Only when its us, p.14
Only When It's Us, page 14
Provoking him to a make-out session is how you tell him that? Great logic, Sutter. Crystal clear communication, right there.
“Oh, shut it,” I mumble to myself.
I can’t stop remembering those kisses. Every one of them is branded on my lips. Kissing him and being kissed, the confident way he tilted my head and cradled the nape of my neck in his rough, warm hand. I can still feel his tongue dancing with mine. Patient, steady strokes that indicate the tall, green-eyed, asshole lumberjack might have a trick or five up his pine-scented flannel sleeve when it comes to the sexy times.
Not that we’re going there. Nope. People who drive each other to insanity, who torture, and prank, and provoke each other, don’t want sexy times together. They don’t want to kiss until they pass out from lack of oxygen. They don’t want to wrap themselves around each other until every incinerating square inch of their skin burns and smokes.
What the hell are Ryder and I playing at?
One minute I’m riding on his back at his chivalrous insistence, the next, he’s giving me hell for my cheeseburger weak spot. One moment we’re kissing, his hands gripping my waist with a desperation I have never felt in a man, the next, we’re staring at each other like the other person is about to pull the cord to the trapdoor beneath our feet.
Is he fucking with me? Is this just some ongoing horrible tease that I stupidly started in retaliation for the hearing aid sneak?
I drop off my gear, change clothes, and nab a protein bar. Leaving, I shut the door with unnecessary force and almost snap the key locking it.
Chill out, Sutter.
Shaking my head, I try to shake these pointless thoughts. I’m going to see my mom—I want to be focused on her, not my trivial college drama. Rain begins to drop from darkening clouds overhead as I walk to the hospital. I tip my face to the sky, begging it to wash my brain clean. To erase all this worry and nonsense over a fucking man.
I tamp down a fresh swell of confusing tears and palm my eyes despite rain painting my cheeks. I don’t even know what I am feeling, just that I’m feeling plenty. Whatever emotion it is, it’s a hot, stinging ache that radiates down my throat to my stomach. It reminds me of the time I gulped scalding tea, and rather than spit it out like a sane human being, I sealed my lips and swallowed. Except this burn doesn’t dissipate. It’s a living thing, a scorching, consuming fire that I have no clue how to quell.
My walk to the hospital doesn’t take long, which is good since the drizzle accelerates to pouring rain. I squeak down the hall, water squelching out of my tennis shoes, as I round quietly into Mama’s room. I don’t want to wake her if she’s sleeping.
Her eyes dart across the book she has propped on a pillow in her lap.
“My Ántonia again?”
She glances up at the sound of my voice and does a double take. “Willa!” Taking in my appearance, her eyes widen. “What the hell happened to you?”
After a long, slow breath to try to lock down my emotions, I walk over to her bed. “I got caught in the rain on my way over.”
Mama gives me one of her piercing once-overs. “I can tell. But that’s not what I meant. You look upset, Willa Rose. What’s going on?”
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
“You remember that guy from class I told you about? My project partner, who pulled the stealth tactics with his hearing aid?”
“The asshole lumberjack.” She shifts in her bed. “Yes. What did he do to you? Do I have to go beat some Brawny boy’s butt for making my Willa cry?”
It makes me laugh. “No. We just…things are getting confusing, more intense. The stakes keep rising, and now I’m not even sure what I’m betting on or what I’m trying to win.”
She tips her head. “Oh?”
“I’m frustrated. The whole situation’s annoyingly distracting. I don’t want to be spending all this time spinning my tires about it. Men are a waste of time anyway, as we’ve both agreed.”
Mama cocks an eyebrow. “I don’t exactly remember saying that. I’ve taught you that many men are disappointments. But, also that some are good, rare gems in their species. The hard—and for me, deterring—part is that it’s difficult to know which are which at first, sometimes for a long while.” Her eyes search mine. “You want to talk about it?”
“Nah.” I wave my hand and swallow the lump of frustrated tears thickening my throat. “Like I said, I don’t want to think about him anymore. How are you feeling today, Mama?”
