Second Chance Hero (32 page)

“You know that’s not what I want.” She says, the
words muffled behind her hand, “I want what makes you happy. And that’s not
me.”

I’m silent. How can she not see that she’s the only
thing that makes happy? I’d been miserable before she exploded back into my
life, boyfriend and cupcakes and all. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I should have told you the truth that night on the
beach,” I croak. She hands me a cup of water off the floor but keeps her back
turned on me. This conversation is long overdue, and although she doesn’t look
at me, I hear her breath catch, “I should have staked my claim on you then for
the rest of our lives. The crash might have still happened, but we’d be happy.
Together. It might be too late, but I have to tell you. What I should have said
that night was everything I was thinking before I even kissed you. The kiss
just sealed the deal. You were the one.

“I should have told you my plans for us to go
travelling, my plans to build the house with three bedrooms with enough space
to extend to cater for however many children you wanted. I should have told you
my plan to spend my entire life in Folquay – as long as you were there it
wouldn’t have mattered where I lived. I should have said those things and I
didn’t, Jen. Because I was a twenty-one year old coward, and you were this fireball
that no one could predict. I didn’t know that by holding back you would run
away.”

She says nothing, but I hear her shaky breaths,
sharp and ragged.

“I can let you go, now.” I say filling the silence,
“Kip makes you happy. And I won't stand in the way.”

“You stupid man.” She whispers through gritted teeth
and stands up, finally facing me, “You should have told me everything that
night! You were my best friend! There is nothing that could have torn us apart,
except what you did. I thought I meant nothing, I thought you were messing with
my head because you were a guy and you thought with your dick. Up until this
point, right now, I thought I was just another trait girl.”

“Jen,” I reach out for her hand and she steps closer
to take it, when she hears me groan in pain, “you’re the trait girl.”

“What?”

“Everything you have. That’s the checklist. I’ve
spent the last five and half years looking for your doppelganger. But there
will never be two of you, Jen. And I don't want there to be.”

“Oh my god.” She falls into her chair and covers her
eyes with her free hand.

“It’s okay,” I stroke my thumb across the back of
her hand, “I won't put this pressure on you anymore. I’ll even stand there on
your wedding day and tell you how beautiful you look.”

“Ask me, Deac,” What? What am I supposed to ask her?

“Ask you what?”

“Ask me what happened when you walked away. Ask me
what I was doing when you were in your car. Ask me to tell you how I feel about
you.”

“What were you doing while I was in the car?”

She takes a deep breath and exhales in a rush, “I
was at your house in your underwear and your Rolling Stones t-shirt, waiting
for you to come home. I was waiting to tell you I ended everything with Kip. I
was waiting to tell you I’m sorry, that for the last month and half I’ve been
listening to my head instead of my heart. That the minute I saw you when I got
back to town I was yours. That I’ve been hopelessly, obsessively, madly in love
with you my whole life. You were the one, too. You
are
the one.”

~

“I need you to be honest with me, Mr. Reid.” Dr.
Sharpe says, but all I can focus on are the discharge papers in his hand, “Is
there anything that’s worrying you? Anything that doesn’t feel right?”  

At that point I see headlights flash in front of my
eyes. I’m changing the radio station in my truck; I don't know what I’m
searching for but my vision is cut off by lights and they’re heading for me.
There’s a car on the same side of the road and I panic. My brain is failing me
and I shut my eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

“Mr, Reid?”

“No problems.” I nod, and speak as confidently as I
can.

“Then you are cleared for discharge.” He scribbles
on his clipboard, too fast to be anything but a well-practised signature, “If
you have any problems, I want you to come back and ask for me.”

My mum zips my bag up in the corner of the room and
hands me my crutches. She takes the plastic bag of medication from the doctor
and I want to take everything from her; seeing her struggle to carry my shit,
but the damn crutches don't leave much room to carry anything. These will be
hidden the minute I’m home; I’m not relying on a couple of sticks to help me
walk. Fuck that.

Apparently I’m very lucky to have escaped the
accident with chronic whiplash, a mean concussion that still feels like a killer
hang over more than a week later; a broken leg and some muscle strain. It
sounds like a list of inconvenient injuries, especially considering my job, but
the truth is I’m grateful I’m still alive. I’d be royally pissed if I woke up
somewhere in the sky, and left behind so many loose ends. Jenna left last
night; either because we still haven’t been able to talk like adults and both
admit that we want to make a go of it, or because my hassling her to go home
and sleep finally worked. She recoiled inside herself when I didn’t know how to
respond to what she’d said. And she spent the next few days reading me the
newspaper, or pretending to be asleep. She spent every day and every night with
me, and whenever I woke up and looked at her, she was either awake and watching
the machines that had to be kept on for ‘precaution’, or sleeping restlessly on
a chair that looked like it had been carved from granite. Either way, she went
home last night, and I’d never been so relieved to know she wasn’t with me,
worrying about me and suffering, or so lonely, because she seemed to take every
atom in the air with her.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Mum asks, waving her
hand in front of my face and I realise I’ve stopped in the middle of the
corridor, “Are you sure you’re ready to go home?”

