Authors: Robin Kaye
“Imagine.”
“And he even folds his underwear. I mean, who does that?”
“Not me, that’s for sure, and certainly not you. Yup.” Andrew poured himself a cup of coffee. “Neat drawers are a definite sign of a sick mind.”
“Exactly.”
“Yeah, he sounds like a real loser. He cooks, cleans, is a veritable God in bed—”
“Who told you that?”
“You did.”
Jessie felt her face flame. She remembered telling Andrew that Fisher was perfect, but she hadn’t gone into specifics, had she?
“Sugar, you’ve complained about every lover you’ve ever had—not that you’ve had many, but I heard all about their shortcomings, shall we say, with the very notable exception of Dr. Fisher Kincaid. That and the bruise on your shoulder, the one you’ve taken to rubbing like a Buddha’s belly for luck tells me all I need to know. It also explains why you haven’t been sleeping or eating, and why you’ve been walking around my place like a zombie.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but shut it. What could she say? He was right. She was miserable. She’d never been so miserable in her entire life.
He took her hand. “I’m worried about you, sugar. You’ve even stopped writing. I’ve never seen that happen. Writing to you is like breathing—it’s necessary to live. You haven’t written a word in days.”
“I’m stuck.” She shrugged and pulled her hand away from his. God, just touching Andrew, even platonically, made her feel as if she were cheating on Fisher. “I wrote the big black moment, and I did it so well. I don’t know how to ever put the pieces back together again.”
“So, rewrite it.”
“That’s the thing. This is the only way I can see it. Andrew, I love my characters, but I can’t help but think if they did get back together, I’d just be setting them up for an even bigger heartbreak in the future.”
“Maybe you should get a job writing soaps. That’s what they’re looking for.”
“Jenny and Seth are so different. She’s all junk food and crackers in bed, and he’s a granola with an unhealthy relationship with his vacuum cleaner.”
“Sounds kinky.”
She did her best to smile, but from the look on Andrew’s face, she’d missed her mark. She was so selfish. She’d been there all week, and Andrew had spent his vacation time plying her with food, alcohol, really bad jokes, and chocolate. A corpse would have been better company than she’d been. And unfortunately, she found out the hard way that the out-of-sight-out-of-mind theory of heartbreak recovery didn’t work. Out-of-sight just seemed to magnify the problem. At least, if she were in Boise, she might see Fisher and make sure he was okay.
“Do you want me to read the manuscript and tell you what I think? At least then, we’d be able to brainstorm an ending. That’s why most writers have critique partners in the first place. Sometimes you get so involved with the story and the characters, you can’t see the forest for the trees.”
“Sure, let me just get my Thumbdrive. You can download it on your computer.” She went to the door where her bags were packed and ready to go and pulled out her keys with her Thumbdrive on them. “Here you go. We use the same writing program, so you can comment, and we can email it back and forth.”
Andrew took it from her, and she followed him into his office. “It’ll be like college all over again. Remember how we used to critique each other’s stuff?”
“Yeah, I remember.” She leaned on his desk wondering what she’d ever done to deserve a great friend like Andrew. “Thanks for everything. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I really don’t know what I’d do without you.”
He pulled her Thumbdrive from his laptop and handed it back to her. “No thanks necessary. We’ve always been there for each other, sugar. I just want you to be happy. If Fisher makes you happy, maybe you should see if you two can work things out. He sounds like a great guy, except for the whole OCD problem. Though, from the looks of it, it’s catching. Pretty soon, you’ll be folding your underwear.”
She did laugh at that. Even her laugh sounded rusty to her ears. She checked the time on her phone, the one Fisher hadn’t dialed, or texted, or anything. But then what did she expect? After what she’d said, Fisher would never forgive her, no less want her back. She let out a sigh. “We’d better be going if I’m going to make my plane.”
Andrew stood and pulled her along with him. “Before you go, promise me something.”
“What?”
“Promise me you’ll think about talking to Fisher.”
When she started to protest, he put his finger on her lips. “If the woman I love was in love with me, I’d move heaven and earth to be with her. Even if that meant getting down on my hands and knees, begging forgiveness. Pride doesn’t keep you warm at night. Believe me. Unrequited love is a cold and humbling experience.”
“What if she loves you and you just don’t know it? If you never asked her—”
“No. She’s in love with someone else, and he gives her something I never could. He’s a better man for her than I am.”
