Vital Sign (8 page)

Just a little north
, toward the point, is a lighthouse that appears to be the real deal. I hadn’t really seen it until just now. The oversight is just another indicator that I’m missing so much of what’s right in front of me because I’m too busy licking my wounds. I look out across the horizon, scanning the water as I go. I squint, trying to see as far as I can. It’s so clear today. I must be able to see for miles from here. The water is calm with the exception of normal whitecaps. “You have quite the view, Zander,” I say without turning around.

“I agree.” His voice is smooth and deep
, rousing me from my staring. I turn to face him. His dark blue eyes go from me to the water then back to me.

I’m unsure, and I cou
ld be hallucinating due to hypothermia or something, but I think he may have been referring to me. I blush, feeling embarrassed and out of place and fucking guilty, like I’m betraying Jake in some adulterous way. I know he’s gone from this earth, but he’s not gone from my heart. He never will be. It makes me pissed off at myself and at Zander for causing these feelings.
Irrationality
should be my middle name.

I’m not here for this. I’m not here to drool over some stranger. I’m here to see that he
’s alive and that my husband’s heart has gone to a good person who deserved it. I didn’t come to Tybee Island to ogle this god of a man in front of me. I didn’t come here to make subliminal connections with just a couple of intuitive stares at one another. I didn’t come here to feel this. I didn’t come here to
feel anything
.

“I should probably get dry and head back to my motel room,” I say
, holding up my blue surfboard keychain like it’s proof that I have a room to go to.

“Right.” Zander turns and slides the big glass door open and I follow him in.

The place is a goddamned testament to all things summer paradise. If I thought that the outside was impressive, the inside is extraordinary.

Everything
is decorated in a light, airy color palette. White furniture, glass tables, hardwood floors the color of white oak. There’s a fireplace built into the far wall. I can’t imagine him ever using a fireplace except for the coldest days of the year, but it damn sure looks nice. I can picture him sitting in front of that fireplace, watching the flames lick at the chimney above it. The walls on either side of the mantle have small built in alcoves that he has put various decorative things in.

Or maybe his wife did.

It occurs to me that this man may be married and it makes me bristle. If he’s married, then why does his wife get to keep her husband? Why does her husband get to avoid death but mine couldn’t? It isn’t fair. It isn’t right.

And
just that fast, Bitter Sadie has joined the party.

“Bet your wife is glad that you were able to g
et my husband’s heart,” I say plainly, doing nothing to hide the resentment I feel.

Zander is stand
ing in front of some wicker trunk near the sliding glass door. He opens it and pulls out a folded white beach towel, then holds it out to me, expressionless.

I walk towards him and reach forward
, gripping the plush towel in my hand, but he won’t let go. He tugs it forward and I step close enough to smell him. Masculine and musky, laced with testosterone, sweat, and the vague scent of soap. My heart stills in my chest and I bite the inside of my lip hard, resisting the urge to lean in and press the tip of my nose to his neck just to take in his heavenly scent.

“Not married,” he says
, still showing no clear expression, but his eyes are his tell. They burn white hot and send a message loud and clear. He’s not taken and there’s an invitation in his smoldering gaze.

I tug lightly
on the towel in his hand but he holds it captive for a moment longer before releasing it. Some part of me wishes he’d kept holding it in his vice-like grip. Some part of me wishes he’d hold
me
in his vice-like grip. I imagine I wouldn’t feel so lost in Zander’s arms. I imagine I’d feel at home. It’s a dangerous train of thought that I am quick to shove aside. I can’t go there. I won’t go there.

Jake. What about my Jake?

I utter his name inwardly and just that quick, the melancholy that has become my “normal” rushes back in. I can’t risk forgetting Jake. Nothing could ever be worth that, not ever the man in front of me who I’m certain, if given the chance, would wipe away my past. The prospect of that is a hybrid of heaven and hell. I can’t let go. I can’t forget. If I forget my past, I’ll forget Jake right along with it, and that’s a fear of the greatest proportion. I go to sleep every night fearing that by morning, I will somehow have lost another little bit of my love. It’s the most unrelenting sort of agony. It’s a battle against time and space. It’s a battle between the past and the future and I’m wedged between the two without an obvious escape. Even if I were given an escape, I can’t be entirely sure that I would take it. I think I’d let the battle swallow me up as a casualty; the part of me that silently hopes fears that I’d let it.

I d
on’t know what to say about his little show of intrusive dominance with the towel. What an ass? I can’t even convince myself of that line of bullshit. He isn’t an ass. I liked it and I daresay that I would feebly cave and let him do it again if he tried. I hate me.