Her smile is a little forced, like mine. “Oh. So-so.”
An unsettlingly evasive answer from a woman with aggressive cancer.
Fear pinches my stomach and twists it into a knot. “What’s Dr. B have to say about things these days?”
Mama’s pause is too long. My hands fist my wet shorts, creating a fresh puddle of water on the tiles at my feet. “Mama?”
Her sigh is heavy. It’s the one that typically precedes her telling me something I won’t like. “Willa, there’s something I haven’t told you that I should have. Come here.” She pats the mattress.
I glance up and down my drenched body. “I shouldn’t. I’m soaking wet.”
“Nonsense.” Mama waves her hand. “I have a shower coming up here soon anyway. That’ll warm me and they’ll change my bed then. Now, come here, Willa Rose.”
Obediently, I scoot onto the mattress and tuck myself against Mama.
She glances over at me. “Ready?”
“Yes, Mama. Please just tell me.”
“Okay, so it’s about Dr. B.”
I pick my head up. “What about him?”
Mama bites her lip.
What does she have to be coy about? “Are you two…” I wiggle my eyebrows. “You know?”
Mama laughs, and it’s a laugh I want to remember. It doesn’t sound like a sick laugh. It sounds like her old laugh, clear and bell-like. Her smile is wide as her head tips back and she laughs.
My laugh is quiet at first. But soon it’s not. It’s loud, and not unlike hers, and pretty soon we’re laughing so hard, we’re crying and Mama’s turning, hiding her head in the pillow as it becomes a wracking cough. Her cough settles before we earn a nurse’s attention, and Mama nestles back in her pillow, wiping her eyes.
“Oh, Willa, you have a way of saying things. Phew.” Mama sighs happily. “Now, where was I? Oh, right. No, we are not…you know.”
I wipe my eyes, too, and return my head to her shoulder. “Okay, so what is it, then?”
“You can’t tell anyone, Willa, because it’s skirting a breach of ethics. It could cost Alex everything if word gets out.”
“What?”
Mama’s eyes search mine as her voice lowers. “Dr. B—Alex, rather—we go way back. We served together on a few deployments, then we bumped into each other again at a veterans function five years ago. When we realized we were both living in Los Angeles, we agreed to stay in touch, just as friends, mind you. You ever see or speak to his wife and you’ll understand why.”
I frown. “Mama, you’re a total catch, inside and out. You’re still smokin’.”
Mama chuckles and gently cups my cheek. “Thank you, honey. I think I had a few pretty nice decades, but no matter. The point is the medical ethics board would argue Alex shouldn’t be my doctor since we have history. They’d say it would be easy for him to let emotion get in the way of his care—”
“That’s the last thing I want to hear about your cancer doctor, Mama, is that he’s not fit to take care of you.” Has his judgment been clouded? “Why are…what were you thinking?” I hiss.
Mama sighs. “He is completely capable of compartmentalizing. We don’t know each other well. He’s very sensible, very honest with me. I’m telling you it would look bad, not that it is. Trust me, I’m doing the right thing, letting him be my care provider. Alex is the best at this, Willa. I know it’s a little murky, but he needed to do this for me, and I wasn’t going to say no, given his credentials.”
“Why did he need to do this?”
Mama’s eyes leave mine as her hand fiddles with the blanket draped over her bony knees. “I saved his life on our last tour together, before he was given a medical discharge.”
My mouth drops. “You saved his life? How?”
Mama bites her full bottom lip, the original to the replica she gave me. “I don’t like to think about it often. It was an awful day.”
I squeeze her hand. “I don’t want to pressure you.” Mama doesn’t talk much about her deployments, but I know it’s taken years of therapy to help her cope with many PTSD triggers.
“It’s okay, Willa. I just need a minute.” Dropping her head back on her pillow, Mama stares up at the ceiling. “I think you know enough about the military by now to understand that a combat medic, being part of a medevac team, is a dangerous, nerve-wracking job. You fly into conflict zones, perform life-saving medical care on the ground. Bullets whirring past you, explosions, screams. If you make it back out, you’re in a chopper with critically traumatized bodies, possibly fatal injuries, working with what you have until you’re back on base with everything you need.