“I hope she appreciates you.”
“She does.” He tugged on her hands, pulling her off the edge of his desk. “Come on. If I don’t get you to the airport on time, I might not get rid of you before you start folding my underwear.”
***
If Fisher didn’t have to go to work, he wouldn’t, but then he wasn’t sure what the hell he’d do. There were only so many beer cozies a guy could knit. He figured more than a six-pack for each brother and cousin seemed a bit obsessive.
He’d made Karma a Dr. Who scarf long enough to make a noose. He’d thought about leaving it like that to freak out his brothers, but they seemed freaked out enough, and to be honest, he was afraid they wouldn’t see it as a joke.
He’d cleaned everything before he’d gone off the veritable deep end. Once his workweek was done, he’d hit the bar harder than he’d ever remembered. The ensuing hangover and spin around the toilet bowl of depression seemed to bring out his closet slob—one he never knew existed. But looking around the house, he couldn’t summon the energy to care.
Fisher sent Trapper a new pair of Lucchese boots to make up for the pair he’d ruined. Damn, he’d never live that one down. He was still routinely reminded of the pair he’d ruined on his twenty-first birthday, the first and last time he’d been drunk—until his crash and burn with Jessica.
Shit. Just thinking of her had the power to knock the wind out of him, send him reeling, and leave him feeling sick.
She’d be back in town today. It was a good thing he was on call for the next three days—he’d traded with one of his partners just to keep from making a fool of himself and begging Jess to take him back. He figured he’d embarrassed himself enough over the last week to last a lifetime—which would probably be about the same amount of time it would take him to get over her.
He’d taken to sitting in her chair, staring into space, and knitting. He picked up the ruined scarf he’d started for Jessica and pulled the needles out, ripping out the stitches the way she’d ripped out his heart. Maybe he’d salvage the yarn and make his mother a hat or something.
His front door slammed open and Gramps walked in. Damn, that would teach him to bolt the door—not that a lock would ever stop the old man. It might have given Fisher a minute to straighten up. But then, looking around, he figured he’d need the entire hospital’s cleaning staff in order to get it done in under an hour.
His eyes met with Gramps, and Fisher realized he was not only sitting with a pile of purple yarn on his lap, but his eyes were embarrassingly close to leaking.
He picked up the yarn he’d strangled more than once and tossed it in a bag, but not before the old man got a load of what he was doing.
“I lost a bet.”
“You lost a hell of a lot more than a bet, boy.” He looked around and let out a whistle. “So this is what rock bottom looks like.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
Gramps stepped over a pile of newspaper, planted his cane in front of him, and leaned over Fisher. “So, what the hell are you gonna do to get the girl back?”
“Nothing. She said I was temporary, Gramps. What the hell do you say to that?”
“Bullshit, poppycock, and hell no, just for starters.”
“Bullshit didn’t go over well when I tried it earlier.”
“So she knocked you down. Are you gonna sit here and wallow in self-pity, or are you going after what you want?”
Wallowing was about all he was capable of—well, that and losing himself in his job. He had to get through two more hours of wallowing though, and it didn’t look as if Gramps was going anywhere in a hurry.
When Fisher didn’t answer, Gramps hit him with his cane and pushed a pile of crap off the couch. “Do you think I got your grandmother on the first try, boy? I chased that woman for a year and a half, before I was even able to steal a kiss. Hell, I asked her to marry me a good half-dozen times before she said yes. What do you think would have happened had I acted like you?”
Fisher hoped that was a rhetorical question. He couldn’t fathom what Gramps’s life would have been like without Gran. Just like he couldn’t fathom what his life would be like without Jess.
“Jessie James is one hell of a woman. Maybe you’re not man enough to handle her.”
Fisher’d had enough. He stood and got in his grandfather’s face. “I had no problem handling Jessica. I handled her just fine. I just couldn’t keep her from running away.”
“Then what the hell are you doing sitting here? You need to get off your ass and chase her. I happen to know her plane lands in less than an hour.”
Fisher took a step back and scrubbed his hands over his face. “I’m on call for the next three days.”
Gramps shook his head, suddenly looking every day of his eighty-two years. “I never thought I’d see the day when I’d be disappointed in you, Fisher. I thought I’d raised you better than to hide behind your stethoscope. Maybe you don’t deserve Jessie after all.”
Shit. Fisher didn’t think he could fall any farther. Seeing the look on Gramps’s face gave him the extra push he’d needed to go all the way.
