Reckless (Blue Collar Boyfriends Book 1) (17 page)

Deidre downed a healthy third of her glass and said, “How are you holding up?”

He searched her face for judgment, not finding any. Could it be he’d only imagined Deidre was judging him every time they talked? Maybe he’d been carrying around some baggage from their divorce and being unfair to his ex-wife.

“I hate myself,
” he admitted, taking another pull from his beer before setting the bottle in the cup holder. Drinking while facing his problems felt a hell of a lot better than drinking to hide from them. “You going to tell Haley?”

Her eyes widened like she hadn’t thought about how this would affect Haley. It made him feel good to think of Haley first. Maybe that was shitty of him, but he didn’t care. He’d take good feelings where he could get them tonight.

“Jesus,” she said. “I don’t know.”

He did a double take. “What do you mean you don’t
know?” He nudged her with his elbow. “I thought you knew everything about being a mom.”

She snorted. “I guess the cat’s out of the bag.
Most of the time I’m flying by the seat of my pants. It’s all instinct, I guess.”

“Well, your instincts are pretty good when it comes to Haley.”
Which was why he’d go along with whatever she wanted on this.

She looked at him sideways, as if trying to figure
out if he’d really paid her a compliment. Neither of them said anything for a while. Then she said, “I think you should talk to her about it.”

“I can’t,” he said, shaking his head.
Coward.

She studied him. “You want me to tell her?”

His ears pricked for sarcasm or disdain in her voice but found none. She was genuinely offering to do this for him.

“One bad fucking decision,” he said then wrapped his lips around the bottle again.

Deidre had some more wine. Either she was letting him figure out what the hell he wanted to say, or he’d finally managed to shock her speechless. Whatever the reason, he had the strangest feeling he could open up to her, like old times. He wouldn’t pass up the opportunity. He needed a friend right now.

“In a grand total of one second I put my life in the crapper,” he admitted. “I was never going to win Father of the Year, but I try like hell to be a good dad. Then I go and fuck it all up.”

She frowned. “You say that like it’s game over, like that’s it, one mistake will change the way she looks at you.”

Wouldn’t it? It had only taken one mistake by his father. Okay, one mistake repeated over and over again.
Anger. That’s exactly what he was exposing Haley to. His anger, over and over again. He didn’t act out at her, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shield her from the effects of his temper. He was bound to make her see him the same way he saw his dad. As a man who loved his own anger more than he loved his kid.

Deidre studied him, making him squirm. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

He said nothing.

She scoffed. “Maybe when she was three, she thought her mom and dad were perfect, but I promise you, she’s figured it out by now we’re not. The best thing we can do for her is show her we make mistakes, and we own up to them.
Right? Pretending we’re perfect doesn’t help anybody.”

He thought about that while he finished his beer. It sounded simple when she put it like that. Yet he still flinched at the thought of coming clean with Haley.
And showing his cowardly face to Camilla. “Why is it so hard to do the right thing?” he said, mostly to himself.

“I think it’s only hard if we make it hard.”

He met her concerned gaze. They hadn’t talked like this in years. The knot of guilt inside gave a pulse, prodding him to say something he should have said to her a long time ago. “I’m sorry I’ve made things hard for you. For us. I’m a dick.”

“Sometimes,” she agreed with a small smile and finished her wine. “Seriously though, I think you hold yourself to too high a standard. No one’s expecting you to be perfect. You shouldn’t expect it of yourself. You always think I’m judging you, but I swear I’m not. All I want is for you to be happy and be the best version of yourself you can be. Because that’s what’s best for Haley.”

Lately he’d been acting like pretty much the worst version of himself. But not long ago, late at night with a beautiful woman in his bed, he’d felt like a good man. He thought of Camilla, and he knew he had to do right by her and by Haley.

“I’ll talk to her about it,” he said.
“Tomorrow.” He waited for her to protest Haley spending the weekend with a criminal.

She only nodded.

“Want me to pick her up after work?”

“Sure.” She stood and held out her hand for the empty bottle. “Keep me posted on this court thing, okay?”

