Just Physical (32 page)

It wasn't Crash.

Of course not. After the way they had left it, she might not call her ever again. The thought hurt.

The phone rang again. An image of her mother flashed across the display.

Sighing, she accepted the call.

“Your brother just called me.”

Jill rubbed her stinging eyes. She couldn't deal with this today.

“He was very upset.”

“
He
was upset?” Jill echoed.

“James said there was some woman in your house who kicked him out. What's going on for heaven's sake? You don't do things like that to your own brother.”

Jill tightened her grip on the phone until the edges dug into her fingers. Her mother hadn't even asked her how she was doing or listened to her side of the story before making accusations. “You do, if he says the kind of hateful things he did. Mom, he—”

“Who was that woman?” her mother asked.

The answer was more complex than her mother realized. For a moment, Jill considered scandalizing her by saying something like,
The woman I'm having a torrid affair with,
but then she just said, “A friend.”

“In my time and age, friends didn't get involved in family affairs,” her mother said.

“Yes, Mom, they did. At least the real friends. James didn't even ask how I'm doing. The moment I opened the door, he started criticizing and making stupid assumptions. He even said the MS is a good thing because it stops me from acting on my attraction toward women.”

Her mother was quiet for a moment, then she said, “I'm sure he didn't mean it like that.”

“Like hell he didn't! He meant every word. He'd rather have a sister with MS than a sister who's a lesbian.”

“Let's not fight about it, honey.”

Jill huffed into the phone. That's what her mother always said when she ran out of arguments. “Fine. I have to go anyway. I've got agility training in an hour.” Agility was on Thursdays, not Sundays, but her mother didn't know that. She barely knew a thing about Jill's life.

As fast as possible, Jill ended the call. She let out a groan and barely held herself back from throwing the phone against the wall. Instead, she stared down at it.

Should she call Grace? God, she really needed someone to talk to, and she knew Grace would listen without judgment.

But she would try to talk Jill into giving a relationship with Crash a chance. Same thing with Amanda, her ex-girlfriend-turned-friend. Since she had moved in with Michelle, she saw the world through rose-tinted glasses.

Jill didn't need that kind of unrealistic encouragement. It was hard enough to stop herself from dreaming of things that could never be.

There was no one she could talk to. She was alone, and that was how it would always be. In the past, that had never bothered her. Being on her own, without someone who loved her, had never been that hard before. She almost—just almost—regretted ever meeting Crash. For the first time in a long time—maybe ever—she longed to spend her life with someone.

Not someone,
she admitted to herself.
Crash.

Tramp bustled over and pressed his cold nose to her neck, whining as if he sensed that she was having some kind of breakdown.

“I'm okay, boy,” she croaked out.

He licked her hand, sniffed the blazer she was still clutching, and then let out a woof, probably recognizing Crash's scent.

Jill's throat tightened. She wrapped both arms around Tramp and buried her face against his curly fur.

CHAPTER 17

Crash hit the punching bag
so hard that the chains suspending it from the ceiling of TJ's training shed rattled. She felt the shock all the way up to her shoulder, but she kept punching.

Grunts and curses tore from her throat. “Damn stubborn, frustrating woman!”

The battered red leather of the bag groaned under a particularly hard hit.

The jabs and punches kept coming faster, and the force behind them increased until her gloved hands started to hurt. Her muscles protested, and her punches lost their finesse. Still she didn't stop. There was too much frustration bottled up in her.

“Okay, you can stop now,” a voice said from behind her. “It's dead.”

Crash whirled around, fists raised.

The heavy punching bag smacked her in the back, nearly making her tumble into TJ's arms.

She caught herself, stopped the swinging bag, and took several heaving breaths before she could speak. “Sorry for making such a ruckus. I would have done this at home, but you know I don't have a punching bag in my apartment.”

“It's okay. You know you're welcome here any time.” He came over, untied the gloves for her, and pulled them off. “Any particular reason why you're over here on a Sunday morning, beating the shit out of my punching bag?”

Crash sighed. “A woman, what else?”

“Still the same one?”

“Yeah. I haven't even thought about other women since I met her. Jill.” Even saying the name made a mix of longing, sadness, and frustration tumble through her.

TJ straddled the weight-training bench and looked over at her. “Sounds pretty serious.”

Crash nodded. Her feelings for Jill had stopped being casual sometime ago. “Yeah, it is. Otherwise, I wouldn't put up with all that shit.”