Fisher’s pager rang. He pulled it off his belt and checked the message. “I have an emergency. I’ll call you when I get off, okay?”
Gramps didn’t answer, he didn’t follow, and Fisher didn’t have time to deal with him or anything else right now. “I gotta go, Gramps. Lock up on the way out.”
Jessie sat at Starbucks and studied the training manual. The new black polo and black pants she wore matched her mood. She’d been home since Friday and hadn’t seen Fisher yet. At least not in the flesh—he was her constant companion in every other way though. She couldn’t help but think of him day and night, no matter how much she tried not to. Fisher showed up in her dreams, her thoughts, hell, even in her conversations.
Laura, or Lady Gaga, as Jessie chose to think of her, made herself at home at the table and set down two lemonade iced teas. “So, how’s Fisher?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since I got back from LA.”
Laura pulled off her cap. “I didn’t mean ‘how is he?’” She waggled her eyebrows. “I meant, how is he… in the sack? It’s been the topic of the month behind the bar.”
Jessie schooled her face and blinked back the tears gathering in her eyes. She hoped to God she was PMSing, because her eyes were leaking almost constantly lately.
The manager, Steph, chose that moment to step up to the table. “You don’t have to answer that, Jessie. Not that we’re not interested, mind you, but even we have a bit of decorum, though it seems to be lost on Laura.” Steph gave Laura a pointed look. “Trudi is going to take you through the opening procedures tomorrow, since you’ll be taking over for her when she goes on vacation next month.”
“Okay.”
Luckily, Laura only had a ten-minute break. She put her cap and apron back on and went to work the drive-thru. Jessie listened with half an ear to the headset. “Welcome to Starbucks. My name is Laura. What can I get you?”
“We called in an order for the hospital.”
“Oh, right. Do you have Fisher’s cup with you?”
“I sure do.”
“Drive on up.”
Jessie stood to stretch and get a look at the girl bringing Fisher his coffee. Laura caught her. She switched the headset to private. “Blonde hair, blue eyes, big boobs—your usual nightmare.”
Jessie shrugged. “She’s getting coffee for everyone.”
“Yeah, but she’s the only one who keeps Fisher’s cups in her car.”
Jessie took off her hat. “I’m going on my half.” She walked outside and sat on the patio, sipping her coffee and checking her messages. Andrew had called three times. He was turning into a regular mother hen.
“So, have you seen him?”
“No, but I saw the blonde sent to fetch his coffee.”
“Ooh, is that jealousy I hear?”
“Lay off, Andrew.”
“So… I see you’re still in the same lovely mood you were in when you left.”
“What do you expect?”
“I expected you to be sick of yourself by now. Have you done any writing?”
“No, I’m still stuck. But I heard from our agent. She loves the partial of the book, and she’s just waiting for me to finish it. She still hasn’t heard from ESPN though.”
“That doesn’t mean anything, Jessie. These things take time.”
“I know. It’s just… Andrew, I don’t know if I can stay here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Fisher is everywhere. I go for a run, and even though I haven’t seen him, it’s like he’s running beside me. I go home, and he’s there. I come to work at Starbucks, and everyone wants to know how he is in bed. I’m thinking of quitting and just going home, Andrew. I can crash with my parents until I find out what’s happening with ESPN.” She looked around to make sure no one was listening. “I just don’t want to go through training here at ’Bucks and then not be able to handle seeing Fisher every morning. I don’t want to leave them high and dry either.”
“Jessie, take a breath. Don’t do anything right now. Give it a week or two.”
“I don’t think I can. My eyes have been leaking almost nonstop. God, I can’t control it. What if I see him and fall apart?”
“Well, it hasn’t scared him off yet, has it?”
“That’s just it. It has. When I left, I did a hell of a job. He knew when I was coming home, and he hasn’t even tried to contact me. It’s over.”
“I thought that was what you wanted, sugar.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought too.”
***
Karma let herself into Fisher’s house and then stepped out to make sure she was in the right one. Fisher’s home rivaled her place when it came to a mess.
When she walked into the kitchen, she figured he’d just stolen the biggest pig award from her. She swatted flies that had begun to colonize on the food left on the dishes in the sink. “God, Fisher. When you fall, you do it with gusto, don’tcha?”
