Vital Sign (9 page)

She holds my gaze for a long time. My eyes study her brown depths. I dive in headfirst
, searching for more information. I feel like if I look hard enough, close enough, long enough into her eyes I’ll be able to see the inner workings. I’ll be able to see what drives her forward and what holds her back. I’ll see what’s broken. I’ll diagnose her ailment and do my damnedest to treat it. To make her better.

I’ve lost my fucking mind.

I’m like Tom Hanks in
Castaway
, a desperate man so isolated and longing for companionship that he finds it in a fucking volleyball.

My nostrils flar
e as I take another deep breath, working hard to gather my thoughts.
What did she say her name was?
The air in my lungs solidifies when my subconscious offers up the answer to my question.

Sadie.
Sadie. Sadie.

My spine tingles at the possibility. There’s no way that this woman that I’ve never seen in my life could possibly be her
, Sadie Parker, the widow that I’ve wondered about every day since I woke up in recovery in Atlanta.

I didn’t know the details of the donor or the family
, of course, but I wondered about her, at least in some capacity. I wondered who’s world had just fallen apart as mine came together. I wondered who the person was that loved the donor most. I wondered who it was that had me feeling an insurmountable heap of guilt simply for needing the transplant and then living through it. I wondered who I owed my life to.

My
mouth moves on its own, desperate for more information. “It’s a little early in the season for me to shoo people away from this beach. Visiting?” My hand squeezes around hers as a silent prayer that she’s really
her
and at the same time that she isn’t.  I’m a dick. I want this visibly broken woman in front of me to be available to me but at the same time my heart breaks for her if she is. I shrink a little beneath the guilt that I feel if she’s the Sadie that I think she is. My donor’s Sadie. My Sadie.

“Not exactly. I’m here to meet someone.” I watch as her arms wrap around her front as if to hug herself. She’s freezing. Something fiercely protective and foreign as fuck builds deep inside of me.

She’s got to be
her
. She’s got to be
my Sadie
and she’s freezing out here, dripping wet and exposed in that dress that’s doing very little to conceal her curves.

“Who
?” I ask, though I already know the answer. I ask anyway. A part of me wants to hear her say my name. I want to see her mouth move and curve around each syllable as they fall from her beautiful mouth. I glance around us, making sure no one is looking. Anxiety grows as I realize what would happen if photos of this woman ended up in the newspaper or tabloids. I’d kill the motherfucker who violated her.

My eyes snap to her and I watch as she speaks my name for the very first time. I hope it won’t be the last. Something fires rapidly inside me. A bond, a profound connection stronger than I’ve ever felt overwhelms me right here on the sand, tethering me to her. I hate myself for it right away. I’m the most fuck
ed up person I know. I want her. I want the wife of the man who died and donated his heart so that I could go on with my screwed up existence. It doesn’t seem right even to an asshole like me. The way by which I came by this heart doesn’t help, either. That’s another sort of guilt that tears at me and drives me further from my family in Atlanta.

Con
artists
.

This connection—I
can try to ignore it, but it’s a lost cause. I’m sure of it. I can feel it. Even if I never saw Sadie Parker again, in my mind she’ll always be the woman that I can’t escape. I don’t think I’ll be able to ignore the pull that I feel. It’s physical. It’s carnal. It’s human. It’s emotional. It’s alien. At least, to me it is.

I ca
n practically see her in my bed, in my care. I can imagine how tender and smooth the inside of her thighs would feel against my lips. I can picture her curled up on my couch wrapped in a blanket, warm, relaxed, cared for. I wonder how those vacant brown eyes look when she’s happy. I imagine that they’d light up from somewhere deep inside and somehow make the world—my world—a better place just for sharing herself with the rest of it.

Fuck
.

I hold my hand out and confess who I am before I get lost in thought again. I watch closely, guardedly
, as her eyes widen and the expressionless woman that I pulled from the water shows some animation on her features.

