A Really Bad Idea Page 23

  Salvatore is at the door when I get to my building.

  “How is your mother?” he asks as I walk in.

  “Stable but good.” I reach inside my bag and take out a box of Good & Plenty.

  He accepts it with a grin. “Going through a crazy time as you are, and you still think of an old man. Thank you for this.”

  “You’re welcome. How’s Carol?”

  “Good. Everyone is good. We’re keeping your mother in our prayers. Dr. Gallagher said he’s performing the surgery. You’re lucky to be friends with a renowned surgeon.”

  I peculiarly look at him. “When did you talk to Christian?”

  Salvatore hit the call button. “When he arrived tonight. He said he has your spare key. I assumed that was okay.” His face twists into a grimace as he realizes he might not have been allowed to do that.

  I don’t let him fret one second. “That’s perfect. Thank you, Sal.”

  The elevator doors open, and I step inside, wondering why Christian is at my apartment when he’s supposed to be studying for my mother’s surgery.

  When I get to my floor, I walk to my door with trepidation, hoping he doesn’t have terrible news and wants to tell me in person. The plethora of things he could say run through my mind so fast that I chase them away just as quick. No reason to worry about things that might be said when I’ll know in a moment.

  I open the front door and look inside. The dining room light is on. Christian is sitting at the head of the table with books opened, a legal pad in front of him, and a laptop screen illuminated with a video of a heart surgery playing.

  He hits the space bar to stop the video and rises from the table when he sees me.

  I drop my bag on the counter and walk over to him. He’s still wearing his slacks, but his button-down and tie are on the chair, leaving him in a white undershirt. His hair is loose and wavy from his hands running through it. With the haphazard way he’s dressed and undressed, he looks disarming.

  “What are you doing?” I ask with my attention fixed on the table where he’s been working.

  “Looking at your mom’s angiogram to make sure I have the best pathway to her valve. I hope it’s okay I’m here.”

  There’s a mug of coffee on the table and a half-eaten carton of grapes next to his files, which are laid out in neat piles on the table. “Looks like you’ve found your new study spot.”

  He laughs at the absurdity. “Yeah. I didn’t know if you were staying at the hospital all night, but I figured I’d work here in case you came back and needed me.”

  He runs a hand along the back of his head and bashfully looks up at me. I smash my lips together and try to hide my smile.

  My shoulders rise with the rush of endearment I feel toward this man. “You knew I needed you.”

  Those reserved eyes turn hopeful. “Was I right?”

  “You’re the only person I want to be with right now.”

  As soon as the words are out of my mouth, Christian has his arms around me, cocooning me in. His hand grips the back of my hair, holding it tight, as I bury myself into his chest and find comfort in the warmth of his embrace. Gripping the back of his shirt, I pull him in until it feels like we are one.

  I never want to let go.

  Outside my window, the park is pitch-black. The streetlamps from the pathways shine, creating a swivel pattern. It looks like shooting stars coasting through the darkness. I make a silent wish on nonexistent stars.

  “I went home, and it didn’t feel right,” he breathes into the top of my head. “I had no idea if I was making the right decision, coming here, but I’m glad I did.”

  I look up into his magnetic eyes as they glaze over. “How did I get so lucky to have a best friend like you?”

  His chest puffs out, the heat of his body radiating into mine. His mouth parts to speak, but he doesn’t say a word. His pupils dilate, and his hands firmly lay against the silk of my blouse. There’s an intensity in his stare. It’s severe and powerful, and it makes me nod my head ever so slightly, letting him know I’m feeling it, too.

  He lowers his hands to the hem of my shirt and lifts it up over my shoulders.

  I raise the white cotton tee off his chest and lace my fingers in the splattering of hair, feeling the pounding of his heart pumping against my palms. His fingers rise to my neck and gently press, and my pulse throbs against his skin.

  His tongue skims his bottom lip just before he leans down and kisses me.

