Bend (19 page)

Ha. Is he kidding? I’m picturing my parents’ faces as I try to explain to them that, no, Jay’s not my boyfriend; I’m just having sex with him. Yeah, that’d go over really well.

I bob my head and say, “Yup.”

He looks down. Hangs the towel back on the bar hooked on the door under the sink. Gives a small nod and says, “I’ll see if I can switch shifts with someone.”

Whew. Okay, so that’s done.

Now I’m not sure how I feel about it. On the one hand, the weekend will definitely be less complicated if it turns out he can’t go. On the other, I’m starting to feel like we’ve figured out how to do this. How to be friends and lovers.

Sure, it might take some more adjustments, a bit more fine-tuning, but he seems to have come to terms with it, and I’m not so worried anymore that he’s going to jump ship. Not after that quickie on the couch earlier. A pulsing and tingling flares up between my legs at the memory—the memory that’s still fresh and raw.

Tilting my head, I watch him across the short space of the kitchen. He’s fished his phone out of his pocket and is thumbing the screen with a mild frown, his head bent. His grungy charcoal tee hugs his torso just right, defining his broad shoulders, his muscled biceps and chest. The tapered lines down to his waist and narrow hips. And below the shorts ending just above his knees, his sinewy runner’s calves.

This is
Jay.
He hasn’t changed much since I first met him—a little more filled out maybe, more like a man with not a shred of boyishness left. So it’s just me who’s looking at him differently now. Less like something pretty in a window display. More like something that belongs to me, something I’ve wanted to get my hands on forever, and now the need to touch him is a constant, whispering purr beneath my skin.

I clear my throat. “You wanna watch
House
or something?”

He shoots a glance at me, and then he does that thing again where he looks at his watch. Even though his phone is right there in his hands. Telling him what time it is.

“I should probably go. Need to hit the gym tonight,” he replies. Then he eyes me directly, eyebrows cocked. “Besides, isn’t it almost your bedtime?”

I check the oven clock and find it’s almost a quarter past nine. Okay, sure, so I’ve been known to hit the sack at ten even on the weekend. But sleep is not my foremost need right now.

Stepping close enough to touch him, I sneak a hand up under the front of his shirt. Stroking his flat, taut abs, I murmur, “Want to tuck me in?”

He exhales audibly, harshly. Reaches up and slips his thumb under the strap on my shoulder. “Are you wearing a bra under that dress?”

All the air is sucked out of my chest. I wasn’t expecting playful, flirty Jay, and I really like it. “Why don’t we go in the bedroom, and I’ll show you?”

With a tiny, genuine smile, he lets his arm drop and takes my hand in his, which is so much bigger it envelops mine in a warm and secure grip that sends a shock straight to my core.

Clutching his hand, I pull him behind me as I lead the way to my bedroom.

The light from the lamp on my nightstand is soft and warm and intimate, shrinking the room down to only the bed and us. I’m lying on my back with my arms flung above my head, tangled in the sheets, panting and damp with perspiration. Jay is spread out right next to me, also trying to catch his breath.

Wow. Just
wow.
If the couch earlier was an appetizer, this was dessert—delicious, decadent, and yet not at all fattening. I smile at the thought, and something loosens up inside me.

Last Thursday morning it was like we were trying something new and seeing if we liked it. The rushed and frantic thing in the living room was like scratching an itch. This time we took it slow, teasing and exploring, learning each other’s bodies.

Not since Matt have I felt this way after sex. It’s a kind of vertigo, a heightened awareness, a sense of being
more
—more feminine, more spent, more alive.

I turn my head to look at him. His chest falls and rises quickly still, his arm slung over his face. Something strange on his bicep catches my eye, and I move my head closer, squinting at it. There’s a faint outline on his skin, like writing in pencil that’s been removed with a rubber eraser.

It looks like a number: 88.

What the hell?

“What is that?” I reach out but stop myself just short of touching him. It’s almost invisible, so I’m not really surprised I never noticed it before.

Letting his arm fall, he turns his head to me first, then glances down at his arm. A grimace passes over his features, his eyes shuttering. “It was a tattoo.”

My eyebrows shoot up. Jay had a tattoo?

“When did you get it?” I ask, frowning. “And what does it mean?”

He sighs, rubbing his palm over his face. It seems like it takes him forever to answer, and apprehension squeezes my chest.

“I did it in college,” he says tightly. “One night when I drunk off my ass, and I don’t even remember doing it or what it was supposed to mean. I had it removed as soon as I scraped together the money.”

Uh, okay. I’m watching him with my lips pinched. Because that doesn’t sound like something he would do, and I’m getting dismissive vibes from him. Like he really doesn’t want to talk about it.

But on another level, it’s kind of comforting to know that even Jay did some stupid stuff when he was younger. So with a mental shrug, I let it go.

My hands are prickling with the urge to touch him. And really, why shouldn’t I? This hesitation…I don’t get it.
No physical contact except while we’re getting it on
was not one of his rules, so why do I feel as if it’s forbidden?

Well, the only way to find out if it’s acceptable is to give it try. Tentatively, I place my palm on his chest, right above his heart, where I can feel each beat as a faint fluttering where my skin meets his. Uncovering his eyes, he twists his head toward me, seeking my face and finding it, holding my gaze.

I want to say something, but I have no idea what, so I only stare at him while my fingers caress his chest in tiny, slow circles.

His arm falls down on the pillow above my head.

My pulse stutters. Is that an invitation?

