Chapter 5
five
. . .
Jameson
I ndi is shivering badly as I place her on the couch. I'm reluctant to let her go, but I have no reason to keep her in my arms, a place I was always sure she belonged. She's so exhausted she can barely keep her eyes open, those same green eyes that used to skewer me from across the room or across the lunch area. She was always angry at me for both good and bad reasons. There is no reasonable explanation for why she's now curled up and trembling on my couch.
I hurry down the hallway to grab a warm blanket. I race back, worried that when I return the couch will be empty because I imagined the whole thing. I definitely dreamt about Indiana Nash more than once, but this wasn't a dream.
Her long auburn hair is tied back in a loose ponytail, her smooth cheeks are smudged with dirt, there are dark rings under her eyes, and she is as fucking gorgeous as ever. I tuck the blanket in around her.
She starts to push my hand away. "What are you doing?" she asks groggily. "Are you seriously trying to make a move on me?"
I laugh and step back. "Trust me, darlin', you'd know if I was making a move on you. I'm tucking a blanket around you, so you don't break those pretty white teeth with all that shivering."
She opens her eyes and stares up at me for a second. "Oh, sorry, old habits … and all that."
I finish tucking in the blanket. "I never made a move on you."
"Oh really? Uh, the sixth-grade dance? You tried to kiss me."
"I did? Nah, I think you imagined it—wishful thinking … and all that."
A laugh spurts from her mouth, then she winces and curls over with her arm pressed against her stomach.
I straighten. "What's wrong?"
She shakes her head. "It's nothing."
"Bullshit." I snatch the blanket back. She reaches for it and winces again. "See, that's not nothing. In fact, I've made those same faces before when I broke my ribs."
I reach for the end of her shirt. She pushes my hand away, and we are in a silly hand-slapping comic routine until she finally relents. She rests back with a moan. "I'm too tired and hungry to care anymore. Look all you want."
I push up the edge of her T-shirt. A black and blue bruise starts at the bottom of her bra and ends just past her rib cage. "Holy shit." Instantly, my fists curl and my jaw tightens. "Who did this?" As I'm asking it, I'm imagining pounding the guy's face to pulp.
"It's nothing. It was an accident. I fell against a kitchen counter." She pulls the shirt out of my grasp and yanks it down. "I would kill for a glass of water and?—"
"And food?"
"Oh my god, do you have some?"
"No, we don't keep food in the house," I say as I head to the kitchen.
"You always were such a sarcastic asshole," she says weakly.
"I wear the label with pride," I call back to her. We haven't seen each other in over a decade, but even with Indi obviously far from her usual self, we drop right back to our high school years where we knew each other well, and I lived with the constant source of heartbreak knowing the one person who meant anything to me in the world, hated me. I dealt with the constant heartache with anger, sarcasm and turning off my feelings. Being lovesick couldn't break me if I just didn't feel. And then the final straw happened. It assured me that Indiana would hate me forever.
I fill a glass with cold water and slap together a cheese sandwich. I step out of the kitchen. Indiana pushes to sitting. She took out the ponytail, and her long, dark hair hangs around her shoulders. Some of the color has returned to her cheeks. I have to catch my breath before I can move toward the living room.
I find myself averting my eyes, not making eye contact. It took me a long time to get over Indi leaving town. I can't believe how easily all those feelings are rolling back. It feels like she never left, and she still hates me—just like before.
"Oh my gosh, mayo and cheese." She leans forward fast and winces at the pain in her side. It doesn't stop her from snatching the sandwich off the plate. First, she gulps half the glass of water. I settle myself into the chair next to the couch and will myself to look at her. Her eyes close with relief as she takes a bite of sandwich.
She rests back against the couch and chews another bite. "Heaven, thou art a cheese sandwich." She opens her eyes. "You know what would make this meal even better?" she asks hopefully.
I nod and return to the kitchen. Rio and her friends have vacuumed up most of the junk food, but there's a bag of cheese puffs at the back of the cupboard. I pull out the bag and return to the living room. Indi's picking up the second half of the sandwich. Her gaze flicks my direction, and that soul-healing smile appears. Again, I find myself catching my breath.
"Cheese curls!" she squeals. "Those are my favorite."
