Just Physical (31 page)

Jill tried to forget her stupid brother, the MS, and every other negative thing in her life while she cracked the eggs. There would be time to deal with all the emotions brewing inside of her later. For now, she just wanted to have a relaxing Sunday morning, like any normal person.

She hadn't bothered getting dressed, and the front of her bathrobe slid apart while she stirred the pancake batter.

Crash sat with both elbows leaned on the breakfast bar, her head in her hands. Her gaze followed Jill around the room as if she were watching her accomplish some fascinating feat and didn't want to miss even a second.

Those glances were a balm for Jill's bruised ego. She soaked up Crash's admiration and grinned to herself as she poured a bit of the batter into the hot frying pan. Maybe they could go back to bed after breakfast, and Crash could cash in that rain check.

They bantered back and forth while they ate, stealing bites of food from each other's plates. It reminded Jill of having breakfast with a lover—someone she loved and was in a relationship with—and she allowed herself to indulge in the illusion for a few minutes.

Then, just as she swiped the last piece of pancake through the puddle of maple syrup on her plate, she remembered that she had yet to inject herself. With everything that had been going on that morning she had completely forgotten, something that had never happened before.

For a moment, she was tempted to skip the injection just this once. Was it so wrong to want to feel like a normal person for one morning, someone who didn't have to start her day by sticking herself with a needle? The painful injections didn't even help with her everyday symptoms; they were meant to delay the next relapse.

She wanted to stay in the kitchen, do the dishes with Crash, and playfully flick sudsy water on each other. But finally reason won out. If she started skipping injections, the “just this once” would quickly become a habit.
The way it did with Crash.
She couldn't allow that. Suppressing a sigh, she returned to the reality of her life and got to her feet. “Would you excuse me for a minute? I'd like to get dressed.”

Crash looked disappointed—maybe because she had entertained fantasies of going back to bed with Jill too—but she adjusted quickly. “Sure. I'll get started on the dishes.”

Without another word, Jill walked toward the stairs.

“Jill?” Crash's voice reached her just as she'd set her foot onto the bottom stair.

She turned back toward the kitchen, expecting Crash to ask where she kept the dish towels or something like that. “Yes?”

“Are you okay?”

God, when had Crash gotten so good at reading her moods? Jill forced an upbeat tone to her voice as she answered, “I'm great. Be right back.” The climb up the stairs, away from Crash, felt endless, this time not because of exhaustion, but because she knew what awaited her upstairs.

She hated arm days with a passion. The needle needed to be inserted into the back of one arm, which was hard to reach without help. It was also impossible to pinch a bit of skin since she needed her only available hand for handling the syringe. Over the course of the last almost two years, she had developed a routine. She prepared the injection, slid out of her bathrobe, and swabbed the back of her arm with an alcohol pad before straddling the chair she kept in her bedroom for just this purpose. Now came her little trick. She used the back of the chair to push the skin of her arm to the side so she could reach it better.

The angle didn't make it easy. It took her three tries before the needle finally pierced her skin, making her wince. Slowly, she pushed the plunger.

By the time Crash had cleared away the dishes and washed the frying pan, Jill was still upstairs. Crash stepped into the hall and listened, but everything was quiet in the bedroom.

Tramp bustled over. She scratched behind his ears and sent him a questioning look. “You wouldn't have any idea what's up with your mom, would you?”

Jill had appeared cheerful and relaxed during breakfast, but Crash sensed that a lot had been going on beneath the surface. Had she finally managed to get through to Jill and make her realize it wasn't necessary to hold her at arm's length? Or was Jill still thinking about the confrontation with her brother or her embarrassment about having fallen asleep?

Whatever it was, Crash didn't want to wait to find out. Tramp followed her as she climbed the stairs.

The bedroom door was ajar, and Crash peeked inside.

The first thing she saw was Jill's naked back. Crash's mouth went dry, and she marveled at how just seeing a bit of bare skin and that sexy flare of Jill's hips could have that effect on her.

Then she realized Jill wasn't sitting on that chair to put her socks on or something like that. She had her left arm up on the back of the chair and was using her right hand to insert a needle into her skin.

Crash stood frozen, any amorous thoughts gone. Instead, other emotions rushed through her, just as strong as that wave of desire—compassion, shock, even anger. How unfair that Jill had to go through this every day, probably for the rest of her life. Crash had known that Jill wasn't as healthy as she looked; she had witnessed symptoms such as stumbling, fighting with buttons, and being exhausted, but seeing her inject herself drove Jill's sickness home like nothing else before. In her line of work, Crash saw a lot of injuries, some of them horrific sights such as fractures with bones sticking through the skin, but nothing had ever shaken her the way seeing the needle pierce Jill's skin had.

Speechless and knowing that nothing she said or did could help Jill, she was just about to turn away and tiptoe back downstairs, when Tramp pushed past her and nudged the door open completely. He let out a low whine.

“What are you doing up here, boy? You're supposed to—” Jill turned. Her gaze met Crash's. Instantly, she jerked the needle out of her arm and dropped it to the dresser. Her cheeks flushed, but Crash couldn't tell if it stemmed from embarrassment or anger or a mix of both.