“What shit? Don't tell me this is going to end up being another disaster like the one with Kyleigh?”

She barely stopped herself from bristling at him, her defensive instincts on full force. “Jill isn't anything like Kyleigh. She doesn't want to get involved with one woman, much less two.”

A frown dug a furrow between TJ's brows. “She's not straight, is she?”

Crash had to laugh. “No, trust me. She isn't.”

“If she's gay and just not interested, then why all that…?” He waved at the punching bag. “If she doesn't appreciate what you have to offer, just walk away. There are a lot of beautiful women in this town.”

If the situation were reversed, Crash would have said the same. But she knew there was more behind Jill's refusal to even date than a disinterest in her. She sensed that it was also more than just stubbornness and pride that made Jill keep her at arm's length. “It's not that she doesn't want to get involved. I think she does. She's just… I think she's scared.”

“Scared? Why would she be—?”

“She has MS.”

The weight TJ had just picked up clanked to the floor. “Jesus, Crash! That's the sickness where your muscles waste away and you end up in a wheelchair, isn't it?”

“No. You're thinking of MD—muscular dystrophy. MS affects the nerves, but yeah, some of the people suffering from MS end up in a wheelchair.”

TJ stared at her and opened his mouth to say something, but Crash stopped him by holding up a hand, palm out.

“I know, I know. I'm crazy for even thinking about getting involved with her, yada, yada. My mother already made that clear, so save your breath.” Crash lashed out with her foot, hitting the bag so hard that it shook.

TJ was still staring at her. After a while, he asked, “What are you going to do about it?”

“There's not a damn thing I can do about the MS,” Crash grumbled.

“Not about that. I mean…are you sure you want to take on that kind of responsibility?”

Crash caught the swinging bag and held on to it with both hands. She looked TJ in the eyes. “I think I'm ready.”

“You think?” he echoed. “You'd better be damn sure about it. Remember Jimmy?”

Of course Crash remembered. Their colleague had broken his neck during a wire stunt and was now paralyzed from the chest down. His fiancée had been supportive during his recovery, and they had even gone through with the wedding but then had divorced after less than a year. It had devastated Jimmy.

TJ was right. She needed to be sure before she tried again to convince Jill. “I've been racking my brain over this for weeks, but I still don't know how I can be sure before I'm actually in the situation.”

She sank next to TJ onto the weight-training bench, and they sat there mulling it over for some time.

“Therapy?” TJ finally suggested.

Crash shook her head. “I don't think talking to someone who has no idea about MS would help.” But his suggestion sparked another idea. Her fingers were smarting a little as she pulled her phone out of her pocket, brought up the small browser window, and typed,
MS caregiver support group
.

“What are you doing?” TJ asked.

“Making sure I'm sure,” she mumbled while scrolling down the list of search results. When she found what she'd been looking for, she pocketed the phone, jumped up, and gave the punching bag one final tap with her bare fist. “See you later.”

On Friday, Jill didn't have any scenes on the shooting schedule, so she stayed home and lingered in bed until eleven. She wasn't sleeping, but she didn't seem to have the energy to get up today. For once, her fatigue wasn't to blame.

The constant mental replay of last Sunday sucked the energy out of her. She couldn't forget the hurt and frustration in Crash's eyes before she'd walked out, and her words kept echoing through her mind.

I don't have a choice either because you won't give me one.

Had that been wrong? Could she offer a choice, maybe some kind of don't-ask-don't-tell relationship in which neither asked about or mentioned the MS? But multiple sclerosis had an ugly way of making itself obvious. It wouldn't work, at least not for long. She couldn't have a relationship without the MS, and she couldn't be a true partner for Crash with it.

She rolled over in bed, onto her back, put the pillow over her face, and screamed her frustration into the feathers.

That didn't work either. All it did was make Tramp come running to see if that noise meant she was finally ready to get out of bed.

“Okay, okay. I'm getting up.” She wriggled the toes on her left foot, making sure it would hold up, then crawled out of bed.

Thoughts of Crash followed her into the bathroom and then downstairs. Her house was full of memories. Here, on the top step, Crash had kissed her with such passion that Jill had felt like one of the swooning ladies in a historical drama. In the hall, Crash had squared off with James, defending Jill. And in the kitchen, they had sat sharing pancakes and easy banter.