“I’m sure.” I nod and kick the crutches into gear,
wincing every time I put my weight on my right arm; there’s a muscle tear
hidden deep in my bicep, “I need to go home, even if I sit and eat nothing but
pizza and watch shit TV all day. This place stinks.”

I’ve always had an issue with the smell of
hospitals. More so, now that I’ve spent ten days in one.

“Mum, what are you doing?”

She climbs out of the taxi and opens my door before
I work out how to move my crutches out of the way and open it myself.

“Let me help you.” She says, taking one crutch off
me so I can use the door to pull myself out. This is ridiculous.

“I’m fine, Mum. I’ll bet I can walk on it, too.”

“Doctors orders, Deacon Reid.” She looks at me
sternly, “You’ve got metal pins in your leg holding it together. The doctor
told you to use crutches, so you will damn well use your crutches.”

“Fine.” I throw my hands in the air, forgetting I’ve
got metal walk-aids stuck to them, “Just let me sort myself out.”

The taxi waits on the drive for her, and Mum stands
with her hands on her hips, my bag hanging from one hand and my pill bag from
the other.

“It was so close, Deac.” She says as we walk towards
the door and she pulls my keys out of my bag.

“What do you mean?”

Mum busies herself once she steps inside, making up
the sofa for me to lie on. She’s been here, or she’s here; I feel it. The smell
of Jenna is everywhere and I rush inside, as best as I can while handicapped,
but can't see her.

“Mum, what are you talking about?” I ask, realising
Jenna’s presence must be lingering from when she was last here.

“I nearly lost you.” She’s holding it together,
barely.

“How close?” Why hasn’t she said this before?

“Close.”

It’s all she says as she fluffs the cushion and then
goes about setting the pots of tablets on the coffee table, a collection of
water bottles under it, and a few packs of crisps and sweets next to the water.

“I can use the crutches to go in the kitchen.”

“I don't want to leave you.” She paces towards me,
almost reluctantly, and smoothes down the shirt she put on earlier. I want to
sit in an old surf club t-shirt or one of my dad’s old football shirts, but I
can't lift my arms above my head to put anything else on; and it sucks.

“I need you to leave me, Mum.” I reach out and hold
her elbows, unable to reach up to her shoulders, “I’m fine. It’ll take some
getting used to but I’ll be fine.”

She hesitates, but leaves me to it. When I see her
climb in the taxi, I struggle to the bottom of the stairs. I know she’s here.

“Jen!”

Jenna

I stand by the window, watching as the cab pulls up
onto the drive and Emma helps Deacon out. I knew he was coming home today; Emma
gave me the idea to surprise him, thought it would be a good idea. I did too,
until now.

            “Jen!”

Of course he knows I’m here; we’re that attuned to
each other, I should have known he’d call me out. He always does. I climb off
the side of the bed I’ve been occupying since last night, only getting up to
shower and use the bathroom, and walk towards the landing, feeling stupid, but
anticipating his reaction.

“You called?” I say bravely, stepping out into view,
leaning against the door frame and crossing one ankle over the other.

Since there are no more fetes, and the summer means
more money is being taken in the shops in London, and the fact that I still
haven’t organised anything for the refurb, I figured I could play nurse to
Deacon for while. Even went and bought an outfit suitable for the temporary job
role.

“What the hell?” He chokes, wobbling on his
crutches, “Jesus, Jenna.”

“You like it?”

The outfit is a simple snap-shut white dress, which
stops just below where it would be considered acceptable to be called a hem. My
hair is left wild and unruly to hang over my shoulders, with a hat perched on
the top, purely for aesthetics because it will fall off with one touch. And
I’ve chosen to go bare foot; the polish on my toe nails matches the red trim on
my dress and hat.

“Did I tell you they said I’m at risk of a heart
attack?”

“Jesus!” I pull the hem of the dress down and run
down the stairs full pelt, almost prepared to launch myself at him, but remind
myself that he’s not up for being pummelled right now, “Are you okay?”

“It got you down the stairs,” he smirks, “I wasn’t
up for coaxing you down.”

“You idiot.” I sigh, feeling my body relax and I sit
down on the bottom step, “You frightened the life out of me.”

I look up at him, and his thoughts are written all
over his face.