They stared at each other for several seconds, neither of them saying a word.

Then Jill reached for the abandoned bathrobe and slipped it on as if feeling exposed. Her movements were abrupt and jerky. “Could you give me a minute?” Her tone was rough and distant, so unlike the laughing, joking woman who had eaten pancakes with Crash just a few minutes ago.

“Uh, of course.” Crash whirled around and quickly retreated. She paced the kitchen while she waited for Jill to come downstairs. Every second seemed to stretch and last an eternity. Would it be better if she just left, sparing Jill the need to face her?
Don't you mean sparing yourself the need to face her?

In the end, she decided to stay where she was. It was how she handled tough situations at work—facing her fears instead of running away.

When Jill finally entered the kitchen, the bathrobe was nowhere to be seen. She was instead wearing a pair of jeans and a thin sweatshirt. Its long sleeves covered her arms, hiding any injection marks she might have.

“I'm sorry,” Crash said immediately. “I didn't mean to intrude on your privacy. I know you don't—”

Jill lifted one hand. “It's okay.” She sounded shaken, so her words weren't convincing. “Maybe it's for the best. I think we both needed the reminder.”

She didn't elaborate; she didn't need to. Crash knew exactly what she meant: the reminder of why it wasn't a good idea to get involved with Jill. But as much of a shock as it had been to see Jill inject herself, it only made Crash more determined to be there for her.

Silence spread through the kitchen, interrupted only by the overly loud dripping of the tap.

Jill walked over, turned it off, and then leaned against the sink, keeping the breakfast bar between them as if she needed it as a barrier.

Crash took a step toward her. “Jill…”

“Please don't say anything. It is what it is.”

“Which is…?” Crash wasn't even sure if Jill was talking about the MS or about them. “Talk to me, Jill. Please.”

Jill white-knuckled the edge of the breakfast bar. “I can't.”

“Please.”

“You don't understand how it feels to…” She looked away.

Crash leaned against the breakfast bar from the other side and covered Jill's hand with her own. “I want to. I really want to understand you.”

For a moment, Jill looked as if she wanted to spill out everything that bothered or hurt her, but then she once again held herself back. “Maybe it would be for the best if you left.”

To hell with the rules. She wouldn't leave Jill. Not like this. “Why do you keep pushing me away?”

“It's for your own good.”

A bit of anger sparked alive in Crash. “For my own good? Don't I get a say in deciding what is or isn't good for me?”

Jill wildly shook her head. “You're not thinking straight.”

Crash gave her a half-smile. “Thinking straight is overrated.”

“Dammit, Crash, that's not funny. We're talking about your future! Why would you want to live with a disease that isn't yours?”

“I don't want to, but—”

“Then don't. You've got a choice. I don't.”

“Well, apparently, I don't have a choice either because you won't give me one,” Crash muttered.

They stared at each other across the breakfast bar. The air seemed to crackle with emotions.

Crash waited for Jill to say something, to give in, just a little, but she just stood there, now both fists curled around the edge of the breakfast bar.

When Crash's frustration reached a boiling point, she threw her hands up. “I might as well talk to a brick wall. I'm going.” Digging in her pocket for the car keys, she whirled and marched to the door. Despite her anger, she hoped with all her might that Jill would stop her before she reached it.

But everything behind her remained silent.

The door thudded closed between them.

Outside, Crash stopped and leaned against the door for a moment. Her body was so tense that the shaking of her muscles made the wood vibrate. With a grunt, she pushed away from the door and jogged to her car.

When the door closed behind Crash, Jill ran after her, into the hall. With her hand on the door knob, she paused. Everything in her urged her to call Crash back.
Yeah, but what then?

She could pull Crash back inside and take her upstairs to have makeup sex. They could go on another date—and this time even openly call it that. They might even whisper words of love and be happy together, at least for a while. But what if she had a relapse? What if her MS turned into a more aggressive form?

Would Crash walk away, as she had done now? She didn't want to think so, but she wasn't sure. Not that she could blame Crash. If she stayed, at least initially, that might be even worse. Crash would ignore her own needs to be there for her until she was as close to an emotional meltdown as Jill felt right now. Eventually, she would start resenting Jill for everything she was missing out on. That would slowly but surely strangle the life out of their relationship and smother the affection, desire, and maybe even love that Crash felt for her.

No, it was better not to let it come to that. It hurt enough as it was, so she didn't even want to image how much it would hurt a few years down the road, when she'd opened up to Crash completely. Slowly, she turned away from the door.

Her gaze fell onto Crash's blazer, which she had eagerly stripped off her and thrown onto the side table the night before. When she picked it up, Crash's perfume clung to the article of clothing. Groaning, Jill buried her face in the blazer's collar and breathed in Crash's scent.

She sank to the floor, her back against the door. With her arms wrapped around her legs, she sat there and pressed her face against her knees in a desperate attempt to hold back tears.

The ringing of the phone made her jerk.

Crash!
Her heart started thumping against her ribs. She wanted to talk to her so badly, but what would she say? Trembling, she reached for the phone on the side table.