Fat Chance (28 page)

His words are slurred, his eyes blurry and unfocused, but his face is the same face I have fallen in love with. I've been denying it for some time now, too afraid of what I was feeling to admit it, even to myself. But standing here beside him, with his hand gripping mine and my other hand buried in his dark hair, I know that I love him.

"Your sister called me," I whisper, looking over him, taking in the oxygen tube snaking under his nose, tucked behind his ears. His other arm is like a robot portal, with bandages everywhere, an IV poking out of his forearm, a pulse monitor strapped to his index finger, and a blood pressure cuff, tightening even as I watched.

The arm I'm leaning over sports a suspicious wrap around the bicep; I point to it and raise my eyebrow, to which his response is to look incredibly sheepish.

"Here too?" I ask, feeling my strength leave me when he nods. Blindly, I reach behind me, dragging a chair closer to his bedside, and I drop into it. Desperate to get my emotions under control, I lower my head to the bed, gently next to his side. He grunts a little, and then his hand is in my hair, stroking me like a pet, offering me comfort.

I remain still, accepting what he offers me, though I feel guilty even in that.

"S'okay now," he whispers, but by the time I raise my head, he's drifted off. Sitting there alone in the quiet, looking around in the dim light of the room, I can't believe how close I came -- how close we came -- to never getting our second chance.

Two surgeries. Two surgeries to save his life. Thank you, God, for Harmony.

Leaning back in the chair, I feel free to take a good look at him while he rests. His legs are straight along the edges of the bed, the sheet and blanket pooled between, and one foot is entirely uncovered. His cheek is bruised, there is a gauze bandage on one side of his broad neck, and there are frighteningly dark shadows under his eyes.

Eventually, I realize how furious I am with myself, how silly it looks now, to have put him off and pushed him away because I felt insecure. I can't stop thinking that he must have been distracted; thinking that if I hadn't told him about the confrontation with Rick, Drew would be fine right now. Looking at the bandage on his arm because I can't yet bring myself to look toward his chest, I cry silently for what we might have lost.

"S'wrong, baby?" he asks, some time later. Looking up, I realize he is awake again, and has been watching me, gazing out the window as tears run unhindered down my face.

"Nothing's wrong," I lie, and he smiles weakly, drunk on medications. "I'm okay, I just ... Drew, I'm sorry."

"Shhh," he says. "You didn't do this." He reaches for me, and I take his hand, scooting my chair closer to his bed.

"But I did. That stupid dinner, Drew, I should have never told you about it, I should have just dealt with it, and --"

"No," he whispers, his eyes fluttering as he tries to stay awake, to be with me. "Not because, you," he says.

"I've been such a mess," I argue. "And if I wasn't a distraction to you --"

"No," he says again, more firmly, though it pains him to speak loudly. He gestures with his free hand, indicating his chest, covered by the faint patterned fabric of a hospital gown. "Not your fault. Dinner, was, how?" His forehead wrinkles as he struggles to speak, through the sore throat and the drugs pumping through his IV.

"How was dinner?" I ask, and he nods. "It was okay. I was there, and the twins were with me, and Janet, too. Rick came in, and Janet and the twins were in the kitchen; I guess we kind of set him up."

"Sting," he whispers, smiling.

"Yeah," I say, softly, smiling back. "It was a sting. He came in and he thought we were alone, so he was his typical vile self, but Janet and Renee and Chelsea heard him, and they came barging in to back me up and stop him."

He nods crookedly, as if to approve of my family for supporting me so well, and I lean forward to kiss his forehead. "Rest," I whisper, but he shakes his head.

"After. Tell me," he whispers back.

"Well there isn't anything else to tell," I say. "We all had our say, and then we went outside, the girls and Janet and I, and we had dinner. When we went back into the house, he was gone."

He turns his head to the wall, frowning, and I lean forward, taking his face in my hands. Afraid that my touch will hurt him, I wait until he understands what I want and turns back to face me. "And now?" he asks.

"It's done, for me," I answer. "I've stood up for myself, and I've exposed his behavior to the entire family, such as it is. I've done my part. I'd like to think he'll turn it around, and that he'll fix things, and that he and I can be friends again. But if not, I know that I've done all that I can do."

Hope comes alive in his eyes, and he touches a palm to my face. "And us?"

"Well if you still want this, we're us again," I whisper. He pulls me forward and kisses me tenderly, gently.

"That's good," he whispers, and by the time I've settled in my seat again, he's asleep.

It's been three days since my confrontation with Rick, three days since Drew was shot, and in the time it took me to almost lose the man that I love, I have gained an entirely new family. It still shocks me, walking into Dr. Caswell's office for my appointment, and I know that it will be a great part of today's focus.

I spend a brief moment in the lobby with Ms. Caswell, and then she laughs when I tell her, "Well I guess I have to go talk to your son, now, or he'll think we're leaving him out."

"Can't be doing that," she giggles, as I turn the knob to go into his little office room.

"Hey, you," he greets me as I walk in. "You look happy today."