“Mum said it was bad.” He looks down, and I know it
scares him that he doesn’t remember what happened to him. It’s probably for the
better.

“Do you want me to tell you about it?”

He nods and turns around, hobbling to the sofas and
I follow. There’s nothing sexier than a man who is king of the castle, ruler of
his world, independent and powerful enough to protect himself and everyone
around him. But there’s nothing that breaks my heart with love and pain more,
than seeing Deacon vulnerable and in need of help. It’s why I chose my own
nurse’s role; although in hind sight I should have pre-warned him I was dressed
up. I feel stupid as I sit on the sofa opposite him and tug at the bottom of my
dress.

“Where do you want me to start?”

“I want to know what happened after the crash.”

He says it so matter-of-factly, like he’s prepared
for the answer, but I can't convince myself that he is. I ask him with my
expression if he really wants to know, and he answers with that helpless nod of
a school boy who wonders what he’s missing.

“I was here, so I don't know everything firsthand. I
didn’t find out until I got my mum’s message on Monday.” I confess, so if there
are any questions I can't answer, he knows why, “You needed surgery to fix your
leg. You needed an emergency scan to look at your head injury, and they kept
you in a coma because your brain was showing signs of swelling. They told us to
prepare for the worst; they couldn't tell what damage had been done until you
woke up. If-”           

I can't finish the sentence, because it’s too hard
to remember it. The feeling that I’d lost him, even if not in body but in mind,
is too raw. Knowing he could have left me for good, not knowing I love him, was
the worst part of the entire five days he was asleep. It took them two days to
wake him up – because of the size of him, they had to use such a high dosage of
medication to keep him asleep and comfortable.

“I’m sorry.” He says struggling to reach a bottle of
water under the coffee table. I lean over and grab it, undo the lid and hand it
to him. I watch his mouth as he glugs the water, and then his throat as he
swallows. It’s been too long since we had our hands on each other.

“So you came over to play nurse?” He nods towards my
outfit and his eyes travel to the cleavage pouring out of the top.

“No.” I shake my head and see the disappointment on
his face, “I’ve moved in.”

“What?”

“Did the concussion affect your hearing?” I ask, but
he frowns, considering the possibility, “I said I moved in.”

“You did?”

“I told you I’m not running. You can't get rid of me
now. You built this house for us, so I’m taking up my tenancy.”

“In the spare room?”

What? This is not going the way I planned; nothing
ever seems to go according to what I plan for. Why does he assume I want to
sleep in the spare room? Why, after everything we’ve been through, everything I
said to him in the hospital, would he think I’d want to be anywhere but right
next to him?

“Do you want me to sleep in the spare room?” I ask,
edging away from him, afraid of the rejection I convinced myself wasn’t coming.

“Are you moving in here because you don't trust me
not to bring anyone else here?”

“Don't answer my question with a question.”

I know he’s got to be tired, and uncomfortable, and
mad as hell that he’s not as active as usual. But that’s no reason to question
me, when this is supposed to be a happy occasion. I thought he’d be happy that
I moved in. Maybe his silence in the hospital spoke for his feelings. Maybe he
felt all those things back when he was twenty-one, but not now. Not now I’m a
cheat.

“That’s not why I wanted to move in.” Is all I can
answer, because it’s the truth.

“Then, no. I want you in my bed.” He says, shuffling
to get comfortable and I want to help him, but I can't shake off the urge to
take this further.

“Why did you ask me that?”

“Because I want to make sure you’re doing this for
us. Not because you don't trust me, or because you feel sorry for me.”

“Is it the same you I’m moving in with, Deac?”

He frowns, “what are you talking about?”

“It feels like you’re different.” I take a deep
breath, “Is it because of the accident, or because I moved in here without
asking you? My room at home is still mine, I can go back there. I didn’t mean
to barge in, I shouldn’t have taken things upon myself, thinking you’d want
me.”

“Shut up, Jen.”

“I thought I was going to lose you,” I’m panicking
now; this is it, where he tells me we should be friends, or I find out this
Deacon looks like my Red and sounds like my Red, but has woken up a stranger,
“I didn’t want a day to go by when I couldn't tell you I love you, just because
we’re in the same room and I need to tell you. I wanted to be there when you
wake up in the morning, when you come home from work, when you go to bed. Shit,
I’m so sorry.”

“Shut up!”

I clamp my mouth shut, and slap my hand over my
mouth in fear. This isn’t the same Deacon. Oh my god.

“You remember what I said about you being
unpredictable?” He asks and I nod, “You moving in is another thing I wasn’t
expecting.”

“I’m sorry.”

I stand to leave, keeping my knees bent and dress
pulled down as low as possible, because now I feel sleazy and dirty. Deac
throws himself across the sofa and I scream as he tackles me to the other sofa,
the one I was sitting on before.

