Dinner for One (16 page)

Neither were options he wanted to consider.

Chapter Ten

FLEUR IS
sitting in a chair, her hand clasped tightly around Avery’s free one. Avery’s other arm is encased in a hospital blue cast, and her face is pinched and streaked with tears as she sits on the exam table. Her short legs hang over the edge, and she’s kicking them back and forth slowly. Bastien goes right to her, feeling his sister’s free hand come to rest on his hip, her fingers curling through his belt loops. He presses a kiss to the side of Avery’s face, smoothing back her tangled hair.

“
Est-ce tu vas bien, chérie
?” he asks.

She sniffles and nods. When he pulls back, her eyes are wide pools of watery blue. He picks her up carefully and settles down on the exam table, sitting her in his lap. He hooks his chin over her noninjured shoulder, careful not to jostle the broken arm, and surveys his sister. She’s got a cut above her left eyebrow, and she’s covered in powder from the air bag, everything disheveled and wrinkled, but she otherwise appears fine.

“Want to tell me what happened?” he asks, wondering if he looks as upset and panicked as he feels with the way she’s looking at him like she’s the one who needs to be concerned.

She runs a hand over her face, avoiding the abrasion. “Asshole ran a red light and went right into the side of the car.” She grimaces. “We went into another car, who went into another car. Everything got scrunched.” She sighs harshly, her eyes brimming with tears. “I want to go home.”

He rubs Avery’s back as she squirms. Her lack of talking is starting to bother him. Normally she never shuts up. “Have they said when they’re releasing you?”

Fleur shakes her head. “It’s a hospital. You know how it is. They take their time.” She sounds exhausted and wrecked.

“Do you need to be checked over? Does Avery need anything else done?”

“No.”

He lifts Avery from his lap and deposits her in Fleur’s delicately. “I’m going to go find someone and get this moving. I’ll call Jean, and he’ll come pick us up, yeah?”

She nods, burying her face in Avery’s hair and holding tight. Avery looks like she’s seconds from falling asleep, her eyelids drooping and her expression sagging. He’s going to assume they gave her the good stuff.

He leaves them there in that sterile white room and goes to the nurses’ station, waiting for one to come back, and when she does he asks if Fleur and Avery can be checked out. He ends up having to fill out a lot of paperwork, but he’d rather do it than make his sister take care of it. He’s not entirely sure she could manage it at this point. The nurse, an Amazon of a woman with pitch-black hair and large glasses perched on her long nose, takes the forms from him when he’s done and disappears to do something with them. She assures him it won’t take long.

When she’s gone down the hall and around the corner, when he knows he’s done all he can for the moment, he sags. His head hits the desk, and his chest is so tight it’s hard to breathe. On the cab ride over, it had taken everything in him not to hyperventilate, to calm himself down and suck in air. He couldn’t fall apart. He still can’t. His sister needs him. Avery needs him.

His phone vibrated twice on the ride over. He doesn’t want to look at it. He rocks from his toes to his heels, thinking about how he needs to call Jean, and that’ll mean looking at the screen of his phone.

Susan, the nurse, comes back, and he asks her if the hospital has a phone he can use. She directs him down the hall, and he’s honestly never been so grateful for his ability to memorize numbers like it’s nothing.

“Hello?” asks Jean when he picks up, sounding confused and sleepy.

“Jean,” he says, and stops there, his throat closing.

“Bastien?” He hears the rustling of sheets as Jean sits up. “Bastien? Is everything okay?” There’s another pause. “You’re not calling from your phone.” His voice is edging toward controlled panic.

Bastien rests his head against the cool tile of the hospital wall. “Fleur was in a car accident,” he says. “They’re fine, but could you pick us up from Bellevue?”

There’s more rustling and cursing, all intermixed between assurances that he’s on his way, and he’ll be there soon. “Where’s Chandler?” he asks. Bastien hears the distinct sound of him moving things aside as he searches for the keys he always loses.

“Flying back. He was out of town on a business meeting.”

“Merde,” mutters Jean.

Bastien hums in response. He doesn’t really have anything to add. That sums it up nicely.

“Is James with you?”

He opens his mouth, intent on lying through his teeth, but what comes out is a harsh, broken sob. He’s pathetic. They haven’t even been together that long. This isn’t the end of the world, and he has bigger problems to focus on.

