When Love Breaks
Authors: Kate Squires
W
HEN
L
OVE
B
REAKS
Kate Squires
Copyright © 2016 Kate Squires
All rights reserved.
ISBN-10: 1533421978
ISBN-13: 9781533421975
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016910269
Createspace Independent Publishing Platform
North Charleston, South Carolina
Also by Kate Squires
That Kiss
That Promise
I Will Catch You
Tracing Hearts
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
It’s time to thank the little people again—who really turned out to be big people in the end. So I’ll start with God. Without You, none of this would be possible. Thank You so much for giving me the talent and the imagination! To my beta readers: Jody, Toni, Hayley, Steve, Jodie, and Josie. Thank you all for your willingness to read my stories in the raw. I know it’s not always convenient, so thanks for that, and for giving me feedback on time (Well, most of you…you know who you are).
Ashlee, what can I say? You’re a miracle worker! Thanks for seeing my mistakes and liking me anyway!
Steve, I know you see a little of yourself, and a bit of our conversations in my books, so let me just say how grateful I am that you are the way you are. Without you, my books might not be as captivating. You are truly a blessing to me.
Melinda, you helped me understand how difficult, but still normal, life after an amputation can be. Thanks for all your advice.
Bernadette, Rachelle, and Cindy, my medical trio. Bernadette, I have to give you credit for being so knowledgeable about physical detriments, and for a willingness to guide me in things I would have no other way of knowing. Rachelle, first, thank you for letting me borrow your husband, Steve at all hours of the day. I know he’s goofy and a little weird, but he knows a lot so that’s worth something. ;) Also, your nursing info and insight really helped me on my journey in writing this book. I’m so grateful. Cindy, you worked your butt off to get me accurate information, and double checked that I had it all correct. For that, and many other things, I’m in your debt. Thanks to all three of you!
Thelma, I know you don’t think you’re that important, but I love you (more) and I cherish your feedback and our friendship.
To my family, thanks for not getting mad at me for all those days I don’t have dinner ready because I’m on a writing binge. I love you! You’re priceless!
Lastly, to my readers and fans: Thank you so much for all your kind words of encouragement, and for letting me know how much you love my stories. Without you, I wouldn’t be putting out my fifth book! <3
W
HEN
L
OVE
B
REAKS
Kate Squires
1
Love is a delicate balance of knowing how tightly to hold on, and when to let go.
It smells like warm, summer evenings and starlit nights, yet tastes of salty tears.
It’s the sound of infectious laughter, but also gut wrenching sorrow.
Love deserves respect.
Love is pleasure, and love is pain.
It can seek you out, then turn and walk away.
Love is the greatest antidote, and the most powerful venom.
Love is complicated, yet it’s as simple as breathing.
Love heals, but it wounds just as easily.
Love is the most sought after desire,
but there’s no foretelling the collateral damage
when love breaks...
ELORA
N
ervously, I pull my hair back, and fasten the rubber hair tie around my ponytail. Grabbing two fistfuls at the back of my head, I pull them in opposite directions to tighten its hold on my hair. I look in the mirror and blow out a steadying breath. This job is going to be difficult. Seven caregivers, in as many days, is
not
a good track record. Is this man some sort of sadist? I shake my head at my reflection, and test out my most sincere smile. Will this expression be enough, or will he see right through me, and send me running from the house, never to return…just like the seven before me? I slouch and roll my eyes. Why did I agree to take on this client? Surely, there were others I could’ve taken that would be a lot less stressful. A frustrated groan passes between my lips. “Well, it’s now, or never,” I say, resigned to my fate. I walk out on a mission to survive what could be my first, and last, day with this client.
The neighborhood is quiet, as I drive onto his street, although it’s still very early in the morning. The lawns are well manicured, and the landscaping looks professionally done. I assume the homeowner’s association takes care of most of that. The houses, which line the streets of this picturesque community, are the typical cookie-cutter variety. The only differences between each one are the colors of the shutters. As I glance down at my watch, I realize it’s seven o’clock on the nose, and I’m still trying to find the correct address.
Damn it.
The voice of my father pops into my head, uninvited.
