Chapter 30
“She died?”
He nods. “Brogan was her middle name, which is my mother’s maiden name. Elizabeth Brogan Brady. I just dropped the Brady.”
“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.” My voice breaks.
My throat is closing up with thick emotion, and I can’t speak.
I shouldn’t have listened to Millie. Curiosity got the best of me tonight, but maybe she did set me up.
Ryan doesn’t need to be reminded of this kind of grief and loss, especially now.
Then again, isn’t he reminded of her every time he sees me?
Every time he sees the book cover with her name on it?
Maybe this is the real reason he never wanted to write another one again.
But he takes my hand, threads his fingers through mine, giving me a pass. “It’s okay. You saw the picture. I have it with me whenever I’m writing. She’s become sort of my muse over the years.”
It all makes sense now he’d choose a woman’s name. It wasn’t a marketing ploy. It wasn’t trickery. It was simply…love.
“The pen name means a lot more to me now. Before, it was just another pretty name.”
“I read somewhere that most authors try to honor someone they love with a pen name. Sometimes it’s a family name, a grandparent, a child. For me, it was my sister.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shrugs, his eyes closing again. “I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. It’s hard to talk about it.”
“It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.”
“She’s the real reason I wrote the book. When they offered me all that money…it was a good chance to set up a foundation for Elizabeth. It’s a literary one that gives a scholarship every year to underprivileged kids.”
This was the literacy foundation I noticed in his paperwork when I snooped. He isn’t just a contributor. He started the whole thing.
“I kept teaching because my writing barely covered my bills. When Kate explained what kind of money she was talking about, I had to go for it. And then the morning show…well, it meant more exposure and more sales. You understand, don’t you?”
Of course I understand. Anyone would take the opportunity, and most for far less benevolent reasons.
“You might not want to talk about it. But how…” I let the sentence trail off, not even sure I want to know.
We’ve both suffered staggering losses. A sister. A father.
“Drowned. We were at the lake, I was supposed to be watching her, but…well, my new Star Wars Lego set was far more important at the time.”
An ache slices through my heart with what feels like a sharp sword. Ryan was a child himself. I can’t begin to imagine the pressing guilt he must have felt all those years. He would have been angry with himself, angry with his parents, then angry at the world.
“That couldn’t have been your fault. How old were you?”
“Eleven.” He sighs. “I was the oldest and should have known better. She wanted to go swimming and I told her she had to wait. Well, like most little kids, she didn’t listen.”
It’s no wonder Ryan isn’t close to his family.
The odds are that at least some of them blame him even if it’s unfair and illogical.
Grief can be irrational and I know. I blamed my mother for years because my father was speeding, driving alone in the rain.
In my child’s mind, I thought she could have stopped him.
If she loved him enough, she could have saved him.
And Ryan’s parents would have wrestled with their own grief, knowing they shouldn’t have put a child in charge of a child.
Grief wants logic it can never have. A reason why a world suddenly splinters into pieces and changes every moment from that point forward.
Because the heart wants someone to blame for its breaking.
For me, it was my mother. It had to have been her fault that my father died, even when it made no sense.
Someone besides him had to take responsibility, and she did, for many years.
She shouldn’t have let him drive on that rainy day.
Leaving me with my father’s family hadn’t helped, but now I wonder: Did I reject her before she rejected me? It’s impossible to know at this point.
I have no words.
Maybe we only have few words when there’s far too much to say.
“Listen. You’re the best Elizabeth Brogan I could have ever chosen.
When we met that first day,” he says, his words beginning to slur with the heaviness of sleep, “I didn’t plan on asking you to be Elizabeth but then Henry saw you had this gentle quality about you.
A joy and a kindness and a solid strength, which reminded me of her. ”
With that last word, he falls asleep. I can do nothing more for him but I’m rooted to this spot on the couch.
I quietly watch him sleep and breathe and maybe dream.
A few hours later, a shaft of moonlight spills through open blinds and wakes me.
It occurs to me that my family has no idea where I am and I probably should let someone know I’m staying here with Ryan.
Maybe he doesn’t need me, but after the accident, I can’t leave him.
Life is short. Stuff happens sometimes when you look away and are distracted by something bright and shiny.
I won’t leave Ryan’s side because maybe if I just sit here and keep watch nothing worse can happen.
It could be the hospital missed something.
Once I watched a show where a kid who’d been in a car accident was sitting up talking, just fine, then later died from internal bleeding.
Maybe Ryan has internal bleeding and doesn’t know it.
It’s after midnight when I text Sofia that Ryan has been in a car accident.
She knows what this means to me. For years, I wouldn’t get behind the wheel of a car.
I was seventeen when I got my license. I drive slower and more cautiously than most people do and I avoid driving in the rain, which is probably the reason I can never leave California.
Sofia:
Mierda! Is he okay? At you at the hospital? WHAT HAPPENED?
I respond:
A car accident. He’s got bruised ribs but they gave him too many meds at the hospital. Overmedicated Ryan is hilarious but once the meds wear off I don’t expect he’s going to be a lot of fun to be around.
Sofia, who is a nurse, after all, responds:
No, he is not. Have him sleep in a chair and try not to cough. Or laugh. Don’t make him laugh! He’ll be healed up in a few weeks if they’re only bruised. If they’re cracked it might be longer.