I unfold the towel and wrap it around myself
, but Zander doesn’t bother with a towel for himself. It makes me wonder if he takes care of his health. If he’s a transplant patient, he had better take good care of himself. Especially for the simple fact that he was lucky enough to get such a good heart. And I mean that both ways.

“Aren’t you going to dry off?”

“Come on. I have dry clothes you can borrow.” Zander turns away without answering my question.

What is this guy’s issue?
So intense. Of course, he’s likely wondering the same damn thing about me. I can’t blame him either. I’m as screwed up and nuckin’ futs as they come.

I take a quick glance around
, noting that there are two exits that I can see clearly from where I stand. There’s the one we came in from, and another set of sliding glass doors on the rear wall leading out to the other side of the balcony. Jake wouldn’t be too happy with me willingly following a stranger into his home. I know better. I know that something awful could happen, but somehow, I also know that it won’t. Somehow, the only awful thing I can imagine happening to me at Zander’s hands is being swept up into this man that beckons my mind and body so easily. I’d be swept up into him and I’d forget Jake. That’s something I could never forgive myself or Zander for. Resentment would rear its devious head like it always does where exes are concerned and implosion would be all but unavoidable. I can see it now.

Zander leads me into a room that is lit only by the sunlight pouring in through a wide set of three windows. They
’re lined together, creating a panoramic view of the beach facing toward the lighthouse.

Opening the top drawer of a dresser
, he produces a white t-shirt and a pair of black drawstring shorts. “Sorry, I don’t keep women’s clothes around,” he says dryly, handing me the outfit. “You can get dressed in here. I’ll change in the bathroom.” He motions towards another door right off the room and grabs dry clothes for himself, then leaves.

As soon as he shuts the door behind him
, I peel off the soaked dress. My panties and bra are soaked, of course, and after a moment of hesitation, I peel those off too. I set the wet clothes in the towel on the floor, glancing back and forth to the door that Zander retreated behind. Once I have the soft cotton t-shirt on, I quickly pull on the shorts, which are about ten times too big. I tie the drawstring in a big bow to keep them in place on my hips.

I can hear water running in the bathro
om. I assume he’s washing up, so I grab up the wet pile on the floor and leave the room, heading back out into Zander’s impressive living room.

I’m not sure what the hell I’m suppose
d to do with my dress, panties, and bra. He can’t see me like this. I’m so exposed. My nipples are peaked and pressing against the fabric of the t-shirt he gave me. I have no underwear on. This is just a bit much for me coupled with the odd, nearly inescapable attraction I feel toward him. I’ve got to go. I spot my flip flops by the sliding glass door and waste no time getting out of here.

I need a shower, some panties
, and a fucking bra—like yesterday! A familiar voice on the line would help too. I don’t even know if I can see him again in the morning. I may not stay around here for a few extra days after all. The brash thought makes a tingle of achiness spring up through my heart. I don’t want to leave him. I don’t want to leave that heart residing in his chest. Not again. Not ever. Maybe there is a happy medium here. Maybe holding close to Zander means holding close to Jake too.

April 22, 2013

I had wiped down the counters in my kitchen about five times today. I’d already worked out. I stretched lazily and alternated between speed walking and light jogging on my treadmill for my normal three miles. I breezed through the squats, pushups, sit-ups, lunges, and planks. After I showered, I tried reading one of the books that Mom mailed me, but it wasn’t holding my interest the least little bit. She’d said I’d like it and was constantly asking when I would finally use the e-reader she’d bought for me. I never answered her about the e-reader, I just sent her a text saying, “thank you for the book” and went on ignoring the family back in Atlanta that I had made a point to forget. I wasn’t a part of their lives much anymore, only here and there where it was required, but other than that, I was left alone here in Tybee just like I wanted.

Dad still meddles and so do the poor staff that he employs to do various things pertaining to me. The poor son
s ‘o bitches. They come around on occasion and I send them right back to wherever the fuck they came from. Sure, I’ve had to sacrifice a golf club or two across the windshield of a black Lincoln, but it makes no difference to me. I never use my clubs anyway and Grandpa’s clubs are safely tucked away in the corner of my coat closet. A busted windshield usually communicates my point pretty thoroughly and they scramble for their cell phones to call my dad. Of course.

I want privacy. Is it
that fucking difficult to understand that a man in my position would do just about anything to get some privacy? Some peace? Some distance from prying eyes and reporters that egg me on in hopes that I’ll pop off and lash out?

Nothing I’
ve done today had seemed to occupy my mind long enough to forget the widow.

Sadie Parker
.    

I turn
ed her name over in my fucked up head a few times, playing with the way it sounded. “Sadie,” I whispered, staring out at the Atlantic through my sliding glass doors, my vegetable juice in hand. I peered down into the glass, wishing that I had some vodka to toss into the concoction. Wishful thinking from a heart patient. I left the hospital with a new lifestyle that had been force fed to me.