“Bastien? What happened?”

It takes a minute to get himself under control. A minute during which he hears Jean start up his car, the engine rumbling in the background. “Can we do this later?”

He can tell by Jean’s silence that he wants to press it, but all he says when he finally speaks is, “All right. I’ll be there in a little.” He doesn’t mention texting him, doesn’t ask why Bastien isn’t using his own phone.

Avery is asleep when he gets back to the room, and he settles in the chair next to Fleur, puts an arm around her shoulder, and pulls them in close. “We’ll be home soon,” he tells her, pressing his lips to her cheek, ignoring how she smells burned and not like the normal peach scent that lingers around her.

They’re okay, and everything is going to be fine.

THERE ARE
options for who he can call. That’s one of the benefits of having a large family. But he doesn’t want the advice or to hear the words some of them will give. He curls up in his bed, on sheets that still smell faintly of Bastien, and puts his face in his pillow. The last time he cried he was watching
Marley & Me
. He’s pretty close to ending that dry spell.

He doesn’t know what he can do. If there even is anything to do. How would he feel if he were in Bastien’s place? He’d be pretty mad, probably. Wouldn’t ever want to talk to him again. This, he thinks, is all stuff he should have considered before he started this stupid farce.

Like the mama’s boy he is, he wants to call his mother, but he knows what she’s going to say, and it’s nothing he needs to hear. He’ll deal with the lecture next time he sees her, not when he’s going to be tempted to hang up on her and create an entirely new situation to deal with. Laurence is out of the question. It’s irrational because he’s the idiot who took his advice, but he’s mad at Laurence for giving it to him in the first place. He wants to make him share some of the blame in this. If he calls him, it’s going to lead to yelling. He’s got four other siblings, and three of them have already given him their unasked-for opinions.

So he calls the one who hasn’t said anything to him. He might as well officially bring the whole family in on it.

“Hey,” says Jackson’s familiar deep drawl. “Long time no speak.”

“Hi,” he says back, can’t force anything else out past his tight throat. His inhales and exhales are tellingly shaky.

“Aw, man.” There’s the sound of a door shutting and a bed creaking. “You and the chef broke up, didn’t you?” That really doesn’t warrant the hysterical laughter that tears from James, robbing him of breath and forcing the moisture in his eyes to drop over and down his cheeks. “Fuck.”

“Mhmmm,” he manages to choke out. Fuck sums it up pretty nicely.

“So you told him?”

He has to count to twenty before his laughter subsides enough for him to try to speak. “Nope,” he says. “He saw my wallet while I was in the shower.” That leads to another set of hysterical giggles. The whole situation is absolutely absurd and could have easily been avoided. It’s ironic. That’s all.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb and say he didn’t take it well.”

James takes a great big shuddering breath and blows it out noisily. “He left. Didn’t even mention it to me. Said his sister had been in a car accident.”

“Do you think he was making it up?”

He thinks about it, for possibly the millionth time since it happened, his eyes shut tight. Eventually he says, “No. I don’t think he’d use his sister like that.” He gasps in more air, forces it out. “I really messed this up.”

Jackson doesn’t say anything. It’s not like he can tell James he didn’t.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Try and explain it to him,” says Jackson. “There’s not much else you can do. Say you’re sorry, and tell him you’re a big fucking idiot.”

“I don’t think he’s going to let me see him again,” points out James.

Jackson sighs. “There’s these things called cell phones, and you can express your distaste for your actions and how stupid you’ve been via the power of text and voice mail. Just don’t leave fifty of them. You don’t want to cross the line from sincerely sorry to creepy.”

“Do you think he’ll respond?”

Jackson’s quiet for a minute that feels like an hour. James is fairly sure he knows the answer to this question. “No,” he says. “I don’t. But I think he might talk to you eventually if you apologize, whereas if you say nothing, you can write this off as done for good. It’s up to you.”

“I’ll text him.” He has no idea what he can say that won’t sound trite and meaningless. Sorry over a text doesn’t hold much weight. “Should I do it now?”

“Yeah. I’d call first, though. That’s more personal.”

“I hate leaving voice mails,” he mumbles.
They’re awkward.