“Yeah.” He handed her the bottle. Then, on impulse, he pulled her into a hug and kissed the side of her head.

She tensed but didn’t jump back when he released her. Instead, she patted his t-shirt-clad chest. “I think you should get arrested more often.” Then her cheeks puffed out as she contained a belch.
“I think that was the wine talking.”

“Go to bed, you lush,” he said, and he held the door open for her.

“Goodnight, Derek.”

“’Night.”

When he got home, he made a list of things to do tomorrow to start fixing the multitude of problems he’d caused with his anger. Then he went to bed. For the first time since last Friday, the knot of guilt started to unwind.

“Good morning, sunshine!” The singsong greeting at seven o’clock Friday morning came from Alejandro, an ICU nurse
Cami loved for his uncanny ability to intuit whatever she needed, and forgave for his despicable cheerfulness so early in the day. “Guess what today is?” he asked as he sailed in and slapped a blood pressure cuff on her.

She blinked herself awake and attempted a smile
—stupid breathing tube—she could never be sure her expressions were getting across. Since Alejandro could make even a blood draw sound exciting, she feared what he had in store for her. She didn’t bother writing out guesses on her notepad, eyeing him warily instead.

He recorded her blood pressure and temperature,
then clapped his hands. “You’ve got a speech path consult today!”

She picked up her pen for that.
Uh, hello,
breathing tube. Can’t talk.

Dr. Grant had explained that due to the location of her head injury, she might need speech therapy, though it was a good sign she could write without difficulty. She’d been expecting an SLP consult, but she assumed she’d be off the breathing tube first.

Alejandro bounced on his toes, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes were wide with mischief. He was waiting for her to make the connection.

Understanding zinged through her, jolting her fully awake. She started to squeal with delight, but gagged on the breathing tube. Recovering, she scribbled out,
Tube out! When?

“Right now, baby cakes.
You’re Dr. Grant’s first stop. The powers that be have deemed you unlikely to relapse into a coma, so you get to take your voice out for a spin. And if SLP clears you for solids, you can move down to Intermediate Care.”

In the ICU, it would be hours of nothing and then
bam
, nurses, doctors, interns, and lab techs would descend in a flurry of activity. Prescriptions would be changed, IVs adjusted, vitals taken, tests ordered and blood drawn, all in the course of a few minutes. Then all would be quiet again. This morning was no different. The flurry started with Alejandro’s greeting. Immediately following, Dr. Grant appeared and removed the bane of her existence in a procedure so simple it seemed anticlimactic. Once she recovered from a fit of coughing, she sucked in a wonderful lungful of air and said a drawn-out, heartfelt, “Thank you!”

Alejandro gave her a round of applause. Next, Mercy Med’s speech-language pathologist performed an evaluation and declared she had no speech, language, or swallowing complications from her traumatic brain injury. On the heels of that blessed revelation, Alejandro removed her IV and catheter, strapped an enormous helmet over her bandaged noggin, complimented the way said helmet brought out the blue in her eyes, helped her into a wheelchair and set her up one floor below the ICU.

“IMCU is where all the action happens, baby cakes,” he said as he helped her into bed and stuffed pillows behind her back. “You’ll like it here. Visitors aren’t limited to family-only, you can use your cell phone, and best of all—drum roll please—you can use this little phone here to call food service and order anything you like from these…” He held up a laminated menu Vanna White style. “Scrumptious selections.”

She almost wept as she perused her options. Twenty minutes later, she shed a few actual tears as she took her first sip of coffee in almost exactly a week. And the scrambled eggs and hash browns were like a salty party on her tongue.

“I missed food,” she said to her new room. Her voice was scratchy and her throat hurt, but being able to talk again made her happy. Her tinnitus was fading. The throbbing in her head had decreased to a level where she could tolerate the strips of sunshine slipping through the partially-opened blinds. Free from ICU’s invasive tethers and with a hot meal in her belly, she was starting to feel human again.