  This kiss is different from all the kisses we’ve shared before. It’s not in desperation or even expectation. It’s not done in urgency or playfulness.

  This kiss is sensual.

  It’s sweet.

  It’s full of longing and desire.

  It’s a kiss of two people whose hearts are beating together as one, in sync, their rhythm never to be changed again.

  Our hands move with the delicate touch of a dance. I sway mine low to undress him; his glide down the sides of my hips as he leaves me bare.

  We make our way to the sofa where I guide him down and straddle him, making no attempt to move this forward.

  His eyes, looking up into mine, are soulful and searching. His hands grip my head, delicate yet possessive. With an enchanting gaze, he looks like he has so many things to say, yet he says nothing at all.

  I give him my words in silence.

  Are we just friends? I ask him with the way my hand caresses his face.

  He answers by leaning his head into my palm, breathing ever so softly despite his parted lips and longing pants. I try to inhale his words, but they’re so loud that I can’t understand them.

  With a kiss to his cheek, I tell him I love his compassion.

  With a kiss to his eyes, I tell him I love his ability to see the good.

  With a kiss to his hand, I tell him I love his ability to heal.

  With a kiss to his mouth, I tell him I love everything about him.

  All the words I’m too afraid to say scream from my soul as I raise my hips and fall onto him.

  He inhales sharply, and his arms grip me, holding me, pulling me in. He kisses me with every slow grind of my body against his.

  Our foreheads fall against each other.

  We inhale the pleasure.

  We exhale the pain.

  We make love with our eyes open.

  We make love with our bodies tight.

  We make love, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to do anything but make love to this man for the rest of my life.

  Christian stayed the night.

  He held me, as he knew I needed, and left with the sunrise to get to the hospital. I stopped by the office and worked for a few hours before Thomas told me to head out early and see my mom.

  He didn’t have to ask twice.

  When I get to the hospital, she’s lying in bed with a thick tube inserted into her back, draining fluid from her lung into a box-like machine on the floor.

  “Exciting day?” I ask, looking at the machine that is already measuring a liter of fluid.

  “That was worse than childbirth, and I went through seventeen hours of labor with you,” she states, her usual glow gone. Whatever is going on inside her body is taking a toll on the outside.

  “Remind me to get an epidural when I give birth.”

  “You planning on having children anytime soon?” she says with a cocked brow.

  “Let’s get you through this surgery first.” I place my bag on the window ledge and take a seat.

  “Okay,” she says with a full breath. That is a major improvement from how she’s been sounding the last few days. “Get me my lip gloss.”

  “No one here cares what you look like,” I state.

  “I do. My hair is disgusting, and I stink because I haven’t taken a shower in two days. Now, get my bag and make me look like a human being.”

  I laugh as I take her makeup bag out of the drawer and sit beside her on the bed. I glide her lip gloss on her mouth, and she rolls her lips. I’ve never don
e my mother’s makeup before. It almost feels like I’m dressing up a little girl on her way to a tea party. Next, I add mascara and hold up the mirror.

  “I need blush,” she says, pulling a brush and palette from the bag and adding it herself, ducking her head so that she can see herself in the tiny blush mirror.

  She hands me Velcro rollers, and I laugh at the absurdity as I place them on the top of her head.

  With two pink rollers sticking to the top of her head, she asks me, “Did you do your father’s laundry?”

  “Yes. I saw him in the lobby, buying the paper, so he said he’s going to my house to shower and change.”

  “The man needs a decent night’s sleep,” she huffs, the makeup in her hands falling onto the bed.

  I pick it up and place it in the makeup bag.

  “Look at my chin. Do I have any whiskers?”

  “Seriously?” I ask but don’t bother arguing.

  Everyone needs control, and I suppose this is her way of controlling the situation. I take a pair of tweezers from the bag, and she lifts her chin up.

  “Dad won’t relax until you’re home. Say what you want, but you wouldn’t be able to relax here if he wasn’t by your side.”