“Ah!” He jumps back, keeping me in place with one
hand on my stomach, while the other grips his leg, “Fuck!”

“Deac, I’m sorry.”

“Stop it, just stop it. This isn’t you. Don't ask me
if I’ve changed when you’re the one tiptoeing around me. If you want me come
and get me. Don't hold back because you think I’ve changed. I’m tired, I’m in
pain and I’m pissed that I can't forget the fact that I had a head on collision,
by burying myself inside you.”

“Your mum told you more about the crash?” He leans
up, letting go and of me and struggling to his feet, launching his crutches
across the room as he limps to the kitchen. She didn’t tell him.

“You remember?” I ask, following after him, and
beating him to the kettle, so he can sit down.

“Apparently.” He shrugs, “I want to forget it Jen.
All of what I remember, I want gone.”

“Can I help?” I ask, popping tea bags in the cups I
set out on the counter earlier.

When he doesn’t answer I turn around, leaning
against the counter and gasp when I see the blue fire in his eyes.

“Turn around.” He orders. My stomach clenches, but I
do as he asks, turning around, “Bend over.”

I take a deep breath, wondering if he’s doing this
because he’s gone into auto sex machine mode, his coping mechanism, or because
he misses us being together as much as I do. But I step back from the counter
and bend over.

“Lift your dress up.”

            I feel the warmth spread to my core as I
slide the material up what little leg it covers, and over my underwear.

“Take them off.” He commands, and I know what he’s
talking about.

I put the dress back in place and turn around to
face him, sliding up onto the counter top.

“Tell me before I do, that this is you talking, and
not the guy who switches everything off.”

“What?” He raises one eyebrow.

“You know what.” I slide back and part my legs, just
enough to guarantee a reaction; the reaction I desperately need, so I can find
out which Deacon I’m dealing with – the man I love with all my heart, or the
emotionless sexual robot he becomes when he needs to block the world out, “If
you don't want to be with me then fine, but don't use me to deal with whatever
it is you do feel.”

He sinks his head onto the table, his arms wrapped
across the top of his hair. I have no idea what the look in his eyes is, no
idea which part of my body he looked at before he hid himself from me. And I
have no idea what’s going through his head.

“Deacon?” I’m suddenly sitting next to him, vaguely remembering
the rush to get there.

“I don't know why you don't get it.” His voice is
muffled, and I can barely hear what he’s saying.

“Talk to my face, not your table.” I pry his head up
with both of my hands. He’s crying, “Baby, you need to talk to me.”

“It’s me, I swear to god I’m the same man.” He sighs
and I wipe a tear away from under his eye, “I can't put it into words; it’s why
I haven’t said anything back. I’m not supposed to be the one lost for words.
I’m supposed to be the hero.”

I smile, I can't help it. He is literally trying to
be a hero, and I love him for it.

“Who says heroes don't need a hero every now and
then?” I ask, brushing his hair back from his face, “It’s okay to need help.”

He shakes his head, “No it’s not. Not for me.” He
grips my wrists and brings my hands to the table before smothering them with
his, “He died for us, Jen.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My dad.” I relax, realising he isn’t talking about
the man who hit his car, “He died so we could be together. I don't know how I know
it I just do. And I’ve been a coward since then. But never more than now.”

“You probably need to sleep.” I say, stepping off
the bench, “I can help you upstairs.”

“I love you so much it hurts.” He says, and a
whimper from somewhere deep inside me escapes as he gestures at his injured
body, “More than all of this. It hurts because even if I live ‘til I’m a
hundred, it won't be long enough to show you how much.”

“You... you love me?” I feel the tears build, and
for once I don't try to keep them in, “You don't want me to leave?”

“No. And I wish I’d never let you leave all those
years ago.” He struggles to his feet, keeping his broken casted leg bent, “It’s
you. Just me and you. Like... Sonny and Cher.”

“Why Sonny and Cher?” I ask, the tears pouring now
and I’m surprised I’m able to speak.

Deacon frowns, confused, “I don't know.”

He strokes away my tears with one hand, the other
keeping my hand in a firm grip by his stomach.

“I love you.”

“I’ve been waiting years for you to say that.” I
smile when the tears stop, “I love you so much.”

Deacon crushes me to him and an embrace that thaws
out the remaining ice from my heart, and I squeeze him as if he’s going to
disappear. He nearly did. It isn’t lost on me that if things had swung the
other way, the last thing Deacon would have said to me would be the reminder
that he’s been there, when everyone else judged me, or ignored me. I let go and
jump back when I feel Deacon tense beneath my touch and a gut-wrenching growl
of pain vibrates through him. He’s shaking.