Flash Burned (20 page)

On a Saturday afternoon near the end of January, he lugged in a large box and placed it at Chelsea's feet while she sat ceremoniously in her usual chair at the table. The logo on the side made me smile. Legos.

She had a small set, but from the size of Kyle's delivery I'd say she could build a Chrysler Building taller than she was.

Maybe it was the parent-to-be side of me that found her so fascinating. I watched her carefully, so that I didn't disturb or confuse her. Stealing glances, really, while I read articles on naming babies, caring for babies, keeping babies healthy and happy. The OB-GYN Dr. Stevens had hooked me up with not only was renowned in her field but also had two kids now in college. She was an excellent resource for my gazillion questions on how not to fuck up my own kid's life.

Interestingly, no one inquired as to whom the father was, and I was relieved by that. I would tell my child all about Dane, but I couldn't speak of him to anyone else. Not even Kyle.

With regard to him, I suspected my fellow retreat dwellers and the staff wondered if Kyle might be the father, given how close he stuck to me and how well we got along. I didn't bother setting any records straight. But I did smile more when he was around, could breathe a bit easier.

And, as Chelsea clapped enthusiastically while Kyle dumped heaps of Legos on her table, I got the distinct impression he'd be a huge help when my baby was born. My father would be as well. He actually liked that I was in a round-the-clock care facility. I think he worried I'd gone a bit mental. He had good cause for the concern.

Despite my being a bit messed up all the way around, I did tell Dr. Stevens I'd vacate immediately if someone else applied for the room. She seemed to see, from my eyes, all the shit I dealt with internally, privately. The war I waged between wanting to slip into some sort of mind-numbing coma and desperately trying to be a sound, stable person for the sake of my child.

Thus, she repeatedly told me she felt this was the place for me currently and that I was not unnecessarily taking up space. That was usually right about the time my sickness acted up and I made a beeline for a bathroom. She'd bring me a wet washcloth and give me a knowing—and somewhat
see, I'm right
—look.

While Chelsea started to touch and inspect each and every one of the Lego pieces—a task that might take her a good week to complete, but which likely occupied her mind—Kyle joined me on the sofa.

“You're really good with her,” I said, my admiration for him increasing by leaps and bounds since that night of the Lux tragedy, when Kyle had demonstrated he would hero-up for any cause.

“She's incredible,” he said of Chelsea. “And so adorable.”

“I feel bad for her mother. I met her when she came for a visit. Single mom working two jobs. And they've been through several specialists on their own who couldn't help Chelsea, but she's connected well with Tabitha and Lisa. And Dr. Stevens. You.”

“She doesn't seem to mind you much anymore, either.”

“This is the closest she lets me get to her, but that's okay. I just like to watch her work. She's so meticulous.” My OCD nature responded to Chelsea's impeccable style.

“Yeah. I think she'll be here indefinitely, but she seems to enjoy it. This place is good spiritually as much as it is physically.”

“I agree.” Though I wasn't convinced I'd ever be whole again. Not without Dane.

Kyle was quiet a few moments, prompting me to say, “I wouldn't take you for the Zen type.”

“I'm not. Except…” He shrugged, clearly feigning nonchalance. I knew, because his jaw clenched ever so briefly. Then he told me, “I had my own stint here. That's one of the main reasons I suggested you check in, aside from Macy being my aunt and knowing you can trust her.”

I stared quizzically at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Patient confidentiality. She won't give up any of your secrets, Ari.”

“What does that have to do with your
stint
?”

“She didn't give up any of mine, either.”

“Kyle. You're being way too vague.”

With a frustrated sigh, he explained, “Since I was a kid playing Pop Warner, I wanted a football career. I wanted to play pro and I put everything I had into making it happen. I was good enough to earn a full-ride scholarship to Arizona State University and broke a few records. All I wanted was to be the best damn quarterback I could be.”

Over six feet and solid muscle, I guessed he wasn't too off the mark size-wise, and obviously not talent-wise, since he'd landed a scholarship to ASU.