  She sighs as I pluck a hair from her chin. “I know. I’m a lucky woman to call George Duvane my husband. Do you know he sang to me last night?”

  I smile big as I put the tweezers away. “‘Sing Sweet Nightingale,’ I’m sure.”

  “When you were little, you loved to watch Cinderella. When he heard that song, he whistled and hasn’t stopped for thirty years.”

  My dad has always been romantic. I think that’s where I get my wistfulness from.

  “We’re his Meadowlark and Nightingale.”

  “And, to think, the man’s afraid of birds,” she jokes, and I let out a cackle-like laugh.

  Christian knocks on the door and walks in. My breath hitches at the sight of him. His hands stand out more than they ever have before, as do his lips—his full mouth that can be tender and protective. I never paid so much attention to those features before, and now, I can’t help but warm at the sight. Whatever transpired between us last night has changed me.

  Natasha is at his side. It is so bizarre that the woman who was sleeping with him and then tried to bully me into not sleeping with him is now the one tending to my mother.

  Christian might be standing next to a beautiful woman he once dated while he’s a few feet away from the woman he stayed with last night, but his focus is on the only woman who matters. With a gentle smile, he gives her a comforting gaze that has me swooning in the corner.

  Mom takes the rollers out of her hair and ruffles the top to make it fall with a little volume. She looks as beautiful as ever.

  I stand up and move to the window, so Christian can have my mom’s undivided attention.

  “We booked the operating room for tomorrow morning,” he says.

  “I don’t know if I should be relieved or frightened.” Mom blinks a few times, looking like she wants to cry.

  “Relieved,” Christian assures her. “I have to talk to you first about the procedure I want to do.” He pulls a chair up to her bad and takes a seat, so his eyes are level with hers. He grabs her hand, as he knows she likes, and speaks directly to her in a comforting tone, “The valve that is leaking left a hole too large for a standard mitral valve replacement. I want to replace your mitral valve with an aortic valve. You have severe regurgitation, which means the blood is back-flowing into the chamber of the heart. I’m going to enter through your groin, and I’m going to use a mechanical aortic valve.”

  “That sounds very cutting edge,” she says warily.

  “You’d be one of the first in the world to have it done,” he states. “It’s your best chance.”

  Mom looks my way. “What do you think?”

  I think it’s a fascinating breakthrough procedure, but I wish it were being performed on anyone but my mom. It’s new, and the research is limited. Still, it’s her only hope.

  “If there’s anyone with the finesse and knowledge to perform the procedure, it’s Christian,” I say as I grip my fingers.

  “Is it risky?” She turns back to him.

  When he nods his head, I want to cry for my mom, who is doing a great job of keeping her strong attitude up.

  “It is. It’s also the only solution, and the longer we wait, your heart can become damaged beyond repair or so weakened that surgery will no longer be an option.” With a tender yet serious tone, he tells her, “I’m ready. You’re strong enough to withstand the surgery. Tomorrow we’ll fix you.”

  My mother turns back to me with a shaky breath. “Don’t tell your father until he’s back. Let him shower in peace. But I would like you to give your brother a call.”

  I nod my head at her request.

  I’m not moving right away, so she looks at me for a while and then adds, “I need a minute alone with Christian.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I look at the two of them and sense there is something of a personal nature she’d like to discuss.

  I head down to the lobby to call Brian. A mixture of relief that she is finally having her surgery is laced with anxiety. It’s good my mom gave me a task because it keeps me focused.

  I’m standing under the blue-and-white sign for St. Xavier Hospital, pulling up my brother’s office number, when a burly man with a beard and close-cropped hair walks through the revolving door, getting my attention.

  He struts through the lobby and toward the elevator. I call his name before he gets inside.

  “Brock.”

  He turns at the sound and looks my way. I haven’t seen my ex-husband in a year, and surprisingly, this is the second time in two weeks. To say I’m confused is an understatement.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask when he approaches.