“I don’t want to get into the specifics of the mission and how it went south. It’s enough for you to know that it did. The point is, Alex and I were there, a pair who worked well in the field. We were both exceptionally cool-headed, excellent compartmentalizers, we worked fast together and had this odd ability to communicate without words. Alex was holding…” Her eyes squeeze shut. “Alex was trying to save a soldier’s life when he took a bullet to the leg. It shattered his femur, severing his femoral artery, not that I knew specifically at the time. I saw him take the hit and then I saw lots of blood.”
I suck in a breath. Mama’s one of those medical types who loved raising her daughter to understand her body. We spent nights nerding out over anatomy books with me inside her arms, where she taught me the Latin names for my bones and body parts. It led to my first social faux pas when I lifted my shirt in kindergarten, pointed to my belly button and told the class, It’s my umbilicus!
All that to say, I know the significance of what she’s saying. I know that an artery carries blood from your heart to the rest of your body, except when it’s severed—then, it’s pumping your life source right out of your body, faster as your panic increases and your heart rate accelerates. It’s a fatal injury and a swift death unless drastic measures are taken.
“Shit, Mama.”
Mama nods. “Everyone was already crawling back to the chopper. Alex was the last man out there, holding Williams, who was gone by that point. The captain was screaming at me to get in, but I couldn’t leave Alex, so I ran out, ripped off the bottom of my shirt, and tied the world’s fastest tourniquet around his upper thigh, then dragged his ass back to the chopper.”
She slides her gown off her shoulder, pointing to the nasty scar on her shoulder blade. A wound that got infected, she told me years ago, when she decided I was old enough to know the truth. “Took a bullet that lodged nicely in my scapular, but I got us to safety, otherwise unscathed.”
Stars dance around the edges of my vision, alerting me to the fact that I’ve been holding my breath, listening to this story. My exhale is one big gust of air. “What happened?”
Mama shrugs. “We both received treatment. Alex went in for surgery. I did too, but not urgently. My wound got infected, didn’t respond well enough initially to antibiotics, but eventually, it came around. I got off easy, but Alex lost his leg from the mid-thigh down. He was lucky he survived at all.”
A shaky exhale leaves me as fresh tears prick my eyes. I know my mama’s brave. I’ve always been proud to say on Veterans Day that my mother served her country in places so many people are afraid to go. But this is a new depth of understanding. It’s the most specific she’s ever been with me.
“Mama.” I palm away my tears. “I don’t think I tell you enough how much I admire you. You’re badass. And brave.”
Mama wraps her hand around mine and squeezes. “You’ve told me plenty, Willa. I know you’re proud of me, and I know being a military brat for a single mom wasn’t easy, but you were always such a trooper. New schools, new homes, new neighbors. You always bounced back from another change with that wide smile and your wild hair, walking up to kids’ doors with a soccer ball on your hip, banging on the windows, inviting them to come play.”
Her free hand tucks a loose curl behind my ear as she smiles at me. “Soccer’s always helped you cope. It’s what connected you to people, it’s how you grew into yourself, your confidence and grace. It’s such a vital part of you.”
It’s true. Soccer isn’t just something I’m good at. It’s as integral to my existence as my most basic needs.
I shift on the bed, sitting straighter so that we’re eye to eye. “Why are you telling me this now, about you and Dr. B?”
Mama’s eyes leave mine and dance away to the window, watching rain pelt the glass and trickle out of view. “Money, Willa. Money’s not flowing. You and I were always modest spenders. We’re not materialistic people and we’re simple women. We don’t have huge wardrobes or bags full of makeup, but still. Breast cancer was expensive, leukemia is even more so. Alex has worked tirelessly with my insurance to cover everything they could, but, he’s also been encouraging me to consider getting out of the hospital where it will be significantly less costly. Taking my care home.”
