CHAPTER FOURTEEN FALLON #3
He holds out an extra set of pliers to me. “Here you go. Be diligent, and make sure you get all the nails and staples out. Easier to do it now than when you’re laying the floor.”
“Oh, so you mean like how you had to pluck staples from the lobby floor—you don’t want to do that again?”
He glances up at me. “Exactly.”
I get down on my hands and knees. “Should I start on the other side of the room or next to you?”
“Next to me. We can sweep together—that way we don’t miss anything.”
I sidle up next to him and immediately feel the heat pouring off his body.
It’s a hot July day up in the mountains, and the sun beats through the dusty cabin windows.
The demanding labor he’s already put in today seeps through the fabric of his cotton shirt, and I can sense he needs to pull his shirt off from the way he keeps adjusting his sleeves, pushing them up and over his shoulders.
Should I tell him it’s okay if he wants to take his shirt off?
Might come off a little voyeuristic. Probably should just let him decide on the fate of his shirt.
“You nearly skipped death with Jaz, you know that, right?”
He keeps his eyes on the floor, his intense work ethic shining like a beacon, guiding me through the muddied waters of this renovation. “I’m aware.”
“From your stiff shoulders and the worried curl of your lips, I’m going to assume you were prepared for the worst.”
“It’s why I lowered the pillow over my crotch; at least there would be minor protection from her impending blow.”
“Very smart. Covering the crotch could have possibly saved you a severe puncture wound to the scrotum.”
“An unfavorable result.” He pauses his hands and turns toward me. “Has she done that? Punctured someone in the scrotum?”
“No comment.”
He shivers, his entire body convulsing in one giant wave of fright.
We spend the next ten minutes working in tandem, gripping staples, pulling, and depositing in a cup. The sound of our work has a rhythm that by no means would win or be nominated for a Grammy, but the echoing of our labor offers encouragement as we make it to our last section of the cabin.
I’ve considered many topics to use as conversation starters.
Like... I heard you flipped off the bride and groom. Was it difficult pulling off a double bird?
And... do you regret walking out of the wedding; do you wish you twerked your way out instead?
Not to mention... do you ever yearn to find your missing blue shoe?
But Sawyer is the first to talk as we crouch in the corner of the cabin, toward the door. Almost done. “I know we’re not friends, but maybe we can fill the silence with something.”
“What do you have in mind? I can pull up some invigorating tunes from Cat in Heat.”
“For the love of God, don’t.” I let out a low chuckle as he shoots me a thoughtful look. “Do you miss the demands of being a nurse?”
Huh, I wasn’t expecting him to ask that question. I didn’t even think he remembered that I was a nurse. He must have dug deep into his memory bank to pull that one out, especially since he didn’t even recognize me or remember our harrowing date in the first place.
“Sometimes,” I answer. “I worked in the emergency room, and although it came with long hours, it kept me on my toes. Problem-solving, but with knowledge that I have stored away. With taking care of Sully, I feel completely out of my wheelhouse. And even though I’d come here every summer and help out around the cabins, I still feel like I don’t know what I’m doing most of the time.
Being uncomfortable seems to be my new normal now.
So, yeah, I miss it sometimes, but I wouldn’t go back, not when I have these days left with Sully, even the ones when he’s not fully lucid. ”
“I would probably feel the same way in your shoes,” he says, dropping a handful of staples into our shared cup depository. “I would want to spend as much time with my family as I could.”
“I do miss my friends.”
“And Peter probably.”
“Yes... of course. And Peter,” I add, feeling a swift stab of guilt.
What the hell is wrong with me? Why wouldn’t I mention him first?
A nervous sweat breaks out along the back of my neck.
Peter 100 percent should have been my first thought, but he wasn’t.
He wasn’t even my second thought. Possibly not even my third.
If I am completely honest, the list of what I miss would go dads, friends, Palm Springs pools.
.. Peter. Yikes, that revelation isn’t settling well in the pit of my stomach.
Trying to ignore my ineptitude at being a loving girlfriend, I opt to change the subject. “I also miss some of the crazy stories me and the other nurses would share.”
“Crazy stories, huh?” The smirk that pulls at the corner of his lips kicks me right in the chest. It’s all I can do to not fall backward into the pile of rolled-up mouse-poop carpet.
“You, uh, wouldn’t even believe me if I told you some of these stories.” I sit up from my crouched knee position. “Emergency room in Palm Springs, the celebrity getaway. Boy, do I have stories.”
