him to do? Why do I have this inexplicable need to beg him not to return to Afghanistan? These confusing thoughts race through me as this out of control heat surges. With rapid clarity, I realize that I'm scared for him. For me.
I care about him.
The revelation rushes through me like adrenalin. I get even more light-headed and feel undone all at once. This incalculable fear and profound guilt arrive together. I gasp with the recognition and struggle to breathe. He lifts his head from his hands upon hearing me.
"Are you okay?" Brock asks.
"Yes. I'm fine."
"No, you're not," he says. "What's wrong?"
I move my head side-to-side. What's wrong with me? I look over at him, helpless, while this rising crescendo of emotions overwhelms me.
I care about him. I want him to stay. For me.
"Before. Why did you ask me if I was happy? If Ethan saw me," I say in a low, unsteady voice. "Why did you ask me that?"
"What?" He looks disconcerted by my questions. He hesitates and gets this dismal grim expression and clasps his hands together.
"Just tell me. Tell me why you asked me that," I say.
"He loved you. You love him."
"Yes. So, why did you think I was unhappy?"
"He loved you, but I did wonder, especially after meeting you, if he really saw you. Your fear of losing him was off the charts." Brock shakes his head. "And, it was, as if, he didn't see it or acknowledge it in any way." He shrugs, indifferent, looks away for a moment, and then seems to look directly at me. "So, I did wonder if he ever saw you. If you were happy. Really happy." He gets this haunted look. "I didn't get the impression you ever trusted yourself or him enough to be truly happy."
He lifts his head in defiance and seemingly stares straight at me as if daring me to argue.
I'm too shaken by what he's said to respond right away. I stand up, trembling from head to toe, combating fear, anger, and this incredible heat. My head aches. My stomach churns. And yet, there's this overwhelming attraction for him, even after everything he's just said. Guilt for feeling this way washes over me. I step back.
"Why are you doing this?" I whisper.
"Because the one thing you'll get from me is honesty, Mrs. Holloway." He sounds so detached. It feels like an invisible shield has just been put up between us. I can barely hear him. My head buzzes with pain, and I have trouble focusing on him.
What's happening to me?
"We're partners, you and I, in the Lazy J. You're in debt up to your ears, lady. He made sure of that. He had a plan. He set it in motion, while we were in Malibu. Ethan, always at the ready, with a big idea no matter what it costs or what the consequences were or who it hurts. His grand plan. The one that would bring you here. To Austin."
"What are you talking about? Why would we come here?"
"Because he wanted to come home. He wanted to bring you home, his girl from L.A., to be close to his family. To me. All of us." He sighs. "And, I made you a promise that I would keep him safe. A promise I knew I might not be able to keep, but it was already too late. For a lot of things. Everything was set in motion, far beyond me. And you."
"I don't understand."
"I know. When you see the Lazy J, you will. He spent a fortune. A fortune he didn't have or, rather, a fortune that wasn't his to spend."
This sick feeling overtakes me. I grip the desk and try to steady myself. The flu-like symptoms surge again at full force.
"I think I'm—"
"You should go, Jordan," he says with sudden impatience. "Go now."
"What's wrong?"
"Everything's wrong. Don't you
see
? All of this." Brock extends his arm across the space between us, shaking the estate documents at me. "All of
this
is
wrong
. It wasn't supposed to be this way. And now? It can't be undone."
I start to sway. "I don't feel so well."
I'm overwhelmed with nausea and feel too weak to stand. I reach out for the chair arm to support myself. Brock feels his way around the desk and grasps my arm.
"What is it?" Brock asks in alarm.
"I don't know. I'm burning up."
He reaches out and trails his fingers across my throat and works his way up to my forehead. "You're burning up."
"I told you I was," I say dully.
"So you did."
He half-carries me up the stairs with his arm around my waist and the other around my shoulders. I grasp the stair rail and pull myself upward, while he stumbles alongside me. He curses the blindness, while I try to control my breathing and the sudden urge to throw up. A minute later, he pushes me through the bathroom door and I vomit, barely reaching the toilet in time. He holds back my hair and lightly strokes my back. I'm too overcome by sickness to be embarrassed. When I'm through, I sink to the floor and rest my back against the wall and stare up at him. I close my eyes.
Minutes later, I open them at the sound of running water. And then, he's there, wiping my face and tendrils of my hair. I urgently move away from him and vomit once more. He holds my hair back away from my face again until I'm finished.
I sink to the floor and gaze up at him, helpless. I watch him move easily through the semi-darkness of the bathroom as he leaves. Weary, I rest my head against the cool bathroom tile for a moment.
He materializes again, minutes later, sporting two white pills in the palm of his left hand and a bottle of water. He kneels next to me while I swallow the pills and cautiously sip the water. I stare at him through this sick-induced haze and attempt to recall our conversation from before.
"I'm so sorry," I finally say.
"You have the flu. There's nothing to be sorry about. How do you feel?"
He reaches out and puts the palm of his hand against my forehead.
"Seriously? Like I've been run over by a truck or I should be."
"That's the flu," he stands up, grabs my hand, pulls me up to him, and puts his arm around me. "Come on. Let's get you back into bed."
He pulls me along through the bathroom and into the adjoining guest room. I weakly smile at seeing Max sleeping in the middle of my bed. Surprisingly, Brock seems to find his way to it without any trouble. He gently pushes me into the bed, leans over me, and pulls the covers back up to my neck. About the same time, Max turns over and snuggles into me with a sleepy sigh.
"I'll stay for a few minutes, until you fall asleep," Brock says.
"You don't have to."
I'm almost asleep, when I hear him say, "I want to."
≈ ≈
Unceremoniously, I'm awakened by an exuberant Max. Sunlight streams through the windows, and I'm fully awake as Max climbs on top of me.
"See? I told you it would be okay," Max scolds, turning back toward the doorway.
I look over and discover Brock standing there. He looks a little out of sorts. I glance at the bedside clock and groan. It's half past eleven. I've slept through the entire morning which can only mean Brock has been handling Max, who seems to have fully recovered from his own bout with the flu.
"Have you been good for Brock? Mommy overslept."
"You sure did." Max grins at me. "Brock wouldn't let me wake you up any sooner."
"He's been great. He ate breakfast. Pancakes. The works," Brock says with a defiant lift of his head. "Not as good as yours, I'm afraid."
I'm caught up in the man's beguiling smile. The lack of sleep seems to have had little effect on him as he stands there in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and his blue jeans hugging his hips just so. He folds his arms across his chest and leans in the doorway looking cool, sexy, and together. I run my hand through my wild hair. For a moment, I've forgotten he's blind as I openly gaze at him and recall only remnants of an intense conversation right before I threw up all over the place. My face reddens at the last memory of him, where he was holding my hair back while I was sick.