I reel. I haven’t been to our apartment in two months. Mama hasn’t either. The place needs a deep clean. She’ll need round-the-clock care. “But how would that work?”
Mama sighs. “Well, I should begin by telling you I’ve sublet the apartment, Willa. What valuables you didn’t take to your and Rooney’s place are in storage, and mine are, too.”
“What? Why?”
Finally, she turns away from the window and meets my eyes again. “Because there was no point in paying for a place neither of us was living in.”
I swallow my shock and try to focus on the pressing matter. “So where will you go?”
Mama squeezes my hand reassuringly. “Alex and his wife, Elin, want me to stay with them. They have a big family, and all but two of their kids are out of the house. They’re near-empty nesters with more space than they know what to do with.
“Alex said since his injury, he’s wished he could thank me in a way that feels adequate, in gratitude for his life. I don’t see him as owing me anything—I just did my job—but this is what he wants to give me, and, Willa, I’m inclined to let him.”
It bristles. It scares me. Mama and I have only ever lived alone, the two of us, except for seasons when Grandma Rose came to stay. When I was little, I had babysitters and Grandma Rose, and eventually went to daycare, but our life, our routines, our home—it was only ever ours. Now, whenever I want to see my mom I have to go to some stranger’s house? Will she have privacy? Will I be able to stay with her over the summer?
Mama’s hand patting mine breaks my thoughts. “My dear verbal processor.”
“I said that out loud,” I say on a resigned sigh.
She chuckles. “I knew it would unnerve you, but I hoped that explaining our history would help you feel more comfortable with it. That’s mostly why I told you. Because I figured you’d see that I’ve earned this. I did right by a friend and saved his life. Now he’s trying to make mine a little more comfortable.
“I will have privacy. They have a few first-floor bedrooms, one of which has a separate entrance. You won’t be under any obligation to see anyone but me, and I’ll have a nurse tending to my needs. Alex and Elin will live their lives independently from me, though Alex will, of course, still oversee my care.”
A heavy sigh leaves me as I stare down at my hands. “Sorry. I feel selfish, my first thoughts being what they were.”
“Hardly, Willa.” Mama grasps my cheeks gently and turns my face her way. “It’s different. It’s not easy. But I also know you understand, and you’ll support whatever I need to be comfortable and have peace about our finances.”
I nod, my face still resting in her hand. “I do. I want whatever makes you happy and feeling good, Mama.”
Her eyes twinkle as she smiles at me. “I know, honey. You don’t even have to tell me. I knew you’d understand.” Slowly, she pulls me to her, until my head rests against her chest. Her fingers drift through my hair, another vain attempt to tame its wildness.
“I love you, Mama,” I whisper. I count her heartbeats. I feel gratitude for each of them.
She presses her lips to my hair, a soft kiss that’s as comforting as her strong hugs. “I love you, too, my Willa Rose.”
14
Ryder
Playlist: “Snaggletooth,” Vance Joy
Dad’s office is messy. I’m pretty sure it’s because the man doesn’t have so much as a stray necktie or fountain pen in our house. Mom requires a home as neat and minimalist as the one she lived in until she met Dad and then moved to the States.
“Ryder!” Dad stands with arms outstretched. I set our food down and let him hug me, hugging him back. Dad’s American, but he’s absorbed a lot of Swedish parenting philosophies from Mom, who’s a nurturing force of nature. He took long paternity leave when each of us was born, got down on his hands and knees to play with us whenever he could. Our family’s affectionate and masculinity doesn’t require gruff back slaps or avoiding kisses. Point in case, Dad presses a kiss to my hair, then squeezes my shoulder. He’s as tall as me, so we’re eye to eye when he speaks. It makes reading his lips easy, but I also wore the hearing aid, hoping it could handle the noise levels of the hospital.
As he rounds his desk, he gives me a once-over. “You look good, minus the Bigfoot beard.”
I roll my eyes. Dad’s never had a beard. He hates the feel of them and spent long enough in the military to get used to the daily discipline of a full shave.
“You taking care?” he asks. Sitting, he pulls the sandwich bag his way and opens it up.