“So what happened?” I asked. This was not a topic we'd broached before and my curiosity suddenly burned to know more about his past.

“Got hurt.” He seemed to grind over this a few moments. I didn't press. Eventually, he told me, “We had a shitty first season and my offensive line couldn't protect me well enough to not take a number of sacks. My left knee seemed to be the biggest target. Finally blew the fucker out on a play where I ran the ball for thirty yards before getting tackled.”

“Wow, thirty yards. That's amazing for a quarterback.” Then I said, “But damn. Your knee.”

“Yeah. I spent the summer here in rehab. Quietly. No one knew. By the time I made it back for the start of practice my second year, I was feeling pretty good. Moving like nothing had ever happened.”

“Oh, God,” I said, a dismal feeling sweeping through me. “You got hit again.”

“Same goddamn knee.”

“Christ, Kyle. I'm so sorry.” I patted his jean-clad thigh.

“Bad news was that I couldn't come up here during the season to work on it. Man, it sucks to blow out a knee. I had a boatload of cortisone injections, rehab in the off-seasons, knee braces year-round, just to protect it as best as I could. I pretended it didn't hurt like hell. I…” He shook his head as his thought trailed off.

“You, what?”

“Nothing. Look, the thing is, when I could be here, it helped immensely.”

I was interested in all that he clearly wasn't telling me but didn't pry. Just said, “I don't doubt it. And I'm sure your entire family rallied around you and—”

“No.” His jaw set again. There was definitely a lot of angst built around his college football career. “Mom was busy with Shell, and Dad … Well. When you have a road-warrior, salesman father whose sole excitement when he returns home is reliving his glory days by challenging his son on the front lawn for the neighbors to see—and said son being superprotective of his knee so that he doesn't do any further damage, thereby not really bringing his A game … Dad always thought I was mocking him by holding back.”

I winced. “That must have made for some pretty tense times.”

“By a lot.” He shrugged again. “Whatever. Anyway, point being, this is a great place to recover and readjust. I had a couple of awesome seasons following the first two crappy ones. Because of Aunt Macy and her staff.”

“So, then you could have gone pro?”

“I was part of the draft. Put serious thought into what I really wanted to do at that juncture in my life.”

I didn't miss the pain that tinged his voice as he added, “But really, I had to face facts. I could play without telling anyone how agonizing it was when I just tweaked my knee the wrong way. But I knew in the back of my mind that I could be out for an entire season if I got hit hard enough in the right spot. I was twenty-one and thinking I should be invincible. I wasn't. And what would I be like when I was thirty if I kept taking blow after blow? Crippled?”

I stared at him, seeing the disappointment in his decision—or in himself. For being human. Fallible. Breakable.

“Kyle.” I covered his hand with mine as we sat on the sofa, no one else paying attention. “You think you sold yourself short? Took the easy way out?”

He didn't speak for a while, and I didn't push.

A few minutes ticked by. Then he finally said, “I didn't want to end up like my dad. He wasn't good enough for pro for no reason other than he didn't possess enough talent. He was good, but not worthy of a team picking him up. It pissed him off. Stayed with him. Made him pretty damn bitter.” Kyle shook his head. “To this day, I think one of the reasons he's so into his job is because he's a rock-star salesman, making some serious coin. But he takes every trip he can to avoid being at home, especially when there are family events—and you know, all the relatives get a little tipsy and start making comparisons about who's the better football player of the family.”

I wasn't exactly knowledgeable when it came to this testosterone-riddled behavior, but I could at least empathize because of the fact that my father had suffered greatly with a bad shoulder that had jacked his own professional career.

“So,” I ventured, “the Jennses aren't akin to the Brady Bunch?”

“Not in the least.”

“I can relate.”

He nodded. Then changed the subject—probably for both our sakes. “What do you think about a night out? A movie in town?”

I considered his request, still careful not to lead him on in any way. As much time as we spent together at the retreat, I had to continue the
we're just friends
stance. But that wasn't really the issue at present.