She never thought she’d see the day that she’d clean up after one of her big brothers, but it was clear Fisher needed help—it was time for a cleaning intervention.
She pulled her phone out and called in reinforcements. “Hunter? We have a situation. You need to get your butt down to Fisher’s. It looks like a herd of moose took up residence in here—and they weren’t housebroken.”
“If this is a joke Karma, it’s not funny.”
“It’s not a joke, and I’m not laughing. Gramps called and told me Fisher’s lost it. I came down to check it out for myself. You’re not gonna believe it.”
“Where’s Fisher?”
“At the hospital. Gramps said he’s on call for three days. This can’t wait though. Things are already getting ripe, if you know what I’m sayin’.”
She heard Hunter groan.
“I’ll do my best to straighten things up, but it’s going to take a cleaning crew. So I thought I’d leave the details to you and Trapper.”
“Karma. This is Fisher we’re talking about. How bad can it be?”
“You’re just gonna have to see it for yourself. But take my word for it, you need to call Trapper for this one, Bro. Oh, and bring your own gloves. I’m using Fisher’s while I go around collecting his dirty underwear. You might want to bring a camera, so you can blackmail him with the evidence of his insanity later.”
“You’re gonna share?”
She left the gross kitchen for the boys—she figured it was bad enough she had to clean her own. In this case, she’d gladly share the wealth—she didn’t want to be stingy.
Karma walked around the house picking up clothes. Fisher had obviously slept on the couch, or at least that’s where he’d dropped his drawers. “Eww.” It grossed her out even with gloves on. There was just something unnatural about picking up your brother’s skivvies. She figured she’d do a few loads of wash before she had to leave for work. After all, being a caring sister only went so far.
She opened the washer and found it full of red clothes. She rolled her eyes. In her world, there were colors, and there were whites. In Fisher’s, he had whites, lights, reds, and darks. “Well, Fisher, welcome to Karma’s world.” He was just gonna have to deal.
Karma tossed the reds in the drier and his whites in the washer, turned it on hot, and ignoring the measuring cup, threw in some detergent. God, was he anal or what? Who measured laundry detergent?
Karma let the wash run, while she stripped his bed. She knew he’d appreciate having fresh sheets to fall into when he got off call. She was tempted to short-sheet the bed, but congratulated herself on withstanding temptation. After all, she was trying to get off his shit list, not climb a few rungs.
After only a few mishaps, she’d folded his laundry and stacked it on his dresser. She was just glad she wasn’t going to be there when Fisher and the guys got in. Suzie Homemaker she wasn’t.
***
Fisher spent the better part of eight hours in surgery, playing operation with the victim of a donorcycle crash. He had no problem with motorcycles—hell, he had one of his own, but he did have a problem with people too stupid to wear helmets and protective gear. In an accident between a tractor trailer and a motorcycle, the bike always lost.
He showered, dressed, and left the hospital determined to go home and get some sleep. Unfortunately, his car seemed to have a mind of its own. Before he even realized it, he was parked down the street from Jessie’s house. He sat there thinking about his grandfather’s accusation that he was hiding behind his stethoscope. He’d been dead-on, as usual. When he’d almost lost his patient on the table, he decided to stop wasting time. He was going to get Jessica back. He didn’t want to live without her.
When she stepped out the front door and ran for the sidewalk, it was as if the sun came out and shone down on her. He smiled for the first time since she’d left, and it matched the smile on her face. But instead of turning toward him, she ran straight. Fuck, she ran straight into the open arms of Andrew. He picked Jessica up, spun her around, and set her down. Andrew threw his arm around her shoulder, her arm settled naturally around Andrew’s waist, and together they walked into the house. She was happy, and Fisher was wondering if he’d live. He was crushed worse than that biker had been. Jessica James was his Mack Truck.
Fisher’s hand squeezed the steering wheel so tight that he was surprised he hadn’t dented it. The pain took his breath. It was as if he’d been stabbed through the heart.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, but eventually one of the neighbors gave him a dirty look. He threw the Beemer in gear and headed home. Alone.
***
“Andrew!” Jessie ran out the door and threw her arms around him. “What the heck are you doing here?” The idiot had called her from the street. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“I didn’t want you to try to talk me out of it. It’s just one less fight we’re going to have.”
“We never fight. Why are we going to fight?”
“Because you’re not gonna like what I have to say.”