If I were you, I’d leave earlier, Elora. I’d rather be half an hour early, than five minutes late
. Well, it’s too late for that now.
Finally, I spy Melanie’s car in a driveway a few houses down from where I’m stopped, so I speed up and park beside her.
“Sorry I’m not earlier,” I say, as I quickly exit the car.
“It’s fine. Let’s just get in there,” she says with a forced smile.
That can’t be a good sign.
“Do I need a gait belt to lift him? It’s in my car. I can go get it.” I begin to turn back in the direction of my vehicle.
“No need,” Melanie says. “He’s already got one inside. I brought you a box of gloves and the care plan. Once we get inside, I’ll do the introductions and go over the basics with you.” She smiles again, but the emotions she’s so obviously hiding from me, are worrisome. “Hey, don’t worry too much, okay? He just got discharged from the hospital a little over a week ago. He’s new to home health care…and his condition. It’s going to be tough for him, but I’m sure you can make it work.”
I nod, unsure of how I feel about all this and insecure about my capability of taking care of someone who’s a double amputee.
Melanie opens the door to the home and announces our presence. Apparently, we didn’t need to knock.
“Mr. Turner? I’m here with your new aide,” she says, as I close the door behind us. While waiting for some sign of an inhabitant, I scan the place for anything that could give me more information about the man I’ll be taking care of today. The house is neat and looks as though it could’ve been a model home at one time. That’s not what I expected from someone in his condition. I walk in farther and see a smartly organized kitchen to my right. The open-concept dining room and living room is to my left, with a set of stairs leading to a loft which overlooks the whole area. A noise causes my eyes to look straight ahead, then land on a darkened figure. The hall, which I assume leads to the bedrooms, is dimly lit, and it isn’t until he gets closer that I can make out his features.
Wheeling himself down the hallway, Mr. Logan Turner rolls toward us. His hair is a mess, and it looks as if he just got out of bed. His jaw is tense and in desperate need of a shave. The tight, worn t-shirt he’s wearing clings to him, and his hardened biceps inform me that he’s had to work way too hard for simple, daily functions, which most of us take for granted. I note that his amputations are just below his knees, and I’m relieved to know his knee joints are intact, which might possibly make both of our lives a bit easier. He stops just short of us and looks up. His eyes shifting from Melanie, to me, then back to her. His mood is hard to gauge.
“Hello, Mr. Turner. How are you doing today?” Melanie asks politely.
He looks down at his lap, then up at me.
“Well, I still don’t have any legs, so I’d say I’m pretty shitty.”
I swallow reflexively, not knowing how to respond.
“Other than that,” she continues.
He looks back at her.
“Just peachy.” His expression is sarcastic, as if his disability should’ve warranted a different question.
Out of nowhere, a small, nervous giggle bubbles out from my mouth. I try to cover it with a cough, but his narrowed eyes shoot straight to mine.
Shit.
“Um, sorry, I think I just swallowed a bug,” I say quickly while patting my chest.
Still looking at me with a death stare, he turns abruptly, swinging his chair around, and heads for the kitchen table. Melanie walks behind him, and I follow.
“This is Elora Foster. She’ll be your new aide. If you need anything, she’s more than capable of handling it.”
He says nothing as he picks up his newspaper, but I think I hear a quiet grunt.
“Can she cook?” he finally says. His voice is gruff.
I clear my throat and take a step toward him.
“Yes. I can cook,” I say, trying to sound confident.
“Well?” he responds coldly.
“Um,
I
think so.”
He grunts again and shakes his head slightly.
“We’ll see,” he mutters quietly, but I’m not sure I was supposed to hear him.
Melanie goes over the care plan with me and points out where everything’s kept. She’s obviously done this a few times.
“Well, I guess I’m going to go now,” she says. “Walk me out, Elora?” I nod. “Have a good day, Mr. Turner.” She smiles at him, but he doesn’t even acknowledge her. I follow her to the front door.
“Melanie, I’m not sure if—”
“Elora, look, just do the best you can,” she whispers. “As you know, we’ve had a lot of aides come and go from this place, and I just need someone who can tolerate him for the ten-hour shift. After that, his brother comes home and can take over.
