Underneath It All (The Walsh Series #1) (34 page)

“It hasn’t, and I want to talk to you now,” I said, irritation creeping into my voice.

He closed his laptop and crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze cool and appraising. “Really, Lauren? What is there to say? Maybe you could tell me about your busy schedule again, or how your life is too complicated to make plans more than three hours in advance? Why don’t you tell me how we’re forcing this, and I don’t meet your—”

“I fucking love you, Matthew!” I dropped my bag and advanced on him, and he shot up, sending his chair tumbling to the ground. “That’s what I’m here to say,” I said. “That I screwed up and I convinced myself it was one or the other, you or my school, and I was wrong. I can have as much as I want, whenever I want it, and I can make up the plan as I go. I just need you, and I finally understand now.”

We stood in the center of the small waiting room, his agitated glare burning memories of this moment into my skin. His breath, his heat, his scent—they surrounded me. I was trapped and confined, and exactly where I wanted to be.

But he wouldn’t say it back to me. He wouldn’t give me the three little words I craved, and this—
this
was karma.

“It scares me,” I said, my voice steady and strong while every cell in my body flew into fits of panic. “It scares me to want you like this, to need you, to be responsible for more than me when I can barely manage myself.” Staring at his tie, the green one with tiny pink tessellations, I debated whether I could wait much longer for his touch.

And then I remembered I didn’t need to wait for anything.

“It scares the hell out of me,” I said, my hand pressing against his tie, and up, over his chest and shoulder, around his neck. Knotty, corded muscles met my fingers. “But here I am.”

Matthew narrowed his eyes, his head inclined while I soothed the tension in his neck, and he stared at me for several heavy moments. “Is this because you want my cock in your mouth? I mean, it’s been a few weeks now. You must miss it.”

Laughing, I dropped my head to his chest and basked in the warmth of his arms when they closed around me.

But he still wasn’t saying it.

“I can’t force you to want this,” he whispered into my hair. “And I can’t wait for it to be convenient for you. I’ve tried, and I’ve failed, and I can’t do it again.”

Nodding I pulled back and met his gaze. “You understand how focused I am, how committed I am to my school, even if it drives you crazy, and you understand it because you’re the same way.”

“Committed is one word for it.”

“That’s not changing, for either of us, and if you’re okay with take-out and Netflix as our primary source of entertainment, I know I can do better at committing to
us
.”

“Do better as in…?” He bent to meet my eyes, his brows furrowed. “You’re going to stop waiting half an hour to respond to my texts? Or you’re going to make plans before sunset? Or you’d consider moving in together?”

He was tentative, and that irritated scowl still haunted his features, but he was making his way back to me.

“I was thinking your place, but I want to bring a lot of my furniture. And art. And pillows. You need more color, and personality. And I don’t understand why everything in your kitchen is white.”

Matthew’s kiss drained the darkness lingering from the past weeks out of my body. I urged him forward, wanting to feel him pressed against me.

“So bossy,” he murmured against my lips.

“You’re a caveman,” I laughed. “I have to keep up.”

Okay, so I’d wait until he was ready to say it again. I knew a few things about waiting for what I wanted.

MATTHEW

From: Erin Walsh

To: Matthew Walsh

Date: December 14 at 01:51 CEST

Subject: RE: Angus had a stroke

Okay, a couple things.

First, I actually have been off the grid since that last email. I mean, I read it, wrote a really nasty response, deleted the whole thing, and then went off the grid.

Second, you’re right about all of it. I know why he’s a dick but I’m not ready to let it go yet. You don’t see how easy you had it, Matt. You’ve never been the subject of his hatred. You’ve just been the one who mediated when he went thermonuclear. We wouldn’t have survived without you, but you have to see that it’s different from being the one who was tossed to the curb. I can’t just get over it right now. I care about you. About all of you guys. I hope you’re okay, but me flying to Boston won’t solve any of this.

Third, I’m not happy to hear about Lauren. I didn’t want that. Yeah, I gave you a hard time, but I was on your side, Matt. I really want it to work out, if that’s what you want. When it does work out, maybe instead of me going to Boston, you can bring Lauren to me.

I’m sorry about everything. I hope you’re okay.

*

No one needed
to tell us how bad it was, but they kept doing it anyway.

The seizures came and went, and then there were a few relatively uneventful days where Angus lingered in his coma. He mixed it up when a vessel in his brain blew out, and spent the better part of a day in surgery.

Nick offered a complicated story about intracranial pressure and brain swelling and removing part of his skull, but it might as well have been the weather report for northwestern Siberia because I didn’t give a damn. He also warned us about the drain pumping extra fluid out of Angus’s brain, and that being a freakish sight, though his caution was pointless: we weren’t going in that room any time soon.

Then again, strokes and dying fathers were bad news for normal people, and we stopped being normal people ages ago.

After two additional comatose weeks, Nick scheduled a meeting and put the hospital’s chief neurosurgeons in front of us. It was a dreary Monday morning the week before Christmas, and a full house in the ICU conference room. It seemed like the type of room designed for bad news. Awkward window angles, odd door placement, unnecessarily bright overheard lights. The table was too big and the chairs didn’t match, and nothing good could possibly come from a room like this.

