Sunrise Fires (3 page)

We’d been at the beach when he’d asked me the last time, and it nearly ended us.

He had me pinned on the blanket, kissing me. My shirt was unbuttoned nearly to my bellybutton and his pants were already undone. He stopped us midstream. “Marry me.”

“What?”

“I said ‘marry me.’ It’s been four years and still we poke at this thing,” he thrust his hips at me and his rod stabbed at my already swollen pussy, “I want you to be my wife.”

“First, it has only been two years. Those first two, before we met, those don’t count. And second, you know, I won’t marry again. We’ve been over this.” He sat up abruptly.

“We already live like we are married, and I want everyone to know.”

“They know, Ryan. They know because of how we love each other, how we act around one another, because we cannot hide it.” I sat up and put my hand on the center of his back. “Because it’s real. No piece of paper or ring is going to change that.”

He reached around his knees and clasped his hands together. “Do you love me? Really love me in the way you say you do, not some fairy tale bullshit, but really love me?”

“I just told you I did, and I know that you know it already in the way I treat you.”

“Then why not? Why not make me that happiest man in the world and become my wife?”

Tears welled in my eyes, and I tried desperately not to let them spill. “Why do you torture us like this?” I smiled weakly and tried to lean into him, to break his hands apart and hold him. I could only manage to rest my cheek on his shoulder and wrap my arms around the tight ball that he had become.

“C’mon, let’s just break camp.” He got up abruptly and stepped toward the tent despite my hands grabbing at him.

“Baby,” I pleaded, “don’t be like this.”

“Like what?” He reeled around. “Like the man who loves you? Like a devoted lover and boyfriend? Like your best fucking friend? Like fucking what? Tell me.”

“Don’t ruin this moment by giving me that same ultimatum again.” I was standing now, and I crossed to him. “I
am
married to you. I’m married to you already in all the ways that count. You
are
all those things you said. And that sums you up as my life mate. I want to be with you and live just like this forever or for until you don’t want it anymore.” His jaw clenched.

“‘Until I don’t want it anymore’? What is that supposed to mean? I’m so fucking tired of trying to prove that I love you.”

“I know that you love me, Ryan. I know you do. And I love you, too. Please, let’s just go into the tent. Let’s continue the amazing good morning we started.”

“Fuck? That’s what you want? You want to fuck this away? Do you think you can fuck me into forgetting that you’ve rejected me so many times?”

We degraded into one of the biggest fights we’d ever had, and he actually moved out for a period of time. And I’d written him off. Despite how perfect we’d been, I chalked him up to ‘like all other guys,’ and I’d let him go. Initially, I was saddened by his absence and felt stupid for daring to believe that we might’ve been different. When weeks went by and he didn’t call, I was sure that he wasn’t missing me like I was missing him, sure that I’d not meant as much to him as he had to me. And I flipped the switch from missing to resentment. Resentment was a wonderful salve. I decided that I didn’t want him anymore, that he was the one to blame, that he was childish and silly for trying to force my hand and coerce me into marrying him. Good riddance, I didn’t need someone like that in my life anyway.

When he finally did call, I was cold and aloof. My position on marriage hadn’t changed so I was confused when he reached out. I was sure that he thought we would become friends with benefits and it offended me. Did he seriously think I would be available at his beck and call? On again, off again? Maybe he’d dated others and now thought he could come back to his trusty standby. I definitely couldn’t let him think I was his on-call lover. Had he really even missed me? Or was he just lonely in general?

I loved him and had missed him dearly in our separation, but I couldn’t bear to let him know that. It was difficult trying to appear unaffected, cautious, and independent while also letting him know that I was open to a conversation about reconciliation. It was an awkward, difficult, and painful road back, despite how much our separation had hurt me and how much I’d hoped we might one day get back together.

When we finally reunited, we agreed that we each feel whole and happy around each other unlike with anyone else. We hadn’t talked about marriage since, but sometimes Ryan dropped little comments like this one, reminding me that he resented that door was locked.

