Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
Teddy
I don’t sleep that night, just restlessly toss and turn, listening for any sound from Helen’s room. A single whimper and I would run—or, in my case, limp—right back in. Screw whether she wanted me there or not. I wouldn’t, couldn’t, leave her like that. Upset and alone.
But there’s only silence from that side of the condo. Too much silence. Helen’s too quiet, not a peep. I tell myself that she’s asleep, that she’s okay.
I don’t believe it. I want to go to her, but I know better. I made a promise to my sister, and I’ve already crossed boundaries by comforting her in bed, barely dressed.
By four a.m. I’ve had it. I rip off my covers, grab my crutches, and make my way from the bed to the couch.
Remote in hand, I surf through endless TV channels, finding nothing that captures my attention for long.
A few hours pass with me channel surfing, until I finally settle on some old disaster movie about a cruise ship flipping upside down, fitting considering my life feels just as wrecked.
That’s when I hear the soft creak of Helen’s bedroom door opening.
I go still, eyes trained on the hallway. There’s the shuffle of bare feet. A pause, like she’s considering retreating. Then, finally, she steps into the living room.
I startle at this version of Helen. Her hair sticks up in the back, there’s a pillow crease across one cheek, and her face is pale and drawn.
But it’s her eyes that hit me the hardest. They’re shadowed, distant, hollow.
Like she’s still somewhere else. Frowning, I trace the dark circles under that haunted gaze.
Even though she was silent all night, she clearly wasn’t sleeping.
Something about her expression, the way her mouth pulls down at the corners, makes my chest pinch like my ribs have grown thorns.
Crap.
She’s not okay, and I’m not sure how to fix it.
Even worse, I know it’s somehow my fault.
She tried to be vague, but I’m sure I’m the “guy” who got her in trouble.
I wanted to ask more last night but figured it wasn’t the time.
Not with how her body shook from the force of her tears, like it was tearing itself apart.
And this morning? She looks just as raw.
I force my focus elsewhere. Bad move. Because damn. Helen’s wearing tiny white biker shorts and a thin white tank top...no bra.
My gaze catches on the stiff peaks of her nipples pressing against the fabric. Heat rolls through me in a slow, lazy wave. I force myself to look away, but the damage is done. That image is burned into my brain, seared into my neurons.
There’s something about how sexy Helen is, mostly because she’s completely unaware of it.
I have no doubt that the next time I touch my dick, I’ll be thinking about that tank top and what lies underneath.
Not a good idea since we’re housemates, but I’ve never been one to make rational decisions, especially when it comes to her.
Helen hesitates at the threshold, uncertain. She shifts her weight like she’s deciding whether to sit or go back to her room. Then, oh, hell, her gaze drifts lower. Stops. Lingers.
A slow pink flush spreads across her cheeks, staining them.
She’s looking at me. At my bare chest, where I’m still too banged up to pull a shirt over my head.
Her tongue flicks out to wet her lips.
Jesus.
She visibly shakes herself and straightens. “Umm,” she starts, voice slightly higher than usual.
I leap at the chance to defuse whatever the hell is happening between us.
“Sorry,” I say, but Helen’s not listening.
Coming fully awake, she glances down at herself.
I can practically see the moment that she realizes she’s not wearing much more than I am.
That’s when the red on her cheeks deepens into scarlet.
“Uh, hang on a sec.” She turns and bolts down the hallway to her room. When she reappears, she has a fluffy purple robe with a tie at her waist. It ends mid-thigh and gapes open enough that I still get a tantalizing flash of cleavage.
I keep my gaze locked on her face. Safe zone. Respectable zone.
“Sorry,” I say again, rushing to justify why I’m not dressed. I don’t want her to think this is a ploy, a cheap trick to get her into bed. “I tried to put on a shirt, but I couldn’t get it on without feeling like I was gonna pass out.”
I lift my arm, exposing the enormous bruise covering the side of my chest. Black, green, brown, and blue swirl together, a twisted, grotesque painting.
Helen sucks in her breath at the sight and rushes to my side. “Oh my god, Teddy. That looks awful!” Her fingers skim featherlight over my ribs, and I flinch away with a gasp.
“It feels even worse,” I admit.
She frowns, her eyes scanning my injury like she can force it to heal with just the power of her mind. “Hold on. Let me get some arnica. That’ll help with the bruising and pain.”
She disappears into the kitchen and returns a second later, tube in hand. She squeezes a ribbon of white gel onto her fingertips, then glances up at me expectantly. I raise my arm, bracing myself while knowing the motion will send a stab of agony through my body.
Helen’s fingers glide across my bruised skin, spreading the ointment with gentle, careful strokes. Her touch burns in a way that has nothing to do with pain.
“Arnica, huh?” I say, grasping for something, anything, to focus on besides the fact that I want to tackle her to the ground and kiss the hell out of her. “That’s pretty holistic for a doctor like you.”
She lets out a quiet, breathy laugh, but there’s no real weight behind it. “My mom’s into this stuff. Kinda ironic, since her husband and daughter are both doctors, but she’s right. Some of it works great.”
She leans back slightly, a faraway look flickering across her face. “That’s my mom, though. She dances to her own drumbeat. Never cares what people think. Sometimes I wish I were more like her.”
I tilt my head and wrinkle my brow. “You don’t seem like someone who cares too much about other people’s opinions.”
She exhales, soft and slow. “I’m not. Probably to my detriment.
” A pause. “I only care about what certain people think…” Her voice trails off as her gaze flicks to mine, and for a brief second I have the delusion that she’s talking about me.
That she cares what I think, but that’s stupid.