Joining me, he sits up on his heels as well. “Why don’t you entertain me, then?”
Entertain him...
Immediately, my mind reels with stories that would make him laugh.
A retelling of my very first period and the very heartfelt haiku my dads wrote for me about becoming a woman.
My energetic dance performance at my third-grade talent show featuring the musical stylings of Stevie Wonder singing “Isn’t She Lovely” as I hopped around like a dainty fairy.
Perhaps a somber breakdown of the day I lost my virginity to Joel Eaglewash, and how he cried into my breasts afterward for a solid five minutes while mumbling how happy he was. I can still feel the river of his emotions cascading down my cleavage.
Honestly, all blind date material I should have thrown at him. Maybe then he would have remembered me.
“You okay?” Sawyer asks.
“Oh yeah, sorry.” My cheeks flame with embarrassment. God, I hope I wasn’t offhandedly performing my third-grade dance while in my reverie. “How about a water break?”
“As long as you tell me at least one emergency room story.”
“Deal.” After standing up, I grab our waters from the windowsill and bring them over to where Sawyer is resting against the wall now.
I sit next to him and hand him his water. He uncaps it, tilts his head back, and gulps. I get lost in the way his throat contracts as he swallows once again, the contours hollowing and adjusting to his consumption. Apparently, I’m a throat girl now.
What does Peter’s throat look like? It annoys me that I can’t think of it, that I can’t picture if it’s all... contract-y while he drinks as well.
When Sawyer lowers the bottle, I quickly look away so he doesn’t catch me staring.
Instead, I sit there, rigid, desperately trying to conjure up images of Peter drinking water, his throat contracting in a sexy way, but all I can think of is the time he drank his Bloody Mary too fast and the red liquid careened down his neck, making him look like a victim in a slasher movie. Not the same thing.
Sawyer nudges me with his shoulder. “So...?”
“Yeah, emergency stories.” I take a sip of my water and clear my throat. Get it together, Fallon. “So, there was this Oscar winner—”
“Name?” Sawyer asks.
“Sorry, privacy laws.”
He snaps his fingers in disappointment. “Damn it.”
“I know, but you might be able to figure it out. Oscar winner, young, came into the emergency room because he was reenacting a scene from his latest film for his friends and wound up... getting a crystal stuck up his nose. It took three doctors and two nurses as well as a large pair of forceps to get it out.”
“Ooof, that hurts.”
“And after all was said and done, he claimed that he had no idea how it got up there, but he would like the crystal back because it was expensive. Later on, he was exposed on one of those gossip websites, showing a video of him snorting the crystal.”
“Jesus.” Sawyer chuckles. “Can’t fathom snorting a crystal on a lazy Saturday.”
“I don’t think many people can.” I nudge him back with my shoulder. “What about you, any kooky celebrity stories? You’re the one who works in the entertainment biz.”
“Other than a crazed ex-boyfriend walking out of a wedding?”
“In your defense, it was entirely unfair for them to ask you to be the best man. Fourth groomsman in line at least.”
He smiles, and it’s absolutely as devastating as his smirk from earlier. He might be a lousy person to go on a date with, but he sure does have that killer Hollywood gleam about him.
“At least,” he says softly. “But crazy stories? I don’t have many, other than the usual prima donna–type stuff. I haven’t had the privilege of being on every movie set, so I’m sure I’ve missed out on some epic meltdowns.”
“Such a shame. Your next endeavor should be writing a book, a tell-all of the behind-the-scenes fodder you’ve accumulated over the years. That book could fly off the shelves... lickety-split.”
Lickety-split? I can’t recall a time in my life when I’ve ever used that phrase.
Ever.
“Lickety-split?” Sawyer chuckles. Of course he picks up on it.
Going with it, I snap my fingers in the air. “Like that. Everyone loves a good dose of gossip. As long as it isn’t their downfall, that’s all they care about.”
“True.” He lets out a deep sigh and rests his bottle of water on his leg. “I wonder what people are saying about my downfall.”
“I have some articles saved if you want to see. My favorite was how they claimed you were paid handsomely by the wagering sharks in Las Vegas to cut out on the wedding, extra if you made a scene. The article claimed you were rewarded with two million dollars and a bedazzled coin purse as a bonus.” I turn to him. “Can I see the coin purse?”
He laughs so loud that the sound fills the empty space, consuming the air around us. “Wow, I’d love to live in a world where you can write absolute lies with no repercussions.”
“Wait... so there’s no coin purse?” I playfully ask.