Against my will
, I smile a little. I’ve taken her by surprise. God, I could fall into those brown eyes. Her mouth hangs open and my gut clenches, thinking about slipping my tongue into her soft mouth. Her face relaxes and her eyes stare straight ahead at my chest. I fight the urge to bring up my hand to cover the scar. I’m wearing a shirt, but it’s soaked and leaves little to the imagination. Guilt crashes down, making me feel less than worthy. She’s hurt and cold and I feel responsible to make her better.

***

I might as well be dragging her back to my house. I practically demand that she do as I say.

Such a
prick
.

I don’t
have a choice though. There’s no way in fuck that I’m going let her walk away from me, cold, lonely, and exposed. What if there’s some intrusive jerk waiting to shove his camera in her face? What if she was caught off guard by questions about me? I won’t risk that. I can’t.

When she
agrees to come back to the house to dry off, I make the mistake of reaching forward and touching her. The pads of my fingers make contact with her cool skin and that seals the deal for me. Fuck, if I don’t want to pull her to me right then. My urge to hold her, to protect her, is only challenged by the raw, uninhibited amount of lust that I feel towards her. I will my fingers to release her in spite of myself and make sure to walk a little ahead of her so that she can’t see that just that single brief touch was enough to rouse desire in me. My cock had twitched in my soaked jeans, threatening to make the situation so much more uncomfortable for the both of us. I stride with determination to my boardwalk, giving my semi a chance to cool the fuck down.

I glance back at her when I hear her light footfalls come to a
halt. The look on her face rips me to pieces. She’s standing there on my boardwalk looking so fucking alone that I wish I could steal the loneliness from her. I’d take it from her. I don’t know why other than the fact that I feel so indebted and responsible for this gorgeous, tormented woman in front of me. I bite my tongue, literally; shocks of pain bolt through me but I keep quiet. Somehow I know what she needs in this moment.

Unspoiled silence.

I take a tentative step back, nearing her on the boardwalk. She focuses on the railing as her hands drift carefully, lazily over the banister. Instinctively, I want to warn her away. The wood is old and worn and splintering everywhere. My lips part but I snap my mouth shut, allowing her to explore the railing. Her eyes tell a story. It’s one that has me rapt.

There’s an anguish in her that I find so attractive. The look on her face, the way her body seems so…fragile
…all of her draws me in. She pulls me. She had even before seeing her on the beach. I exchanged brief and to the point emails with a strange woman and I couldn’t get her out of my mind. I’ve been wondering who she is, how she’s coping with her loss, all the while wishing, deep down, that I could make it better, make it right. Now I can see how she’s handling her loss. It’s obvious to anyone that she’s suffering. It shreds me but I’d be a goddamn liar if I said it didn’t make me want her more. I haven’t done the girlfriend thing since Allison and what a misery
that
was. But Sadie Parker has lured me in with the prospect that I could help. Maybe I find her so attractive because a part of me wants to even the score, to make her better as payment for the heart that I feel unworthy of. I didn’t deserve it. I still don’t. But maybe if I could soothe and comfort her, I’d feel less guilty.

The uncertainty written all over her face makes me ache. I’m not an emotional man
, but looking at her testing the integrity of my boardwalk is enough to drive me over the edge. Her eyes stay focused on the wood, looking almost disbelieving that it held beneath the weight of our feet. Maybe she wonders how she could be as resilient. I can’t blame her. I wonder the same thing all the time.

“Don’t worry. It’s solid. Doesn’t look that way to everyone else, but I know different.” I mean it too. I’m sincere and I hope she can hear that in my voice because I’m
not sure what else to say right now. Seems like whatever that means to her, whatever that means to me—it’s the right thing to say at this very moment.

I watch as something burns in Sadie Parker’s eyes. It sparks then flickers just enough for me to see it. Hope? Relief? Whatever it was
, I’m glad I’m the one who put it there. I wish, I
hope
that I can do so much more for her. So much more.

***

I turn on the tap and strip off my jeans and tee, staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror as the water runs in the sink. I’ve braced myself against the sink and do my best to dial myself down. I had to get in here in a hurry. Sadie standing in my house, admiring all the shit that my mom’s decorator had festooned the house with stirred something inside me.

Pride
.

