American Bad Boy(19)

“Yeah, we went to high school together.” I quickly answer, heading off whatever is percolating in Mack’s brain.

“Oh, good. Good. Ok. Well, uh, Nurse Brickman will go over your schedule with you. If you have any issues or questions, you can get a hold of me any time.” He spits out the words quickly, as he watches the reporters like a kid who’s desperate for his parents’ attention.

“Ok, thank you. I appreciate the tour, Dr. Galt.” Mack walks across the room and shakes his hand. My boss can barely find the enthusiasm to move his arm up and down a couple times before he abandons the handshake for the closest thing he’s ever had to fans outside the door.

Mack’s military escorts shake his hand and clap him on the shoulder before leaving us alone together.

Suddenly the biggest room in the hospital feels like it’s folding in on itself as the space between us seems to disappear.

Space, time, distance. It’s funny how your heart can so quickly forget the very things that ripped it in half.

I’m not sure if I want to kiss him or slap him, maybe both. Either way, I want an excuse to touch him.

“What?” I ask. I know that cocky smirk, like he just heard a punchline that he hasn’t bothered to share yet.

“Brickman? Seriously?” He covers his smile with the palm of his hand and I realize slapping him would definitely be the better option.

“Yes, Brickman.”

“You got married?”

“I did.”

“To Joel Brickman?”

“That’s the one.”

“Do you have kids?”

“One.”

“You got married and had kids with Joel fucking Brickman? Come on! I mean, I know when I left town there was slim pickings, but your science partner?” He rolls his eyes.

“At least Joel was there for me. Unlike some people.” I snap at him. “Besides, you shouldn’t speak badly about the dead.” I rub the empty spot on my ring finger, regretting my decision to put my ring in a safety deposit box a couple of months ago. I told myself that it was time to stop wearing it when the anniversary of his death snuck up on me.

“He died?”

“Yeah, that’s what that means.” My words are tinged with frost.

The twinkle extinguishes from Mack’s blue eyes and his smirk settles out into a line. “How? I mean, I’m sorry to hear that. He was so young!” I can see him trying to connect the dots.

“Yeah, he was hit in a head on collision. It was instant.” My voice is flat and quiet, yet the words feel too loud.

“I’m sorry.” Mack steps toward me and I hate to admit how much I want to throw my arms around his neck and nuzzle my head into his chest. How much I want to feel him run his thumb over the back of my head and to hear his voice tell me that it’s all over now. That all the hardship, the heartache, the confusion, they’re all in the past and that he’s here to take away all my pain.

Instead, I step aside and walk over to the window, putting the space between us that I need in order to get my head on straight.

“I’ve been following your story. You know, like on the news and everything,” I confess to the glass, taking a deep breath. I turn around and let myself get lost in his eyes once more. “I’m sorry about the men you lost, Mack. And about what you’ve been through.”

His eyes flicker and for a moment he goes somewhere else. Somewhere far from Colorado. From me.

He shakes his head slowly and his eyes focus as he clears his throat. “Thanks. I’m just happy to be home now.”

“I’m happy you’re home too,” my voice cracks. Damn it. “I, uh, I’ve got a great program outlined for you here,” I stuff my hand in my pocket and pull out my phone so I can bring up his schedule. “I know you’ve been working hard on walking again, and I can see you’ve put in the hours with how well you’re doing.”

My mind snaps into nurse mode and I force my emotions back down my throat and bury them deep in my gut. “But, I’m gonna get you running again. By the time you’re finished here, you’ll be living the same as you did before the …” I don’t want to call it an accident. I saw the footage, just like the rest of America, and it wasn’t some kind of tumble that took Mack’s leg.

“Before I mistook a grenade for a soccer ball? I always get them confused. It’s all those little octagon shapes on them. Practically identical.” he jokes and I smile back at him, happy to let the awkward moment go.

I look down at the screen of my phone and see that my son’s school has been calling and texting me.

What the? I scroll through the messages, piecing together the situation. Perfect. Just perfect.