*   *   *

When we got to the hospital, the overflow from the ER was apparent. Some kind of flu must’ve hit. Every wire bench was occupied, and people lined the walls, huddled together in little pods of illness and injury. Instead of the antiseptic smell that normally permeated the place, it smelled of musk, grass, leaves, sweat, and bad breath. It felt surreal and postapocalyptic the way people murmured in hushed tones and eyed us as we passed, as if we had something they might want, and they were considering taking it from us. We hurried through the madness, and I was glad to be clear of it, shaking off the unsettling feeling with a chill as I punched the up arrow in the elevator lobby.

We made our way to Chris’s ward and signed in at the nurses’ station. It was much brighter up here and the nurses knew us by now.

“Welcome, back, Ryan, Jen,” the head nurse greeted us as we headed down the hall to Chris’s room. This place was an altogether more pleasant experience than anything the emergency room and trauma center downstairs had to offer. The fluorescent lights here didn’t seem so grayish blue; instead, they cast a more yellowish peach color to the ward, brightening it. And the smell of flowers dotted the hallway as we passed in front of rooms where they’d been recently delivered ‘get well’ bouquets of sunflowers, carnations, roses, and others, intended to keep the spirits high as the body recuperated. No matter what the impact it had on the patients, it was working on me, and by the time we knocked on Chris’s door, I was feeling rather cheery.

“Come in!” His boyish voice matched my mood.

Ryan heaved the solid wood door open, and we stepped inside. The room was intended for two patients, though Chris presently had it to himself. He’d taken up residence on the far side nearest the window. The lights were off, and the room was shadowed and cool inside. Whatever light we had came from the large windows across the room; evening was approaching, but the desert summer meant that sunset was still at least an hour away. The first bed looked dark and dreary. The curtain drawn, separating the two ‘rooms’ from one another, blocked most of the light from reaching it. The bed was made and pillow fluffed at the head of it. A clear Plexiglas clipboard was attached at the foot, hanging in wait for the next victim’s medical chart. There was a side table as well, with little tags in the upper right-hand corner of each likely naming what medical supplies were in each of the drawers. The entire scene was sterile and uninviting, unless you wanted to lie down and allow the Reaper direct easy access.

In just a few steps, the room’s energy changed completely. The bed, the clipboard, the side table—all the furniture was the same, and yet the place seemed entirely different. The light from the window brightened up the back half of the room, and Chris’s bubbling personality made it shine.

“Hey! My favorite couple!” Chris greeted us, smiling broadly. His bed was mechanically adjusted to the seated position, and Chris was clearly ready for company.

“Yep. How are you holding up, old man?” Ryan’s tone was warm and loving as he leaned over and hugged Chris.

“Are you kidding? I wiggled my big toe today!” He raised and lowered his eyebrows repeatedly. “Huh huh? How cool is that?”

Ryan snorted. “You can do some pretty good things with a big toe, man. Don’t knock it. Know what I’m saying?” And he raised and lowered his eyebrows in a similar fashion.

“Ewww. Nobody said anything else was paralyzed! Just the legs, man. I still can handle anything you’re getting at. And do it well!”

“Well, then get up and get to handling. There’s a city full of girls waiting on you.”

“I will. I will. They say six months to a year, but I’m walking out of this hospital even if I am just hopping on that one big toe.”

We all laughed.

I stepped over and gave Chris a hug and kiss on his cheek. “I’m gonna go grab something to eat, hun. I am so glad you are feeling better…well, that you’re feeling your big toe, at least.” And we laughed again. “You want something? Or is hospital food suiting you?”

“Hell yeah, I want something! An animal style burger and a shake. This food in here is really terrible. But damn, you just got here. Stay a while. Go in a bit.”

“Can’t. Starving. Someone ate my burger on the way over here.” I jerked a thumb in Ryan’s direction.

“Hey! You offered me that burger! You damn near insisted!”

I winked at Chris and then kissed Ryan on the cheek. “I know, babe. And I am glad you ate it.” I ran my hand down his spine, squeezing him at the small of his back, as I kissed his neck and whispered in his ear, “I love you, hun. I’m just being silly with Chris.” And then I straightened up and turned back to Chris, tugging my shirt down to straighten it and holding my palm up in front of me, feigning a writing utensil in the other hand, “Okay.” I dotted the ‘pen’ to my tongue quickly to get it started, “One animal style burger,” I spoke slowly as I took the order, “and one shake.” I looked up from my hand, “Flavor?”