I haven’t felt proud of myself, my things,
or my life in so fucking long and then here comes Sadie. Sadie Parker, the 26-year-old widow, walked up to the balcony with me and went to the railing. She took in my view, her eyes scanning out over the sea, and I don’t think she realized it, but her lips tilted up on one side, showing the ghost of what could be a smile. God, I wish she had given that to me. I’m sure that a full-on smile from her would break my heart into pieces. She’d wound me in the most perfect way. It would be a sweet agony. I can picture it in my head; I wish so badly that I could make it happen. I can think of no better sight. The little tinge of pride that she stoked in me makes me want more. I’ve not been proud of myself or my life, but seeing her taking in all the beauty that my isolated world has to offer drives me to show her more.

The connection I feel to this woman was so instant. I’ve never felt anything like it. Something about her, about me, about the situation that we find ourselves in—if I believed in fate
, I’d say that’s exactly what it is. If fate exists, if it’s real, I would say that somehow our journeys are the same.

April 22, 2013

By the time I get to my motel, my t-shirt is soaked from clutching the wet clothes to my chest in an effort to hide my bare breasts. Door number four comes into view and I begin unraveling my wad of wet clothes in search of my surfboard keychain.

“Come on,” I mutter to myself
, glancing around to see if anyone is witnessing this mess I’m in. I groan, knowing that I must have left my key at Zander’s beach house. My head drops back and I look up at the awning, wanting nothing more than to slap myself for being such a dumbass.

Yay. More ego
-wounding embarrassment.

I drag myself into the small lobby and hurry to the desk where Dawn is standing, flipping through the pages of a magazine.

I clear my throat and work out a weak explanation. “Um, hey, Dawn, I uh, left my key at my friend’s house after I fell into his-her-their…pool. Can you let me into my room?”

Dawn gasps and bugs her eyes out at me. “You poor thing!
You must be frozen! Let’s get you back into your room.” She grabs a wad of keys from the desk in front of her and rounds the counter, leading the way back to room four.

“I’ll get the key back
tomorrow. I’m sorry about that,” I offer quietly from behind her as she unlocks my door.

“Oh, honey, it’s no big deal. People lose these room keys on the beach every summer. Good thing I get a good deal on those cute little surfboards, huh?”
She smiles and winks as she holds the door to my room open for me. She’s clearly proud of her lovely little motel and I can see it. She wears her pride like a badge. It’s a little heartwarming even for me, the chronically bitchy Ice Queen.

“Yeah, I guess so. Thanks, Dawn.”

“No problem, hon. Need anything else?”

I shake my head no and smile.

“Okay. I’ll see ya later.”

“
Bye.”

The door clicks
shut and I secure the deadbolt, lean against the back of the door, and sink to the floor in a heap, but not before I shamefully scrunch the collar of Zander’s shirt up to my nose and inhale. I close my eyes, draw him in, try not to hate myself for doing it or hate Zander for making me
want
to do it.

***

I run my wrist beneath the stream of water to make sure that it isn’t too hot and, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, peel myself out of my clothes. Zander’s clothes. The white t-shirt hangs from the tip of my fingers. It’s soft. Feels good. Smells even better. I meant to drop his shirt to the floor but I can’t. The long-lost, purely female part of me won’t drop it. I look at myself in the mirror. My breasts are full and round, my nipples tight. My cheeks are just the faintest shade of pink. The mirror has begun to fog so that my reflection is a little obscured, which makes looking at myself much easier because right now…I ache. I ache so badly. The long-lost butterflies that Zander planted in my stomach today have roused another long-lost part of me.

Desire
.