We barely know each other, and, honestly, I’ve done nothing to deserve that kind of importance.
Still, I want it.
To be that person.
Helen bites her lip, so fucking sexy, and gives me one last, gentle swipe before leaning back to survey her handiwork.
I clench my jaw and will my stiffening dick to chill the hell out.
She twists the cap back onto the tube and disappears into the kitchen.
A moment later, the refrigerator door swings open, then shuts with a hollow thunk.
When she returns, something is clutched tightly to her chest, her knuckles pale against it.
She grips it so hard that the sides buckle inward, caving under the pressure.
“I know it’s a total cliché,” she says, her voice too light, too casual, as she drops onto the couch beside me.
The movement is deliberate, but there’s a stiffness in her shoulders, a tension in the way she holds herself.
She lifts two spoons, forcing a smile. “But ice cream really does make me feel better when I’m down. ”
That word down catches in her throat, weighted and uneven.
She sets the tub of Rocky Road between us.
I hesitate. Something about the way she says that, the way her voice dips, tells me she’s barely keeping it together. Like if I breathe wrong, she’ll unravel.
I can’t stand it, watching her suffer and not being able to do a damn thing about it.
If it were a physical wound, something tangible, I could help.
If it were a person, I could fight. But this?
This invisible weight pressing on her, stealing the light from her eyes? I have no idea how to make it better.
I match her light tone. “I never say no to ice cream. Even when it’s only…” A quick glance at the digital clock on her microwave and I add, “six a.m.” I hold up my spoon with a “cheers.” We clink spoons together, and she manages a smile, but it flickers, fragile. For a minute, we eat in silence.
Hoping to cheer her up, I hand Helen the remote. “You gave me ice cream, so I’m giving you control of what we watch. Choose wisely, though,” I tease, “otherwise your TV privileges will be revoked.”
Helen rolls her eyes. “Umm, last time I checked this was my TV, so I don’t think you hold the power to take it away.”
“Oh, I beg to differ,” I counter, desperate to erase the shadows I still see lingering in her eyes. The ones she’s trying to hide. “I am your esteemed houseguest; therefore I get to choose. Didn’t anyone teach you manners?”
“I believe you are actually my renter, which makes me your landlord and puts me back in charge,” she says with a note of victory, one that I’m happy to hear. This is the Helen I remember. The one who challenged me. Who didn’t fall for my usual shit.
“Fine. Fine.” I wave at the TV. “You win, oh-high-and-mighty landlord. What do you want to watch?”
“Not this.” She frowns at the image of the drowning cruise ship on the screen. “Too depressing.” She sighs from deep in her chest. “We need something light, a rom-com maybe. Preferably with kittens or a cute dog.”
“A rom-com with an adorable animal? I don’t know, that’s pretty specific for this time of morning.
” I pause and tap my chin, debating. I want to ask her how she’s doing, handling the loss of her job, but I don’t want to bring it up if she’s not already thinking about it. That might make her feel worse.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Helen says, jolting me from my thoughts.
“What?”
“Everything. What you were just about to ask me. The hospital. My suspension.”
I startle, wondering if she’s psychic. “How’d you know I was going to ask about that?”
A side-eye glance from her. “You’re a loud thinker, Teddy. I could tell.”
That’s weird. I can’t think of anyone else who can read me as well as that. Definitely not Jamie or Gina. Maybe Gwen?
“Well,” I say, turning to her, “why not? Don’t you think it would be good to talk about it?”
“I don’t know,” she responds, putting some snark into her tone. “How about we discuss how you got high and tried to drown yourself? Does that sound like fun to you?”
Okay. She’s got a point.
“I didn’t do it on purpose.” My lower lip sticks out like I’m eight years old.
“Hmm. Not so fun to be on that side of the questions, is it?” She raises a brow.
“Besides,” she continues, “I thought about it all last night and decided I’ll be okay.
I can spend this time working on a presentation to show to the committee proving my competency.
No one can resist a good PowerPoint presentation. ”
“Does anyone still use PowerPoint?” I ask around a marshmallow.
That widens Helen’s eyes with alarm. “Don’t they?”
I shrug and point at the TV, where channels flip by rapidly as Helen clicks the remote. “How about that one? When Harry Met Sally. That’s one of Gwen’s favorites.”
“I haven’t seen it in forever. Good choice.” Helen turns up the volume, and we settle against the couch, eating our ice cream.
When it gets to the famous scene where Meg Ryan fakes an orgasm in a New York deli, we both laugh, but there’s a definite blush on Helen’s cheeks and I feel it too, like we’re too aware of each other.
It’s awkward watching a movie about romance when so many aspects of our own relationship are ill-defined.
What are we? Strangers? Friends? Something more? Is there the potential for something more? These questions circle my brain, relentless.
Be quiet, I tell them, still spooked by earlier, how she read my mind so easily. Finally, I decide to make a list.
I title it: Reasons Not to Bone My Landlord.
I need a place to stay.
Gwen will kill me.
Helen has her life together and I…do not.
Helen is vulnerable right now. Don’t be an asshole.
I feel better after I mentally review the list. These are all very good reasons to keep things platonic.
Yes, that’s it.
Friends.
We’ll be friends.
Blindly, I dip my spoon into the almost-empty ice cream container, but Helen already has hers there. Our utensils clash with the ring of metal-on-metal. My hand brushes against hers, our fingers briefly tangle, and a jolt of electricity travels up my arm.
“Oops, sorry,” she says. Then she slowly, languidly, licks the back of her spoon. Holding my breath, I track the movement while my brain happily supplies visions of what else that tongue could do.
Fuck me.
This is going to be impossible.