"I know," I say quietly enough that she doesn't hear.
I sit in the chair again. "So, Jones, you gonna tell me what happen—" My voice trails off as my entire focus is pulled toward her lips as she licks off the cheese dust.
"What do you mean?" she asks.
"Uh, let's recap, shall we? You show up at my door?—"
Her eyes round, and she pauses the feast for a second. "Your door? You own the Dixon's house?"
"Yep. Rhonda and Phil moved to the East Coast. Phil has a brother out there, and they both retired and started a restaurant in New York. Apparently, it's a dream they always shared."
She licks the cheese powder off her finger, and I'm questioning my decision to provide her with such a fucking erotic snack food.
"How did you buy it? Did you rob a bank?"
I'm stunned at how hurt I feel that she instantly jumps to that conclusion. "Still the same, aren't ya, Jones? I earned the money to buy it. Not all of us grew up in homes filled with love, laughter, bedtime stories and a college savings account."
She lowers the sandwich and stares at me. "It's even worse to have that and then have it stolen from you." We've reached that subject—the taboo subject, the one that solidified her hate for me.
I jump up. "I'll get you more water." I walk to the kitchen, put down the glass and lean against the counter to pull myself together. Ten minutes on my couch and all the emotions are back, picking at my brain, sitting on my chest like an iron anvil. I take a deep breath, fill the water and return to the living room. She's finished the sandwich.
"I'm sorry I jumped to that conclusion," she says without looking up from the glass in her hands.
"It's all right. I'm sure most people in town think the same thing. Just hurts more coming from certain people," I say pointedly. "Do you want another sandwich?"
"No, and thanks for that. It's been a few days …"
"So, you gonna tell me what's going on?"
Indi rests back against the couch. "How it started? Oat milk at the coffee shop. How it ended?" She waved her hand in front of her. "You're looking at it. It's a long, ugly story. Let's just say my luck ran out … big time. I can stay somewhere else if you don't?—"
"Don't what? Want you here?"
She shrugs. "Maybe I could stay at a motel. Wait. Never mind. I forgot that when my entire life got swallowed up by a black hole, it took my purse and debit card with it. I've discovered it is possible to survive on stale crackers, heavy aromas in a diner and a stranger's kindness thrown in for good measure." She scrunches up her nose as she pulls the blanket around her shoulders.
"Was it a boyfriend?" I ask.
"He's officially an ex-boyfriend, and really, I shoved him first. Just didn't expect him to shove back. I lost my balance and fell right into a rather unwieldy slab of granite."
I stare at her a few seconds, willing that notorious anger to climb back in its bottle. "He better not show up here."
Her mouth tilts to the side. "Still the same Jameson, eh? You can unfurl your fists. He's not coming here. I'm sure of that." Her long fingers cover a yawn. "What I really need—if you're willing to put up with me for a night—is a hot shower. Rain has been my only form of cleansing in three days, and it might have worked for Tarzan and Jane but?—"
I laugh. "I can set you up with a shower and a towel. I've got an in with the owner of this establishment. Wait here."
I walk to the linen closet and pull out two towels. I can hear music playing in Rio's room. I knock on the door. "Bedtime, kiddo." I go down the hall to the bathroom and do a quick sweep of the mess Rio left behind. I shove her dirty clothes in the basket and push all her glosses, combs and hair bands into a drawer.
Indi's head is resting against the couch, and her eyes are closed when I return to the living room. I walk over to her and allow myself a few seconds to watch her sleep. The spray of freckles, the button nose, the small cleft in her chin, it all comes back like a tsunami. Her dark lashes flutter a few times, and her lips are slightly parted. How many times I've imagined kissing those lips. Her accusation about the stolen kiss in sixth grade was true. I gave it the old Wilde try, but she turned me down flat. Even at that age, I was devastated.
"Jones," I say quietly. I give her arm a little shake. "Indi. The shower."
"Hmm, five more minutes, mom," she mewls in frustration.
"Indi," I say louder.
She sits up suddenly and straighter, then immediately pushes her arm against her ribs. "Shit, shit, shit." She holds her breath till the pain passes.
"I can wrap those ribs for you after your shower. I've had a lot of experience with it."