“I'm still in that stage where I need to stay close to a bathroom. I breathe wrong and start to spew.”

With a chuckle, he said, “That's pretty gross, Ari.”

“Tell me about it. I walk slowly. I don't move my head much. I avoid loud noises, strong scents, and spicy food. And yet I could be ultra-cautious and
bam
. The stomach revolts.”

One of the chefs had been concocting milkshakes for me to coat my stomach, add some calories. They were as soothing as the tea and helped to keep the queasiness to a moderate level, rather than the roller coaster I'd been on previously.

“At least your color has come back,” Kyle noted. “And you've got a little meat on the bones. Not much, but … better.”

“Taking it one day at a time. But, hey. You don't have to hang out here with me. Go out with Meg and Sean. Your other friends. Have a life.”

“Yeah, I should get together with the newlyweds. They've been calling me anti-social. But there's been a lot of work to do here at the retreat. My aunt gets so wrapped up in her patients that she doesn't pay attention to what she calls the ‘trivial.'”

“It's nice to have you around,” I said. “But don't feel obligated for my sake. You've gone so far above and beyond best friend. I really appreciate everything you've done for me.”

“I'm worried about you,” he said, his expression turning serious.

“I'll survive. Somehow. Rome wasn't built in a day, right?” I glanced around him and found Chelsea watching us as curiously as I usually studied her. I smiled. “Well, if we're talking about the Colosseum, Chelsea could probably build the replica in a day.”

He laughed. “Without doubt.” Jumping to his feet, he disappeared for five or ten minutes, then returned.

Kyle placed a sheet of paper on Chelsea's table and they shared a private grin.

I actually found myself a bit envious. Though I couldn't explain why, other than missing my own private moments with Dane?

When Kyle returned to the sofa, I asked, “What'd you do?”

“Printed out a photo of the Colosseum.”

“Wow. I really had no idea you were so good with kids.”

He winked and said in a suggestive tone, “I have many,
many
talents, babe.”

 

chapter 10

The beginning of February brought with it another beautiful dusting of snow on the plateaus of the canyon. And the reminder of everything I fought to forget for sanity's sake …

I'd taken to tending the gardens with Kyle and clipping flowers for arrangements I could create for Hannah to paint. February was our pruning season, and since the weather had been mild for most of the winter, we still had gorgeous blooms. But they needed to be cut back, especially with the occasional dip in temperature that led to snow, though it never stuck for more than a day. Mostly just a few fleeting hours.

I channeled the energy not expended with yoga and Pilates into the bouquets. That was in between my still-sometimes debilitating morning sickness.

Dehydration was my current nemesis. I'd suffered three times, thus far, and it wasn't pretty. Yet despite the complications with my pregnancy, I'd latched on to this baby like a life preserver. I read out loud to it, talked to it, played a variety of music, and generally spent an exorbitant amount of my time rubbing my belly.

I contemplated how many months after the baby was born before I could go back to wedding planning. But bridal consulting left a sour taste in my mouth, following my own devastating nuptial experience. So I considered general event planning for other resorts.

I understood I didn't have to work—ever. And while I could take advantage of being a full-time mom, I wasn't sure how I felt about that, either. I weighed the options and even spoke with Chelsea's mother, Abby, about the fact that she had to work. To my surprise, she confessed that even if she had financial freedom she'd feel worthless in trying to be everything Chelsea needed, because she didn't possess the required skill set.

That was when I decided two things. I needed a bigger worldview of parenthood, since mine was ridiculously limited. And I wanted to help Abby so that she didn't have to work two jobs to afford living expenses and Chelsea's care, especially since the latter seemed to be making an improvement in the child's life.

From there spawned the idea of possibly establishing an autistic children's foundation or even one for low-income single mothers. Though I didn't know the first thing about setting up something like that—or managing it. So I retrieved the slip of paper with Mr. Conaway's number jotted down and called him on Dr. Stevens's landline, since I hadn't replaced my cell that was but a remnant at the Lux, along with my diamond bracelet.