Riley and I filled in the far end while Patrick and Shannon sat in the center, directly across from the surgeons. Sam hovered on the edge, looking like he wanted the floor to open up and eat him. He vacillated between indifference, and the locked and loaded rage he carried for Angus.

The doctors introduced themselves—Chatterjee and Britton, plus their residents—and discussed the complications and intricacies of Angus’s case while Nick leaned against the door. They had all manner of scans and tests, and discussed a handful of treatment plans and care facilities, but one statement stood out: no evidence of brain activity.

Britton glanced between Patrick and Shannon when she finished with the prognosis. “Did you father ever discuss end-of-life care?”

She directed her questions to Patrick because it was obvious to everyone who was in charge, but he shifted toward Shannon and gestured for her to respond.

“No,” Shannon said. “Not with us, that is. And he didn’t leave any advance care directives.”

“Patients don’t come back from these complications. A recovery would be an exceptionality, Miss Walsh. We can make him comfortable, and provide him some peace.” Britton nodded to her team and stood. “Please reach out with any questions. Myself, Dr. Chatterjee, Dr. Acevedo—we’re all available for you and your family.”

The team left and we spent a few minutes staring at each other until I said, “He’s brain dead. It’s over, and I know you’re all thinking the same thing.”

“The life support measures are the only things keeping him alive,” Nick said. “If we discontinued those measures, it could be a matter of minutes or hours, and in some cases days.”

Patrick looked up from the information about long-term care facilities. “Is that the right decision, Nick?”

He lifted his hands, weighing the invisible options. “It wouldn’t be wrong. It would be humane.”

“Then we’ll sign whatever we need to sign,” Shannon said. Her voice cracked, and she put her head in her hands. I hadn’t seen my sister cry in years, maybe even decades, and I couldn’t stay in that room any longer.

Blindly jogging down the stairs and through the halls, I searched for a quiet corner or empty room, something, somewhere to clear my head. I stumbled into a small, dim room and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust, my brain to process. It was a chapel, and though I didn’t believe I belonged there, I couldn’t make myself leave. I sank into the last pew and expelled a ragged breath.

When my mother was alive, she went to church daily. There were always candles to light and prayers to offer, and my father used to say she was there more often than most of the saints. The last time I visited a church was my mother’s funeral. I never thought I’d go back, and after that, why should I?

My mother had loved us unconditionally, of that I had no doubt, but it wasn’t because she said it often. It was because I felt it everywhere, all the time.

Lauren was like that, too. Her love was wrapped in every glance, every movement, every touch. Some were loud and insistent, and others were barely a whisper, but each one burrowed inside me, making me whole. She said it when the moment felt right, and though I wanted her saying it all day, every day, I wasn’t ready to reciprocate.

The place where she tore away from me in Shannon’s kitchen still stung, and regardless of how much I wanted to tell her I loved her, we needed to find our footing first. It wasn’t easy picking up where we left off, and given the state of affairs with Angus, we hadn’t had much time to talk through the important pieces.

But talking—real, clothed conversations—had never been our strength, and we communicated most effectively through touch.

The best part of my day was crawling into bed with her, lying together in the darkness. We spent most nights at her apartment because it was closer to my office and the hospital, where my siblings and I were still rotating through shifts.

On the odd evening when we weren’t busy tearing each other’s clothes off, we determined all of her furniture was coming to my loft but we were still debating some of her bright prints. I was secretly looking forward to her velvet pillows and colorful kitchen accessories.

But I wasn’t excited about her Christmas trip to Mexico next week. Old habits died hard, and I worried she’d decide to disappear again, or her father would lock her in a Mexican convent. Both seemed somewhat plausible, and I was bitter about losing my naughty schoolteacher. I didn’t know how to sleep without her.

I stared at my phone, wishing I could sum up the present situation with some combination of emoticons.

13:09 Matthew:
we’re taking Angus off life support.

13:11 Lauren:
im so sorry. what do you need?

13:11 Lauren:
have you said goodbye?

13:12 Matthew:
no

13:13 Lauren:
you need to, all of you do.

13:13 Matthew:
you.

13:14 Matthew:
i need you.

13:14 Lauren:
give me 15 mins.

*

When Lauren arrived,
it was clear she understood the task at hand. Nick looked on with his tense neurosurgeon glare to back her up, and one by one, she marched us down the hall for a final conversation with Angus.

Riley went first, and I watched as she reached out for his hand when they stepped through the doorway. They stayed for nine minutes—I needed a distraction, and counting the seconds gave me one—and I couldn’t imagine what took so long, but when they emerged, all six foot three of Riley engulfed my little Lauren, and he cried in her arms. Sam, Patrick, and I shared confused glances and ‘I don’t know what just happened to him’ shrugs.

Patrick went next, and though he only spent two minutes inside, nearly twenty minutes were spent embracing Lauren outside.

Shannon stared down the hallway for a long time before nodding at Lauren. They held on to each other—Shannon’s arm around Lauren’s waist, Lauren’s arm squeezing Shannon’s shoulders—and I noticed tears rolling down their faces. I didn’t track how long Shannon and Lauren were with Angus, but they clung to each other, crying, when they left.