She catches her breath and nods. "Might be a good idea. I'm getting a little tired of feeling like someone is stabbing me with a red-hot poker every time I move too fast." She scoots forward to stand up. I offer her a hand. She stares at it with a dose of mistrust that goes straight through me like that same red-hot poker.
"I'm not making a move on you," I say, angrily. "Get over yourself, would ya? I know how hard it is to get up with broken ribs."
"They're not broken. Just bruised."
"Oh really? You've got a mini x-ray machine in your duffle that told you that?"
I'm still offering my hand. She slaps her palm onto mine. I wrap my fingers around hers. She stares at our clasped hands for a long moment. "Your hand is warm," she says quietly. She looks up at me. "Was it always this big? Were you always this big?"
I shake my head. "Come on, Jones. It's the showers for you. I wasn't there, but it seems you've had a rough game."
I have to coax myself into releasing her hand, and I miss holding it the second I let go.
"Exactly how many times have you broken your ribs?" she asks between two yawns.
"Hmm, let me see. Six, I think. Give or take."
I walk her to the bathroom. She turns to me. Everything about her is still so familiar. She still bites her lip when she's thinking. "Let me guess, six fights?"
"Uh, four fights, one gnarly dirt bike crash and one rollover in a Bobcat."
"A Bobcat? You mean one of those cute, little white boxy machines that digs up dirt?"
"Not sure the Bobcat would appreciate that description, but yeah, one of those. And before you ask if I was stealing it, I was working in it, and I took a wrong turn."
"I wasn't going to accuse you of stealing it. At least not out loud. I've learned that you're Mr. Sensitive when the accusations start flying. It's funny because you're much wider and more menacing looking than you were in high school, but you seem different."
"Guess I've grown up," I say. "In more ways than one, apparently."
She glances at herself in the mirror and laughs, but the pain in her ribs cuts it short. I realize how badly I missed that laugh and her humor. She might have been head cheerleader, prom queen and everything that went with those titles, but she was never stuck up about it. She was always fun, always laughing and giving as good as she got. "I look very, very bad." She nods about her assessment. "A Bobcat? Are you working for your dad now?"
"Zander and I run the company."
She smiles and a short laugh follows. "Zander," she says in disbelief. "Zander Wilde?"
"Only Zander I know. He's settled down … some," I add with hesitation.
"Well, holy shit. Things really have changed around here."
"They have, Jones. I'll get your duffle."
"I hate when you call me that," she says as she leans out of the bathroom.
"That's why I call you that," I say back.
I listen in at Rio's door before going to fetch the duffle. It's quiet in her room. The kid sleeps like a rock. I pick up the bag and return to the bathroom. I knock but there's no answer. Fear shoots through me that she's collapsed again like she did at the door. Having her fall into my arms is etched so deeply into my soul now, I'll never forget it. I open the door. She's pulled off her T-shirt and is standing in a lacy blue bra and jeans. My pulse kicks into overdrive.
"Sorry, just brought your duffle." My gaze sweeps her direction again. The bruises look even worse.
She sniffles. "I can't believe this happened."
I reach her in two steps and put my arms around her, gently. It takes all my willpower not to pull her hard against me. She sobs against my shoulder a few minutes, then lifts her head. I drop my arms, and she steps back.
"Okay, meltdown over. It's the first time I got a good look at the bruises, and it shocked me. I'm fine. Thanks for bringing my bag." She motions me out.
The only spare bedroom in the house has become a storeroom, and it's filled with junk. I decide to sleep on the couch, so Indi can have my room. I walk that direction to clean up the mess I've left behind. I stop before I go into the room to clean up. I can hear Indi's soft moans over the shower water.
"I need a fucking beer." I go back to the kitchen and pull one from the fridge.
The rumpled blanket is draped over the arm of the couch. I drink the beer and stare at the couch as if I've just hallucinated the last twenty minutes. Nope, it wasn't a hallucination. She's back. Indiana Nash is back, and after spending years putting the pieces of my heart back together, years of dating too many women and never finding the right one because none of them were Indi, years of convincing myself she was out of my life forever, she strolls back, or, more accurately, collapses back into my life, and she's still completely unaware of the impact she has on me. And that impact is as strong as ever.