But total freedom eluded her. Alejandro had to return to the ICU. A new nurse in lavender scrubs brought her next round of meds and helped her use the bathroom. Once she was up and moving like an invalid, she truly understood how hurt she was. Bruises up and down her left side had her wincing with every movement. Her legs felt like columns of Jell-O. The ridiculous helmet made her feel top-heavy and off balance. Worst of all was the sight that met her in the bathroom mirror. She didn’t recognize her swollen, black and blue face. In the shadow of the helmet, she looked like a Pee Wee football leaguer who’d taken one too many hits. The helmet had racing stripes and everything.

“Sporty,” she said on a sob as her chin quivered.

Her nurse summarized the helmet’s many virtues as she helped her back to bed.

She missed Alejandro. He would have made her laugh instead of feeding her a lecture.

On the bright side, she was healing. Dr. Grant had told her she might be able to go home on Monday, depending on how she did with Physical Therapy. She refused to dwell on the fact that once she left the hospital, she’d have to wear a helmet at all times
—even in bed—until the surgery to repair her skull.

At nine o’clock, a familiar voice brought a smile to her bus
ted face. “Miss me, sunshine?” Alejandro sashayed into the room. “I’m representing ICU lost and found this morning. Well, that and I missed you, dearest. This belong to you?” He stepped aside, and Cade strode past him.

“Cade! Hi!” To Alejandro, she said, “He’s my brother.”

Cade raised his eyebrows. “You can talk. And you’re not hooked up to anything. Way to go, sis.” His casually affectionate words filled her chest with warmth.

Alejandro said, “Honey, those are some genes you’ve got. Wish I could stay f
or the family reunion, but I’ve got to shimmy. Ta!” Behind Cade’s back, he mouthed, “So cute!” Then he was gone.

She laughed, and felt ridiculously happy.

Cade had a big smile on his face too, and she had a feeling they would be okay. Years of ignoring each other couldn’t compete with the joy of being together now.

“How’s it feel to be off the tube?” he asked as he took over the visitor’s chair.

She told him about her morning, and finished with, “Where’s Mom?” Her mother had been by her side almost around the clock since she’d been admitted. Last night, the ICU staff had tactfully suggested her mother go home to get some sleep in her own bed. Cami appreciated it.

She’d been battling the urge to feel smothered. It surprised her that her mother hadn’t been banging on the doors to get in the second visiting hours started.

“I talked her into going to work,” Cade said. “Told her I wanted some alone time with you. You’re welcome.” He grinned as he grabbed the remote.

She didn’t think anything of him turning on the TV until ten minutes passed without a word to each other. Her elation at their progress faded, and she was left with a pang of loneliness as
SportsCenter
did a better job of engaging her brother than she had.

She tried not to be bitter. She tried not to think about how Derek would be if he were here. He’d talk to her and hold her hand, give her his undivided attention, make her feel like the most important person in the world. She had to get a grip. It wouldn’t do her any good to dwell on thoughts of her imaginary boyfriend. This was the real world, and he would never be part of it. No
matter what she wanted. In the real world, she had a chance at fixing things with her brother. She wouldn’t squander it.

“Cade?” she said after building up a shield of courage.

He grunted and inclined his head toward her without taking his eyes off the TV. Good thing she’d tucked her expectations away behind that shield, because the gesture might have hurt otherwise.

“Why did you come?”

He looked at her then. “Because you’re sick. It’s what family does.” He shrugged and turned back to the TV, but the line of his shoulders was tense.

Maybe she wasn’t the only one trying to convince herself she belonged to a functional family. Maybe he knew as well as she did that
family
implied love, affection, and communication, that they hadn’t been family for a long time.

Figuring his being here at all proved he was trying, she took pity on him. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said. They might be off to a rocky start, but hopefully it was the start of something better for them.

“Yeah, me too.” He turned his chair so he faced her more than the TV. He wore a crooked smile.

“How’s LA?” she asked, and they were off and runnin
g, moving into the unchartered relationship territory of grown siblings who hadn’t had an honest to goodness conversation since they were kids. They kept things superficial, and that was okay. She had her brother back. She didn’t want to push him. Besides, she’d lost a sister’s right to nag when she’d caused the accident that had taken their father’s life.