“What?”

“What flavor shake?”

“Uhhh…What do they got?” He paused and thought for a second and then continued, “Bah, chocolate. Every place has chocolate.”

“Okay.” I waved my hand, scribbling furiously on my makeshift notepad. “You want fries with that?”

“Sure. I’ll take fries.”

Ryan stood with his hands on his hips, looking back and forth between us with disapproving eyes and pursed lips. His heavy sigh and sideways glances were half the fun of this process.

“Ketchup?”

“Yep.”

“Salt?”

“Extra.”

“Any beverage besides the shake?”

“Miller light.”

I looked up from my palm. “Excuse me, sir, but we do not recommend beer for people in the hospital. And, anyway, this establishment doesn’t serve beer.”

“Is that so? Well, I wanna see the manager!”

We both looked at Ryan. “No way! Keep me outta that little corny charade!”

“Well, you’re no fun.” And I jabbed him in the ribs. Turning my attention to Chris, I said, “Can I trust this fuddy duddy in your care while I’m gone?”

“Sure can. I might just lighten him up a bit.”

I turned and headed for the door. “But he doesn’t need to lose any weight.” I chuckled, listening to Chris’s laughter and Ryan’s groan.

Chapter Four

I
t was a month before Chris left the hospital, and he wasn’t walking on his own, though he used his crutches really well. I made lasagna that night and tried to think of Chris while I did, pouring some extra thoughts and love into it. We all gathered up at our house; I preferred it that way since I was cooking. Nobody complained since we were the only ones who lived in a house. Even Pat, who was married with two children, lived in an apartment.

We lived in a quiet gated community. The streets were lined with old oaks and green well-manicured lawns maintained by whomever the home owners’ association hired. It reminded me of my New England roots back East, making the exorbitant home owner’s association fees well worth it. Each home was painted in similar neutral tones of beige, tan, brown, peach, and terra cotta—signature desert colors that survived well in the blazing summer sun. Ours was in the middle of the block, a cookie-cutter copy of the house three doors down to our left and two down to the right—tract housing at its finest. Still, I loved the place. Ryan and I had chosen it together, and that alone made it special. He had found a rental agency that helped us find precisely what we wanted, and we’d selected a few to go see every few days until we found something we could agree on. This had been only the fourth or fifth house we looked at. Once we saw it, we knew there was no point in continuing to look. It was a two-story, two-bedroom place. The downstairs was open and welcoming while the upstairs was more cozy and private.

The place reeked of garlic and basil by the time people started arriving. Barefooted, I crossed the tiled floor to answer the door. The tiles were one of the many things I loved about this home, particularly in the summer time when carpet might’ve held the heat and made the place feel stifling. My toes gripped the natural surface of the ceramic tiles. They were cool and firm beneath my feet. I opened the door and wasn’t surprised to find Mark standing there. He was the quietest and seemingly most melancholy of the bunch, but he maintained an air of cordiality and respect. Seeing him arrive on time wasn’t a shock. Neither was it a shock to see him with a woman I’d never seen before. Bringing a new woman to an event was his signature. In fact, I wondered if anyone ever got a second date.

“Hey, hun.” I reached up to hug him as he leaned down to me. He was much taller than me, likely six foot three or four, and rail thin. He was brooding and dark, wearing clothes that matched his demeanor. Today, he wore black skinny jeans held up by a belt fashioned from a car’s seat belt and a black button-down shirt, with the sleeves partially rolled up. He had one eyebrow piercing and snake bite piercings on his bottom lip, any of which he was prone to fiddle with when he was nervous or brooding. His jet-black hair swept across his forehead toward his left ear, never quite succeeding in staying out of his eyes. His face was sharp and angular—marked by gaunt cheeks, a pointed nose, and sharp-jutted chin—and dotted by deep charcoal eyes. In all, he was a shadow until you got to know him. He was shy and reserved, never speaking until spoken to, and resigned to remain a background figure.

I smiled at him coming away from our hug. “You’re the first one here.” He shrugged and handed me a bottle of wine. “Well, thank you,” I said, and then looking at the bottle, I was surprised that he’d chosen my favorite red wine. “Did Ryan tell you to get this? I think it’s the only red I drink. It’s perfect for tonight.”