"Thanks, I think I finally am," I laugh. "But as usual, I have a ton to tell you. And I know I say this every week, but you are just really not going to believe this. For real this time."

Throwing back his head, he laughs with abandon, his dimples deepening in his cheeks, his eyes closed. I get a glimpse again of how handsome he is, and I hope that someday he is given what Drew and I seem to have found.

"Alright then, you'd better start talking," he says when he's managed to get his laughter under control. He presses the button on his recorder, places it on the coffee table, and drops into his chair.

"Well, the dinner with Rick was awesome! I really can't thank you enough for encouraging me; I'm not sure I'd have done it without your encouragement. I'm still not sure how it's going to end up, because Rick kind of took off, but I think he was just trying to process everything."

"And how do you feel about all of that?" he asks, leaning forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees.

"I feel great," I laugh. "I said everything that I've needed to say all these years, and I've finally been able to show him for what he is to our family, which is nice. I think they all just sort of thought I was being a baby about it all this time, but when they heard him the other night, the way he spoke to me, they were just really shocked. It was good for all of us, I think. Maybe even for Rick, in the end of it, to see the results of his behaviors."

"Maybe," he says, nodding. He leans back again to cross his arms, and he looks tired; I wonder briefly if he's alright, but I know I'm not supposed to ask, so I don't.

"And," I say instead. "Drew and I have sort of made amends. We're in the process of figuring everything out between us, trying to move forward."

"How exactly did that happen?" he asks.

"Well, he got shot, and then --"

"What!" Dr. Caswell has shot forward in his chair, and I remember that Drew used to be a patient here. Of course he's worried. Holding a hand out, I reassure him quickly.

"No, no. Mac, uh, Dr. Caswell, he's okay. He had a rough spot, and he's had some surgery to fix the lung, but he's okay now. He's okay."

"I see," he says, visibly forcing himself to lean back in the chair. He heaves a sigh to calm himself, running his fingers through his hair. "Go on," he says.

"It was something to do with work," I tell him, because I can see his effort to regain control. "I don't know the entire story, and since it's a work thing, I doubt I'll ever know everything that happened. He was hit twice in the lung and once in the arm, and he was skimmed here," I say, touching the side of my throat, where Drew had been bandaged.

Dr. Caswell's eyes widen, just as I realize that when I touch there, I can feel the pulse in my neck. Nausea rises up in me like a tidal wave, and I clutch my stomach, fighting the desire to scream.

I really did almost lose him, I really did almost lose him, oh God, he was almost killed, we almost lost everything...

"Cass?" Dr. Caswell's hand is on my shoulder, his concerned eyes staring into mine. I don't know how long I was sitting there, eyes closed in a wave of grief, but he's had time to stand and move around the coffee table. Now he's sitting directly on the table in front of me.

"I'm okay," I whisper. "I just realized what I was saying, right then, when I said it. He's been glossing over the whole thing ever since it happened, and making it seem like nothing, and that scrape on his throat ... and you know, I just have this feeling that it's all my fault."

"Your fault? Cass, how could any of this be your fault?" he asks, turning to reach for a box of tissues. He hands one to me, and waits as I take a breath and gather myself.

"I don't know; I just keep thinking that it is. He knew about the dinner, you know? From where we'd talked on the phone a few days before, and I'd told him I'd like us to try again. I'd told him I wanted to wait to start anything up though, until after the dinner. And I keep thinking maybe he was distracted that night or something, because he was worrying about the situation with me. Like maybe he was wondering how it was going, because he'd asked to come, and I'd told him no, that I had to figure it out on my own. You know?"

"You can't live your life like that, Cass. Has anyone else said anything? Does he seem to blame you? Or any of his family?"

"No," I say, leaning back and drawing my favorite throw pillow into my lap. "They've all been wonderful. His little sister Harmony is the one who called me to tell me what had happened, and she kept saying that he was asking for me, that he would want me there. So I went, and she walked me up that first night. I've already met his older brother Michael. I met his parents, too, that first night at the hospital. And yesterday I met the oldest, his sister Cameron, and his little teenaged brother, Evan."

"How do they act around you?" he asks, scooting back but staying close, still sitting on the coffee table.

"They're wonderful," I answer, still shocked by the truth of the statement. "They're like anyone else; they have their issues, but they're a family, and you can literally see how much they all love each other. They've taken me right in."

"And how is that for you?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Honestly, it's odd," I answer, and he laughs. "I just have no idea why you keep honestly expecting everyone to automatically despise you."

"That's exactly what Cameron said," I laugh. "And I don't know why I do that. Will I ever stop?"

"I think so," he answers. "When your confidence has healed, and grown, and when you can look inside yourself to see something of value."

"I think I'm getting there," I say. "I'm not so mean anymore. In my head, I mean."

"That's a great thing," he says, taking the pillow from my hands. "You have got to stop hiding behind these."

I sigh, hanging my head in mock contrition. Cameron said that, too, yesterday. Observant, that one. And as I look at Dr. Caswell, an idea slowly begins to take form.

Have I got a girl for you.