  He scratches his beard, obviously not prepared to see me standing here, in the lobby. “I stopped at the apartment, and Sal told me I’d find you here. He said your mom is sick.”

  “And you thought you’d see her?”

  “I wanted to see you.”

  With my arms crossed in front of my body, I lean my weight on my hip and give him my best scowl. “How did you think that would play out?”

  “I didn’t think. I just came here. I needed to see you.”

  It has been a long time since Brock has needed anything from me other than to sign papers that would free him of our marriage. Actually, that’s a lie. He’s wanted to talk at various moments—usually when he’s drunk after a big loss. I only picked up once and regretted it. His neediness had me wanting to run to his side and save him from himself. After that, I let the calls go to voice mail. He never said much. Just spewed out a memory of ours—some good, some bad—and then hung up. He hasn’t called in about six months.

  “This is so like you!” I practically spit at him. “You do whatever comes to mind because it’s what Brock wants to do. You want to jet to Maine so that you can have lobster for dinner with your teammate, so you book a plane and tell your wife after you’ve landed. See a nice watch on some guy’s wrist, and you decide, Hell, I’ll drop fifty grand, depleting our checking account. A hot blonde wants to hop in bed with you, you say, Screw my vows. I want to get laid tonight.”

  Judging by the glares of the people around me and the sight of a mother covering her young child’s ears, I know my voice is a little too loud.

  I rein it in and resort to a whisper-yell, “Now, I’ll add, I feel like seeing Meadow today. Who cares that she’s stressed with her mom dying in a hospital bed? I’m just gonna waltz up there and disrupt her family in their very emotional moment.”

  “I’m an asshole,” he states matter-of-factly.

  “Yeah,” I agree with him.

  “An insensitive asshole.”

  I look to the ceiling and let out an exasperated sigh. “It doesn’t help when you take the onus of the situation.”

  “You look good.” He’s playing with the ring on his hand.
It’s a thick gold ring his grandfather gave him when he made the pros.

  “You already told me that when you saw me at Starbucks.” I look to the side in annoyance.

  “I was surprised to see you there.”

  “Seriously?” My tone is accusatory. “It’s the one across from my office.”

  “I wasn’t thinking,” he says, and I open my mouth, ready to verbally pounce on how much he never thinks, but he holds his hands up in defense. “I know; I know. I never think.”

  “Stop agreeing with me. It’s making it hard for me to maintain this bitchy persona.”

  He laughs to himself and smiles that roguish grin. I used to love that grin.

  “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since that day. Seeing you shook me up. Got me remembering how good my life was.”

  I take a step back and look away, up into the air, as I widen my eyes to temper the tingling building behind the sockets, just ready to burst with the onslaught of emotions that this week has brought on and which I’ve done a great job of suppressing. “We are not doing this—”

  “I miss our life.”

  And there goes the teary-eyed feeling, and in its place is rage. I’ve been suppressing a lot of that, too.

  I take a fighting stance, my teeth grinding to the point that I’m going to need orthodontics, and viciously point at him, my cheeks reddening and my brows curving in annoyance. “You’re too late for that. Jesus, Brock, do you have any idea what you saying that does to me? It makes me happy and sad at the same time. Happy because I’ve dreamed about the day you’d regret losing me. And sad because it makes me remember how it felt when you didn’t regret hurting me. You can’t do this to a person. It’s rude and selfish, and I could never, ever take you back.”

  “I’m not here to get you back. I know I fucked it up,” he says calmly.

  I throw my hands up and drop them in surrender. “Then, why are you here?”

  “I need your advice.” He fidgets with his ring again. His eyes look at the floor before rising, and he says in the most unsure way, “I’m going to be a dad.”

  My hands fly to my mouth in a praying position.

  “A woman I met on the road. From Boston. She’s pregnant. I don’t know what to do.”