In the five days since, nothing had been easy. They had barely talked. She tried to tell herself it was better that way. Things between them would end after the wrap party anyway, so what if it ended four weeks earlier?

She let out an unladylike snort. Even an actress in a cheap B movie could have portrayed indifference more convincingly. “Let's hope you can do better when you're in front of a camera, Jill Corrigan.”

Okay, time for a distraction.
All that moping around was disgusting. Watching TV was out; she wasn't in the mood and any action scenes would only remind her of Crash, so she marched to the hall closet and took out the cleaning supplies. Maybe cleaning the house would help declutter her mind too.

She had just gotten started when the front door opened. Susana stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips. “What do you think you're doing?”

Jill froze, a duster in one hand. “Um, isn't it obvious? I'm dusting.”

Susana tsked and bustled over. “You're paying me to do that. Besides, I just dusted yesterday. Give me that thing.”

Jill held on. “What else am I supposed to do?”

“What other people are doing on their day off—relax, have fun, enjoy life.”

Sighing, Jill let go of the duster.

“Here.” Susana pressed Tramp's leash into her hand. “Take him for a walk so I can hide the cleaning supplies while you're gone.”

They both chuckled.

When Jill returned an hour later, she headed straight for the kitchen, filled Tramp's bowl with fresh water, wrenched open the door of the fridge, and noisily rummaged through its contents. She needed chocolate. Lots of it.

Susana looked up from scrubbing the sink. “The walk didn't help?”

Jill smashed the fridge closed and ripped open the wrapper of a chocolate bar. With her mouth full of chocolate, she mumbled, “A little.”

“Is this about Kristine?”

“About Crash? Why would you think that?” Jill bit off another big piece of chocolate.

“Because you have been moping around ever since she took you on that date last Saturday,” Susana said. “Did something happen while you were out with her?”

“It wasn't a date,” Jill said. “And I'm not moping.”

Susana folded her arms over her apron, gave her a look, and muttered something in Spanish.

Had she just been called a stubborn mule?

“Do you want to talk about it?” Susana asked, her expression softening.

That motherly tone was nearly Jill's undoing. Her nose started to burn as if she was about to cry. Quickly, she shook her head.

Susana walked over and pulled her into a hug.

“The chocolate is melting,” Jill protested but still sank willingly into the warm embrace.

Susana held her for a few seconds, then pulled back and took the chocolate bar out of her hand.

“Hey! My chocolate!”

“You can't eat it. We'll need it to decorate the cake.”

Jill frowned. “What cake?”

“The cake we're going to make. Come on. Baking helps with everything, even lovesickness.” She opened a drawer, took out another apron, slid it over Jill's neck, and tied it in the back for her.

Tears burned in Jill's eyes.
Jeez. Stop it.
“Thank you,” she whispered.

“No thanks necessary,” Susana said. “I'll make you do all the work. Now shoo! Get the eggs!”

“Aye, aye, ma'am.”

Crash shut off the engine and sat there in silence for a moment, staring at the house across the street. Being here felt strange and inappropriate, as if she was fulfilling a morbid curiosity. Last Thursday evening, she had sat in her car, hesitating for a long time too. She hadn't been sure if she had a right to participate in the caregiver support group meeting since she wasn't a caregiver.

But the people there had been very welcoming, especially Sally, the leader of the group. She had even invited Crash into her home so she could meet her husband and see for herself how they managed their everyday lives.

Before Crash could gather her courage and head over, the front door of the house opened and Sally stepped onto the veranda. She waved at Crash, whose cheeks started to burn.

Quickly, she climbed out of the SUV and willed her blush to disappear while she crossed the street.
Oh, the things we do for love.

The thought made her pause.
Love?

But she had no time to obsess over it, because she'd reached Sally now. “Hi. I was just…” She gestured back to the SUV.

Sally smiled, the crow's feet around her eyes deepening. “It's okay. I imagine it must feel a little weird to be here.”

“Isn't it weird for you?” Crash couldn't help asking.

“A little,” Sally said with the same honesty that had impressed Crash at the support group meeting on Thursday. “But I really don't mind. And it's good for George to feel he can help other people.” She led Crash to the door. “Ready?”

Not really, but Crash nodded anyway and followed Sally inside.

The house was completely wheelchair-accessible, with wide doors and no thresholds or carpets. A chair lift provided transport to the upper floor. In the past, Crash might not have noticed these little details, but now she was paying attention, hoping to learn as much as she could.