Dragging my gaze from the blurred reflection of myself, I look down to Zander
’s shirt in my hand. I know what I’m about to do. The tingling sensation gathering between my legs is driving me forward. It’s fueling my courage with an endless amount of blind passion. I don’t have to look at myself. I don’t have to think. I just want to feel. Pulling the shirt to my face, I inhale. With my eyes shut, I imagine him wearing this shirt. I imagine Zander standing so close to me that I seem to melt into him. I can picture his arms around me, his hands tangling into my hair. His mouth is on my neck, nipping at the tender spot beneath my jaw, pushing his hips forward until I can’t stand the wait any longer, his breathing ragged and needy against my skin. Fuck, he would feel so good. I just know it. My core clenches at nothingness, prompting my hips to undulate towards vacant space in front of me. I use one hand to easily slink Zander’s shorts down my legs. They fall to the floor with a soft
whoosh
. I step out of them and go to the tub. The water is perfect. I flip the drain toggle upward and water quickly begins to fill the tub. I step in with Zander’s shirt still pressed to my face. The tub is oversized and perfect for me to sink down in. The cool ceramic coating sends a shiver through me as I get comfortable. I rest against the back of it, letting the shirt trail down the front of me.

The smell of him is all around me. Thoughts of him fill my head. My free hand skates leisurely down my stomach and around my
navel. A wave of self-induced goosebumps spreads across my skin. With my eyes still shut, breathing in his scent, I let my fingers drift to my slick center. A small gasp escapes when the pad of my middle finger glides easily across my clit. It’s easy to picture him here with me, making my body hum with need. My finger makes pass after pass over my sensitive, slick knot of nerves. Heat rushes. Arousal builds. My hands shake, moving frantically, desperate for release. My hips thrust forward, bucking back and forth, seeking resistance and friction.  A sob-like moan strangles from my throat. My eyes water. I draw my knees up closer, letting them open as wide as the sides of the tub will allow them. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut as the first glistening hints of climax spring forward deep in my core. A growing tightness steals my breath.

One.

Two.

Three
more passes from my diligent finger and the world falls away and implodes simultaneously. My other hand goes to my center and I plunge two fingers into my channel just in time to feel the body-racking spasms tear through me. I gasp and moan and cry out almost all at once.

My breathing slows, my body
relaxing languidly against the tub. I thought that I’d feel better afterwards. I thought a little release would serve me well, but I was so fucking wrong. A burgeoning melancholy more powerful than I’m prepared for stalks up to me and engulfs me right here in the bathroom.

Maybe it’s the release making me so weepy? Or it could be the
usual gamut of emotions raging inside me that’s making me feel like a punching bag that has seen far too many rounds.

I haven’t had an orgasm in two years. The last time I had any type of sexual release was the night Jake and I were shot. He
had come home, showered, and prowled into our bedroom in search of me. I opened my body to him and we made love in perfect silence. That was the last time.

Since Jake,
I haven’t—I never did anything like what I just did. I guess in my mind, I felt like he deserved to be the last one that I shared that with. Yet here I am, sprawled in a motel bathtub, crying guiltily because not only have I gone and ruined the fact that Jake was the last time, but I just got myself off clinging to another man’s t-shirt. It wasn’t Jake that I was picturing hovering above me, it was Zander. I feel guilty for doing it but I feel even guiltier for enjoying it. I feel most guilty for the tiny sprig of hope that just bloomed somewhere in my soul. I know that that little sprig of hope will flourish if I allow it to. The knowledge that I could free myself from a prison of grief has my heart swelling. It makes me so painfully emotional.

***

While the television in this motel room isn’t some high definition flat screen, it tunes in movies just fine. I’ve been sprawled on the queen bed in my pajamas watching a crime-thriller movie marathon for hours.

It has kept my mind off my run in at the beach
…for the most part. I can’t believe I wandered right to Alexander McBride. I tried to forget the way he looked at me, especially because I know I liked the way he looked at me. The bath felt good.
So good
. The water was hot and I lingered for a long time, letting it wash away my embarrassing, awkward, frustrating afternoon, except it didn’t work. Not at all. In fact, it probably made it worse.

“Alexander McBride. Zander,” I mumble to myself
, working his name over in my head. Something about that name seems familiar. I scrunch up my eyebrows and think hard for a moment.

Someone with the same name in
high school? College?

It could very well be that his name is just one of those
ones you swear you’ve heard before but you actually haven’t. Either way, I’m certain that if I knew this man, I’d remember him.