No drinking
, no smoking, no partying, no bar brawls, no scandals, no fucking up nosey ass reporters, no blowing up on the green when you completely shank a drive. No golf, for that matter
.

Fuck if they didn’t try to put my ass on a leash. I made it out of Atlanta just as quick as I could. I refuse
d to be kept like some caged animal. If I had to surrender my lifestyle, I knew I had to do it on my own terms. I wouldn’t be forced into shit. Not by them. Not by
him
.

Now—two years after the transplant t
hat saved my miserable ass—I had been mentally preparing myself for the meeting that I agreed to. I didn’t know why the hell I agreed to it. I didn’t have to. That was made clear to me by the organ donation agency’s counselor. She’d told me in very clear, nearly irritating terms, that both parties had to be in agreement and then they would begin correspondence for us, mediating along the way. I saw it as being nosey along the way and told them I was fine communicating directly with Mrs. Parker as long as she was fine with communicating directly with me. I guess she was because two days later I had received an email from
[email protected]
.

I’d opened the email expecting something…that would be difficult to read.
Mrs. Perkins had given me just the basics as far as information was concerned.

Sadie Parker. 26 years old
.
Atlanta
.

I expected
a sad story and to walk away feeling worse for the fact that someone else had died and I had them to thank for getting a new heart and subsequently another shot at life. I expected a heartbreaking story from a young widow. That’s not what I got, though. I opened an email that was frank and to the point and lacking any clear emotion. She seemed almost bitchy through her typed message.

Mr. McBride,

I’m glad you agreed to speak directly. Thank you for allowing Mrs. Perkins to pass along your email address. I’m sure that she explained that I wanted to begin talking with you on some platform in the hopes that we could maybe meet someday. Soon. I’m wanting to meet a few of my husband’s organ recipients. I hope that you’re interested, but if you aren’t, please don’t feel obligated. I don’t have to meet you. Please consider and let me know what you’d prefer. Or don’t. Either way.

-Sadie Parker

I had read her email at least a dozen times
, thinking that some part of me should feel bad. But something about this woman—the way she spoke so freely, so plainly—made me curious about her and glad that I had someone to talk to. Did all widows talk that way? Surely there’s more to her than what she gave away in the email. Who is Sadie Parker,
[email protected]
?

The emails that we exchanged fed my curiosity. Something in those emails sounded so familiar. She reminded me of myself
, in a way, so it was no surprise when I sat by my laptop refreshing my inbox every five minutes hoping for another email from her. Something about this woman had me wanting to get in my Jeep and take my ass back home to Atlanta. When I had mentioned the heart patient thing in my email, it ran her off. I could tell. I could almost feel her withdraw. She probably hates me for it. I hate me for it too. My parents should have left well enough alone, but instead I got a new heart and a mountain of guilt to go along with it. Sadie seemed to help though. She took my mind off of it and for a shadow of a second I even thought I felt relief that I’m still alive.

Never in my wildest fucking dreams would I have expected that I’d end up meeting her sooner rather than later.

I’d stood there in front of my sliding glass doors with my vegetable juice in my hand, groaning to myself about just how bad I wished that vegetable juice could be a Bloody Mary when I saw something moving along the beach south of where my house stands. I hurried to the counter and grabbed my binoculars, popping the lens caps off as I strode back to the glass door. I always made sure to keep them handy. They proved to be useful pretty regularly.

Sliding the door open, I stepped out and brought the binoculars up to my eyes. I peered out
, wondering who the fuck was intruding on my personal little slice of the world now.

“
Hmph.” I furrowed my brows, curious why some woman in a white dress was edging up to the water. Her long brown hair fluttered wildly in the wind. “What the fuck are you doing, lady?” I whispered to myself.

I adjusted the magnification on the binoculars and brought them back up to my eyes. She was knee deep in the water and seemed like she was in a goddamn trance.
I thought maybe she was in trouble, or stupid, or insane, or drunk; maybe all of the above. I’d be the one to know.

I groaned throatily then hurried inside
, slamming the binoculars back onto my counter and slipping on my flip flops. It took all I had in me not to let irritation send me spiraling out of control. All I knew was that some crazy person was intruding on my personal space and it was more than likely a trap of some sort. Some photographer was probably lying in wait, ready to capture me playing lifeguard.

I could see the fucking tabloid headline in my head
—
Alexander McBride accosts beachgoer
—as I skipped in a hurry down my wide stairs.

I never expected this. I never expected to find her.

Her.