The clock edged toward lunchtime. When a soft knock preceded the opening of her door, she expected it to be the lunch service she’d phoned in. A delivery man walked in instead, his chest and face obscured by a vase as big as a pitcher of iced tea, stuffed with dozens of long stem red roses, bunches of fluffy baby’s breath and crisp, green ferns.

They must have the wrong room.

She’d gotten a card from Helping Hand and a small
arrangement from the staff at Enterprise, the high school she worked for, that her mother had taken home due to the ICU’s strict no-flowers policy. That had been more than she’d expected.

“Ms. Arlington?” the delivery person said.

She nodded.

Cade stood up and took the vase. He slipped the delivery person a couple small bills and set the vase on the
rolly table in front of her. The arrangement blocked her view of the room, wall-mounted TV and all.

“Got a boyfriend I don’t know about?” he joked, but all levity had drained out of her along with the blood from her face. The silver envelope poking out of the bouquet had two letters printed on it in bold, black ink.
DG.

“Cams?
You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Not seen one.
Been one.

She blinked, clearing the silly thought. Surely this had to be some misunderstanding.

These flowers couldn’t possibly be from the man she’d been working so hard to convince herself didn’t exist.

Cade spotted the card. He reached for it, no doubt thinking to help her.

She shot out her good arm and grabbed it first, ignoring the flare of pain it caused along her spine.

He raised an eyebrow but wisely said nothing.

“I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to watch some TV,” she said.

“I’ll do you one better. I’ll go get some lunch. Be back in a while.”

There had been a few precious years between being rivals and strangers when she and Cade had been close. As he left her to her privacy, she hoped they’d get back to that place again.

With the TV off and her tinnitus fading, her IMCU room was eerily quiet compared to the room upstairs with all its machinery. When her finger tore open the envelope, it sounded like an avalanche. The pounding of her heart was like a frantic beat on a bass drum. With shaking hands, she extracted a sheet of plain white, eight and a half inch by eleven inch paper folded twice.

Smoothing it open, she saw tight slanting handwriting covering three quarters of one side. Her eyes darted to the signature. The writing in the body was print, but the signature was in cursive.

Derek
, with a large, confident
D
.

A sob cut through the quiet.
Hers. A knife of longing that wouldn’t be repressed a moment longer sliced up through the layers of her soul. She hadn’t read a single word he’d written except his name, yet wonderful peace blanketed her. He was real. They’d really been together. It was somehow both impossible and true.

Which meant he was the one who had cut her off last Friday.

The blanket of peace billowed up and threatened to drift away on a gust of hurt, but she refused to let it go. She’d never had any illusions Derek was perfect. And she remembered how strong his guilt had been. It had been stamped on his face in somber lines and seared into his subconscious in the form of nightmares.

Would she still have comforted him if she’d known the dreams were because he’d acted aggressively on the road and she’d been the target of that aggression? Yes. She forgave him before she’d ever known he’d wronged her, before she’d known she’d been wronged at all. One bad decision didn’t make a person bad.

Her heart full and sore, she read the words on the page.

Camilla, my sweet DG,

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for cutting you off. I’m sorry for how bad you must be hurting. I’m sorry I
never told you I love you. I hope you haven’t changed your mind about loving me, but if you
have, well, that’s understandable. If that’s the case, just so you know where I’m coming from, I
plan on winning back your heart.

I wanted to see you yesterday but chickened out. I’m good at running from the messes I
make. It’s something I’m working on. Those aren’t just words. I really am working on owning up
to my mistakes. I enrolled in an anger management class at the community center. It starts in 2 weeks and runs for 4, meetings on Tues. and Th. nights. By the time the class is over, we should
be finished in civil court, and I’d really like to see you then, that is, if the judge for traffic court—I got my court date, it’s next Wednesday—doesn’t put me in jail for a little while. It’s okay if that
happens, by the way. I definitely deserve it, and I’ll manage.