You don’t forget someone that attractive. Admitting that he
’s gorgeous has me feeling guilty all over again. I shouldn’t be checking out some stranger the way I did today. I definitely shouldn’t be getting myself off to him. I shouldn’t be so drawn to him, but I am. I’m married. Not to mention the fact that said stranger is also the man who lucked out and got a life saving transplant
from
my husband.
It’s the biggest conflict of interest I’ve ever run smack in to.

Honestly, the fact that he looks so enticing probably has everyt
hing to do with the fact that I haven’t been touched by a man since Jake. I don’t plan on it either. I feel bad enough for what I did in the bathtub. Jake was my first and last. I gave my body to him when we said our vows. His death doesn’t mean that I get to renege on that promise. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t—I couldn’t—be with another man. The private thoughts about Zander are as far as it’s going to go.

Looking never hur
t anyone, though, and denying that Zander is something to be admired is just dumb. Anyone with decent eyesight can see that man was blessed with perfect DNA where aesthetics are concerned.

He’s got hair the color of cinnamon
. It’s short on the sides but long enough on top to look slightly mussed up even though his hair was combed to the side a little, displaying a jagged part. He probably uses his fingers to part his hair. Or maybe it just falls that way when he gets out of the shower. Either way, his style suits him well. His sideburns are closely groomed and perfectly straight. His eyes are a sapphire blue with gold-flecked eyelashes that any woman would die to have. The sun literally shined on him and made those lashes of his glitter. Men should not be allowed to have long, full eyelashes that glitter in the sunlight, showing off natural highlights. That should be reserved only for women like me who have to slather on mascara to get any kind of volume. He has high cheekbones and a sharp, defined jawline. There are traces of laugh lines around his mouth, but they’re only traces, as far as I can tell. I didn’t see any lightheartedness in him today. A little ache of dismay fills my chest at the thought that he may not smile or laugh much. I mean—I know that I don’t smile or laugh, either, but for some reason I don’t care about me and my lackluster existence, just his. I bet he has a great laugh. I imagine it’s one of those laughs that feels contagious. He has a dusting of facial hair that gives him a kind of rugged look that I’m sure only looks even better when he’s laughing or smiling. A little tug at my heart has me closing my eyes, thinking about the stunning man that I met today.

I noticed a small, thin scar on his cheek when we met on the beach today. It can’t be more than a half an inch long
, but it’s there. It makes me wonder where he got it and why in the hell that teeny tiny scar makes him even more attractive. I find myself wanting to touch it. I want to run the pads of my fingers along the line of that scar. I imagine brushing my lips over the scarred tissue.

“Oh my
God,” I groan, reaching for the pillow beside me and burying my face in it.

I’d love to stay here all night
chiding myself just like this, but my stomach is protesting my lack of sustenance. Food and Zander now occupy my mind more than the detective on the television set.

I reach for the telephone on the nightstand and press “
1” for the front desk.

“Beachcomber Inn,” Dawn greets.

“Hey, Dawn, it’s Sadie Parker in room four.”

“Oh, what can I do for
ya, sweetie?” she chirps happily.

“
I was wondering what restaurants deliver here?”

“
Oh, okay. Well, there’s Ugo’s Pizzeria just down the block. They have great Italian food. I have their number if you want it. And then there’s Big Daddy’s Smokehouse. It’s a little place at the end of the street. They have the best pulled pork sandwiches. They don’t deliver, but it’s within walking distance,” Dawn explains. Just as she draws in another breath to undoubtedly list other options, a knock at the door has me scrambling to my feet.

“Uh, Dawn,
gotta go.” I don’t say goodbye to her. I hang up the phone and stand up from the bed, unsure of what the hell to do. I glance around for my purse. I have pepper spray on me at all times, like Jake always insisted. I grab my purse and begin rifling through it for the small bottle.

Whoever
’s at the door knocks again. I finally get the pepper spray in hand, shake it a few times, and tiptoe to the door. I lean forward to look out the peephole. My shoulders relax when I don’t see anyone there. Had to have been someone with the wrong room number. Maybe one of Ugo’s delivery guys. I unbolt the door and open it, pepper spray in hand, just in case.

Zander.

My shoulders slump in relief and the awkward realization of just how relieved I am to see him again doesn’t escape me.