I damn near lose
my grip on her when I work at fishing her up out of the water. She flings her thin limbs around and fights against me. She’s stronger than I’d imagined; I swear, the spirit of a warrior radiates from her small frame. I tote her feathery light, soaked body to the sand and set her to her feet. She teeters and I get a look at her while I hold her in place and then I feel like
I’m
the one teetering.

Damn.

Fuck
, she’s breathtaking. Her thin white dress clings to her skin and the mortification she’s wearing only makes her wide chocolaty eyes wider, her plump lips parting, forming an O just before she tries explaining her little excursion into the Atlantic. She searches for words and I find it difficult to disguise what I’m thinking about. I grab hold of the irritation I feel and hope that it does the trick to cover me as she tries to search for words. Her brown hair is dark with seawater and sticking to her everywhere, looking wild like bare vines crawling in every direction up a trellis. Her hair is long and out of nowhere, a highly unnerving image of me tangling my fist into it and tugging it backward until that neck of hers is helplessly exposed to me cascades into my head. Parts of me that have been long forgotten begin to stir.

It’s
been too long. Far too long. I need the company of a woman soon. Maybe this woman’s company.

She stutters
out some poorly formed explanation and before I know it, she’s turned away from me and is headed in the opposite direction. Her ass is perfectly formed into a tight, round little shelf. It’s not too big. It’s not too small. My hands ache to pull her back to me so that I can squeeze her in my hands. My reverie pauses just long enough for me to see that she’s leaving. She’s walking away.

I can’t just let her go. I need
her name. My head screams out for me to stop her. To get her name. To invite her to my house. To drag her to my house if I have to. I have to spend some time with this woman. On some animalistic level, my body picked its mate and I feel compelled to talk to her. I panic at the thought of her walking away. I don’t know why. That’s not like me. I like my seclusion. I’ve given up a lot to keep my privacy. It’s better this way. It’s easier this way. No temptations.

But s
he—she’s the first person who I find myself wanting to be closer to. It pisses me off. Who the hell does she think she is, coming to my stretch of beach and screwing with my head like this? I’ve had everything in order, under control, just long enough for me to forget that at one point it wasn’t. I was spinning, tumbling, spiraling dangerously out of control and it seemed that fate or God or whoever stepped in and smacked me in the face with a cruel wake up call. I can’t go back. I have to keep things in order. It’s how I’ve needed it to be. It’s the only way for me to survive.
But
...the way her eyes flick from side to side, the way her body seems to cower right in front of me, everything about her calls to me. She summons me. Her presence speaks to me without saying a single word. Something inside feels like I more than want the beautiful woman in front of me with haunted brown eyes, I need her. My body wants her. The twitch in my cock tells me that loud and clear. It’s the little pang of sadness filling my chest that tells me that I need her. Maybe she needs me too.

She stops and turns
to face me again when I call out for her.

Thank
God
.

“What’s your name
?” I fire off like I’m barking an order. It’s a dick way to sound, but I feel a little urgent. I feel…
off
.

I watch
her mouth move, answering my question. I asked her name but I don’t hear a thing with my eyes so focused on that mouth of hers. I glance up from her mouth to her eyes and see her questioning look. She’s asked my name too.

“Zander,”
I toss out my name and put my hand out towards her. She slips her hand into mine and I realize that she’s freezing. Her perfect lips tremble and my damn my stupid body wants nothing more than to hold her close, to cover those lips with mine until they tremble with need instead of cold.

I let my eyes begin to skate ove
r her body. My heart nearly grinds to a halt in my chest when I see a fucking wedding ring on her thin finger. Normally, back in Atlanta, before everything changed, I wouldn’t have cared. I’d ignore the ring on a woman’s finger if I wanted her bad enough. I’d fuck her stupid then discard her so she could return to her husband, who likely would never know the difference. Or sometimes they would. I didn’t give a damn either way. But seeing a ring on her—
her
—feels different. Anger flashes up inside of me. It licks at my self control and I have to remind myself that I’m a prick who has never cared about that sort of shit.

Such a fucking prick, Zander
, I think, reminding myself of who I really am. I’m a jerk with a history that’s splattered with evidence of just how much of an asshole I can be. The goddamn internet does a fine job of reminding me when I google myself. I shouldn’t do that. It only awakens the rage that I’ve stifled for two years.

Figures
she’s married. But where the hell is her husband? Why isn’t that dick out here with his wife? He just lets her roam into frigid water?! She could have drowned… If I hadn’t seen her… Maybe he’s the reason she looks this way…

I shut down my thoughts before I turn into a mutant man in the shade of green.
I take in a deep breath, having a hard time hiding the irritation I feel. My body has already begun to awaken in her presence, seemingly choosing her; choosing this thin, nervous, untamed looking woman in front of me.