Jessie took a deep breath and shrugged her shoulders, before wrapping her arm around Andrew’s waist. “Well, if we’re gonna have a knockdown, drag-out fight, we better get the tequila out.” They walked through the door, and Jessie headed straight to the kitchen. She reached for the tequila and two shot glasses, while Andrew grabbed the limes, oranges, and lemons and cut them into regimented wedges. “I went to the grocery store and bought the fruit all by myself. Fisher would have been so proud to see me in the produce aisle. He thought I didn’t know where it was.”
“Salt or sugar?”
She’d never seen Andrew so damn serious. He had actually lined up the wedges. “You tell me.”
“Sugar.”
She blew out a relieved breath, licked the web of flesh between her thumb and pointer finger, and sugared it. “I’m ready.”
Andrew handed her a shot. “You’re a hell of a writer, damned hot too. I was reading a chapter at Wendy’s, and the sex was so hot I couldn’t leave until the tent in my pants deflated. I was late for a meeting.”
She licked her hand, tossed back the shot, and grabbed a piece of orange. “Heaven.”
Andrew followed her, preferring the lime over the orange—there was no accounting for taste.
“Next?” Damn, one shot, and she was already feeling the buzz. She tried to remember the last time she’d eaten.
“Sugar.” Andrew poured, which was a good thing, because she’d been all thumbs lately. “Adrian, our agent, really loved the partial you sent her.”
“I already knew that.”
“Yeah, but I’m trying to get you tipsy, so go ahead and drink anyway.”
“Okay.” She licked the sugar off her hand and poured the shot down her throat, chasing it with a sweet orange. “I love getting my five servings of fruits and veggies this way.”
“Sugar.”
“Andrew, I haven’t been eating much lately. I’m definitely getting tipsy.”
“Good. A couple more shots, and we’ll switch to salt.”
The two of them licked and slurped their way through the tequila and an entire orange.
“Salt.”
“Damn, I wuth afraid of that.” She salted her hand and waited for the ax to drop.
Andrew poured the shots. “I don’t think you’re writing fiction, Jessie.”
“What?”
“Take the shot, and I’ll explain.”
Jessie had to concentrate on her aim. Damn, she was getting skunked. The salt wasn’t nearly as satisfying as the sugar had been. She drank then sucked on a lemon. Her lips were numb. “Okay, shoot.”
“I don’t think you were writing fiction.”
“You jusht said that.” Andrew looked fuzzy. “Of course, I was writing fiction.”
“No, sugar.”
“Great. We’re back to oranges.”
Andrew shook his head and came around beside her. The next thing she knew, he was walking her down the hall. “Sugar, you didn’t write Jenny and Seth’s story. You wrote Jessie and Fisher’s story.” He kissed her cheek in front of her bedroom door. “You need to get some sleep. I have a stop to make. I’ll be back in a flash though.”
“Hmm? I’m not tired, I’m drunk.”
“Yes, you are.” He helped her to bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. “I’ll see you later.”
“Promise?” It was as if the curtain fell. The film was cut. Her world went black.
***
Fisher peeled away from Jessie’s—make that Andrew’s—house and sped home feeling like the world’s only living heart donor. He was mentally and physically exhausted and wasn’t looking forward to another night of trying and failing to sleep on the couch. He needed to just grow a pair of balls and change the sheets on his bed. He’d been avoiding it, because the sheets had still held Jessica’s scent, and in his sick mind, he seemed to equate smelling her to having her. After the loving reunion he’d just witnessed, he didn’t think even his subconscious mind would buy it now.
Fisher walked into his house and did a double take. Maybe he had really lost his mind. When he’d left the house a few days ago, he wondered if he’d return to find it condemned by the health department, and now it looked as if a cleaning tornado had come through the place.
Maybe the entire last week had just been one long, nasty dream, and any moment now, he’d awaken next to Jessica and make love to her.
He scratched his head, kicked his shoes off, and saw his knitting with Karma’s Dr. Who scarf sticking out. Shit. That reality meant he was definitely living this nightmare.
Fisher pulled his shirttails out of his pants and unbuttoned it on the way down the hall toward the bedroom. He closed the blackout shades, tossed off the rest of his clothes, and turned down the somehow freshly made bed. At this point, he couldn’t care less who’d cleaned his house and changed his sheets; he was just happy he wouldn’t have to prove he had the balls to do it himself. He lay down, grabbed Jessie’s pillow, held it to his chest, and did his best to pretend it was her.