“Well,” says Jackson, “I guess then you shouldn’t lie to your boyfriend about what you do for a living. I doubt he’s liking the situation any more than you are.”

If he thought he deserved any sympathy (which he doesn’t), he’d be irked by how little his family has. This is a story they’re going to be telling people as a lesson for years to come. He’s finally out-stupided Laurence—the go to for “This is an example of something you shouldn’t do, children. Jelly beans don’t go up your nose or in your ears.”

“On that note, is there any way I can get you to not tell everyone about this?” It’s a long shot, but he has to try. He’d like to not receive an avalanche of I-told-you-so texts.

“Not a chance,” says Jackson sunnily. “Let me know how it goes.” He hangs up before James can stall any longer.

James immediately calls, doing so before he can lose the nerve.

“Bastien,” he says at the beep, “I’m… I’m awful, and I’m sorry. I fucked up. I was going to tell you, which I mean, I know that doesn’t mean anything now. But I was. And I’m, I’m really so sorry. Please call me.”

He repeats that message in a text and sends it along, with less stuttering and repetition and no horrible shaky voice. It seems entirely too clinical, and he wonders if Bastien will even bother to read it before deleting it. He knows better than to expect a response, but he also knows he won’t be able to help checking his phone every five seconds. He goes and puts it in the other room, on silent. That way when his family starts ringing, he won’t hear that either.

Getting back in his bed, he hugs a pillow to his chest and tries to sleep. He’s nowhere near close to it when his doorbell rings, and his heart gives a stuttering leap. What if…? He almost falls over trying to rush from his bed.

But it’s not Bastien on the other side of the door, and he can’t help but deflate. Georgina’s standing there, a Target shopping bag in her hand. “Oh, honey,” she says, and she swoops in to hug him. “I bought
Sweeney Todd
and lots of candy.”

“It’s almost one in the morning,” he says, muffled by his mouth pressed against her shoulder. Candy is her answer to everything.

“It’s never too late for candy and Johnny Depp.” She pushes him back. “Come on. I call dibs on the green M&M’s.”

IT’S ALMOST
two in the morning by the time they pull into Fleur’s driveway. Chandler’s plane won’t land for several hours, and Jean’s offered to pick him up from the airport so he won’t have to take a cab. Bastien carries Avery in and tucks her into bed. She’s passed out, the painkillers keeping her from even groggily waking while he moves her. Fleur hovers in the door, and he herds her to her own bedroom.

“She’s fine,” he says. “If she needs something, you’ll know.” He nudges her in the direction of the bathroom. “You’ll feel better once you shower. I’ll make you tea.”

She grabs his hand. “Are you going to stay?”

“Oui,” he says. “Jean too.”

“I can make up the guest room and the couch.”

He puts both hands on her shoulders and turns her toward the bathroom. “You’re going to shower, drink some tea, and then go to bed. Jean and I are perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves.”

He doesn’t leave the room till she’s shut the bathroom door behind her. Jean’s already in the kitchen, the kettle on to boil. There’re two bottles of Stella on the table, the caps already off. He picks up one, brings it to his mouth, and takes a long draw. When he lowers it, Jean’s looking at him from dark concerned eyes. “I thought so,” he says. “Should I break out your sister’s vodka?”

Bastien grimaces. “No.” Getting drunk isn’t going to solve anything. He’s way past the age of that being a workable method, and even then it had been questionable.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

He turns away, rifling through the fridge. Dinner feels like it occurred in another lifetime. “Do you want a sandwich?”

Jean sighs. Bastien pulls out cheese and chicken, tomatoes and lettuce. Does he want mayonnaise or mustard?

“Bastien.”

“Is that a yes?” He goes to the pantry to get bread. Fleur’s almost out. He’ll add that to her list on the fridge door. He can go shopping for her tomorrow.

“I don’t want a sandwich.”

Bastien makes one for himself and puts everything away methodically. The kettle shrieks as he’s putting the mustard in the side drawer, and he hears Jean moving it, searching the cabinets for the tea bags.

“Third cabinet, second shelf, blue-and-white box.”

He eats his sandwich with his back to Jean. There’s a nick on the cabinet door in front of him. He wonders how it got there. “So,” he says, swallowing a bite that had way too much mustard on it, “turns out James’s middle name is Harper.”