I decide to take it as one. Pulling the flat sheet with me, I flip onto my side and slide nearer, until there’s no longer any space between us. Tugging the sheet to cover us, I rest my head on his shoulder, my breasts pressing against his rib cage. Then I hook my leg over his and stroke him with the arch of my foot.

His hand comes up to rest on my upper arm, and when he squeezes me even closer, it’s like he’s also squeezing my heart. A hard knot forms in my throat, and I try frantically to swallow it away.

Picking my hand off his chest, holding it tight, he brings it up toward his face. Trailing his thumb along the dark-pink ridge of healing skin, he comments idly, “Seems like your hand’s doing well.”

“Yeah. It feels a little tight, and I’m still being careful with it.” With Angela’s help, I removed the stitches myself yesterday at work. A perk of the job, but maybe not the smartest decision considering I hadn’t slept at all the night before.

With a hint of queasiness high in my stomach and desperate to switch mental gears, I ask Jay, “How was work this week?”

“Crappy.” Heaving a sigh, he drops our hands back on his chest, though he doesn’t let go. “A lot of trauma cases, and there seems to be some sort of late-season Norovirus outbreak going on right now. The nurses were overwhelmed with dehydrated patients and spent a lot of time cleaning vomit off the floor.”

Blech. Making a face, I continue with, “I saw on the news there was a shooting not far away. Did they come in to you guys?”

“Yeah,” is his terse response, and I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. Which is kind of weird.

He draws in a breath as if about to speak, but only silence follows as he releases it again.

Something’s eating at him. I raise myself up on my elbow so I can see his face. “What?”

My stomach drops at the sight of Jay’s eyes watering, turning his irises a glacial blue. It’s not like him to take the ugliest sides of his job to heart. Or at least, it’s not like him to show it. Just like anger, he draws his sorrows inwards, too. Maybe that’s why he stonewalls me whenever I try to get him to talk about his family?

Knowing better than to push him with stuff like this, I just watch him quietly while his Adam’s apple bobs and he works through whatever’s so difficult to say. At the same time, seeing his obvious pain is like holding a mirror up to myself, and I can feel that anchor again, trying to pull me underwater.

“There was this two-year-old boy,” he says finally, clearing his throat as his voice cracks. “Fell into the neighbor’s pool. The neighbor performed CPR, and paramedics brought him in breathing but unresponsive.”

“What happened?” I ask even though I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know.

“He’s in the ICU in a coma. If he wakes up, which is unlikely…” Jay trails off, going silent, and then he shakes his head. “He was underwater for at least five minutes.”

“Shit,” I breathe out. Five minutes of no oxygen to the brain means serious, irreversible neurological damage. No one should have to go through what this kid’s poor parents are going through right now, the choices they have to make.

I swallow hard. The air feels heavy and oppressive in here now, and I’m struggling to stay focused. Wriggling my hand out of his, I lay my palm flat and smooth it across his chest. Quietly I ask, “How do you deal with that stuff?”

Rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index finger, he draws air in through his nose—a moist, runny sound. With a shake of his head, he replies, “You do what you can for the patient and the family, you show empathy, and then you move on to the next person who needs your help.”

Disappointment sinks heavily into my gut, and the anchor hits bottom. Guess I expected that Jay, having done his hospital rotation and now as a resident in the ER, would have some miraculous recipe for coping with the tragedies that he’s witnessed much more of than I have. Because I could really use a lifeline right now.

Staying there in his arms is suddenly intolerable. I’m choking. Nausea swells from my stomach and up into my throat. Blindly, I scramble away from him, across the bed, my feet hitting the floor. I run to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me, and then I’m kneeling in front of the toilet, frantically pushing the seat up.

Nothing happens. I just sit there like that, waiting for the gagging, for dinner to come back up. I’m gasping for air, a low moan escaping me with every other breath, but there’s no relief.

A knock comes on the door followed by Jay’s voice on the other side. “Mia?”

I don’t answer him. I just can’t summon up the energy or find my voice. My heart is hammering so hard I’m sure it’s going to pop right out of my chest. Sweat breaks out on my scalp, coating the back of my neck.

“Hey,” Jay calls through the door. “Can I come in?”

No, no, no.
I shake my head frantically.
Go away. Please, go away.

“Mia, I’m coming in,” he says firmly, loudly.

Fuck.
I force out a half-strangled, “Hang on!”

Pushing down the toilet seat and lid, I brace myself on it and somehow manage to stand up. My hands are shaking, my legs weak. I grab my sheer floral kimono robe from a peg on the wall and shrug into it, tugging the belt into a knot above my waist.

Closing my eyes, I draw air into my lungs and let it flow down through me. It’s okay. I’m okay now.

I open the door and find Jay right outside. He’s put on his boxer briefs, and his face is tight with worry. “What’s going on?”

“Um.” Hugging myself with one arm, I lift the other up, pressing my fist to my mouth. “I think I just had a panic attack or something. Maybe a…a delayed reaction to—”

He waits a couple of seconds, then says, “To what?”

Okay. I can’t do this standing up. Brushing past him, I walk back into the bedroom. Plunk my butt down on the edge of my bed. Feel the mattress dip as he sits down next to me.

“I had a pretty awful week, too,” I confess without looking at him.

And then it spills out. All of it. I describe Tricia Michaelson, but of course, for her privacy, I can only give him the basics: thirty-nine-year-old patient, thirty-seven weeks pregnant. No fetal heartbeat. Me, chickening out and running to Dr. Borawski for help.