If I can’t express my fears to Sofia, there’s no one.
What about internal bleeding? Is that a thing that could happen? You should see all the bruises on his rib cage. Poor baby.
Sofia texts back:
I’m sure they checked all that out before they released him. They would have done X-rays and scans.
I’m not sure I believe her. We all know the state of our health care system is a running joke. If Ryan doesn’t have good insurance, maybe they cut corners. I’ll have to stay here and keep watch.
I find a blanket, curl up on the couch, and try to sleep.
When I wake hours later, I’m blinking, nearly blinded by the sunlight streaming through the windows. Ryan is still dozing. He looks so peaceful, those long dark lashes contrasting against his olive skin. Way too peaceful. It scares me and I check to make sure he’s still breathing.
When he is, I decide I’ll go get the prescription and ice packs I should have picked up for him last night. Grabbing my purse, I nearly bump into Millie on my way out.
“Oh, sorry.” I close the door and lock it. “He’s still sleeping.”
She holds out his glasses. “You better give these to him. I waited around at the hospital for them after you two left.”
I take them, then can’t stop myself from being kind. It’s in my nature, damn it. “Are you okay? Did you have any injuries?”
She snorts. “No, only to my heart.”
I’m never prepared for metaphors or hyperbole from non-writers. I don’t know how to respond.
She rolls her eyes, crossing her arms. “I’ll be fine. I was too late, that’s all. If you’re smart, you won’t make the same mistake I did. There’s no better man.”
“Oh, but we’re just—”
She holds up a palm. “Save it. Maybe that’s what you think, but he loves you whether you want him to or not.”
A quake of excitement runs through my body. “You’re wrong.”
“I wasn’t sure he was talking about you, but yesterday he finally told me I should give up on him because there’s someone else.” She narrows her eyes. “Then you showed up at the hospital and he was completely ga-ga. Who else could it be?”
I don’t know who else it could be either, but I also didn’t know my ex-fiancé was having an emotional affair with his coffeehouse crush. I’m not the best judge.
“But if you break his heart, I’ll be back around to pick up the pieces.”
With that she starts down the brick path before she stops suddenly.
“You know, he thinks he looks better without his glasses. Make sure you tell him he looks good with them on. It’s one of those weird male idiosyncrasies. He only behaves this way when he’s in love. I know because it used to be me.”
It’s a loving thing for an ex-wife to say and I’m impressed by her candor. “Okay.”
“I will always love him.” She walks to the curb and gets in her vehicle.
Once she’s out of earshot, I feel comfortable muttering, “Then you should have chosen him.”
When I return, I find Ryan sitting at the dining table, his laptop open. He’s wearing a shirt now, which is a relief, because knowing what I do now, I don’t need to see those abs.
They are logical decision killers.
“You should be resting! What are you doing?”
“Swimming.”
Oh, so he’s back to his smartass self. This I can handle because adorable Ryan is way too attractive.
And he’s squinting.
“Here you go.” I hand the glasses over with the medicine. “Millie dropped these off earlier.”
He slips them back on and winces at the movement. “I have to turn in this revised proposal if I want to get paid.”
“Have you ever heard of dictation programs? Maybe that would help. I’ve heard a lot of authors use them.”
“I’ve never been able to get that to work for me.”
“Have you actually tried?” I stand behind him. “You wouldn’t have to move your arms as much. Just lay back and dictate. Rest and write. All you need is your brain and creativity.”
When he struggles with the bottle of pills, I take it from him and open it.
He pops a pill, grimaces, and slams down some water. “I’m fine.”
“Please don’t be that guy.”
“What guy?”
“The one who won’t accept help when it’s offered.”
I meet his eyes and wonder if he even remembers our conversation from last night. He’d been so vulnerable then, so open, but now he’s shut down.
“This book won’t write itself.”
“Look, you hired me as your assistant so why don’t you let me assist?” I stand behind him, hands on hips, ready to fight.
“That was before I hired you to be Elizabeth Brogan.” He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, groaning. “I must have told you about my sister last night, didn’t I?”
I nod. “And I’m glad you did.”
“I shouldn’t have told you that sad story. Don’t feel sorry for me.”
Well, isn’t that just like a man. Don’t feel sorry for me because then I’m weak.
Ryan was right when he said there was a little bit of Grayson in him and a little bit of the other guy.
I pull out the chair next to him, sit, and reach for the laptop, moving it in front of me. “I’m glad you told me. Now, why don’t you let me be your hands today. Tell me what you want to write and I’ll type it for you. I’m your dictation software. Just…don’t speak too fast.”
“That’s not how my process works.” He grabs the laptop, moving it back, flinching when he does.
“But I want to help you.”
“You have, and now you can write the sequel.”
“I can do both. You’re the one with the closest deadline.
I can help you and write my book. Believe me, I’m a disciplined writer or I wouldn’t have been able to write all those Desdemona books.
Let me.” With that I shove the laptop back to me and shut it, crossing my arms over it, and giving him a pout. “Please.”
He throws his head back. “Damn it!”
Ryan complains, and he argues, but a few minutes later with me giving him puppy-dog eyes the entire time, he begins. Haltingly at first, a few words at a time. But, may I say, they are good words. Every one.
“I’m a slow writer,” he says as if to apologize.
“That’s okay, I’m a slow typist. We’re perfect for each other.”