Please?
Do this for me. We’ve been friends a long time, and I need this placement to work.” She’s practically on her knees begging me to give him a chance. I sigh and roll my eyes.
“Okay, fine. I’ll do my best, but you
owe
me,” I say and mean it.
“Thank you.” She smiles, and gives me a quick hug, then exits, and I’m stuck with
Mr. Happy
.
I take a few seconds to gather my wits before reentering the kitchen. Logan sits in his wheelchair, still reading the newspaper, his back to me. I inhale, then blow out a ragged breath.
“So, what would you like for breakfast, Mr. Turner?”
His head turns slightly in the direction of my voice.
“Eggs,” he says gruffly.
“Just eggs?”
“And toast.”
“Okay…anything else?”
“Juice.”
I nod, although he can’t see me, then open the refrigerator to fetch the ingredients.
“Orange juice or apple juice?”
“What kind of question is that?” he says, clearly irritated.
I’m a little shocked at his tone.
“Um…I was just giving you options.”
“What am I, four? What grown man drinks apple juice?”
“Uh, sorry. Orange juice it is then,” I say apologetically. “
Would you like that in a sippy cup?
” I mutter begrudgingly under my breath. His head turns slightly, and I freeze. God, I hope he didn’t hear my last comment. He says nothing then continues to read the paper. I blow out another relieved breath and get to work.
Within a few minutes, I’ve fried two eggs, toasted two slices of bread, and poured a tall glass of orange juice. I walk over to the table and place the dishes in front of him.
“
Fried
eggs?”
“Yes. Sunny side up,” I reply.
“I wanted scrambled,” he says petulantly.
“I’m…sorry. I just thought…I assumed that’s how you wanted them.”
“Well, you didn’t
ask
me, did you?” he says acidly, and for the first time since my arrival, he looks directly at me. I shrivel under his scrutiny then open my mouth to say something, but I’ve got nothing. I’m literally speechless. Then, I watch as his expression changes. It almost softens momentarily. His tensed facial muscles relax, and his brow lifts slightly. But, just as quickly as it appeared, it’s gone, and he resumes his seemingly permanent scowl. “It’s fine. I’ll deal with it,” he says, and looks back down at his plate. I nod and make a hasty retreat.
After his breakfast, I clear the dishes and place them in the sink to be washed. Fearing his response, I ask anyway.
“Do you need help with anything else right now?” I try to keep my face passive. The last thing I need is for him to know how much he intimidates me.
“No,” he says curtly. “But, if you’re bored, you can straighten up a bit after the dishes are done. I’ll be in my room.” Without so much as a glance in my direction, he wheels himself out of the kitchen and down the hallway, disappearing behind a closed door. I sit in a nearby chair, sagging into it. I’m able to breathe again without him telling me I’m doing it wrong.
An hour or so later, I’m sitting at the kitchen table when Logan wheels himself into the room. I stand abruptly, unsure if I should look as though I was doing something constructive. He eyes me up and down, which makes me uncomfortable.
“Hi,” I say. My response sounds breathy.
He frowns.
“I need a pen. They’re over there,” he says and points to a drawer near me.
“Okay.” I walk the two steps it takes to reach the drawer and open it, hoping to find one right away. I rummage through for a few seconds, when my eyes land on one. Taking it out, I hand it to him. “Here you go. Are you writing a letter?” I ask, just to be polite.
His eyes narrow. Is he offended?
“What business of that is yours?”
“I was just trying to make small talk, that’s all. I thought we could get to know each other better.”
Not that I really want to.
“I’d rather not. I hate small talk. And, I’m sure there’s something else you could be doing besides interrogating me.”
My eyes brows shoot up. I did not expect that reaction.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think asking about a pen was an offense.”
As soon as I finish my sentence, I realize I sounded a bit pissy. Even though I meant every sardonic word, I instantly look at the floor and hear him scoff.
“I don’t need to tell you a thing. This is my house, and you were hired to do what I ask you to do. If you’d just stick to doing your
job,
and keep your nose out of my business, we’ll get along just fine. Now, if it’s all right with you, I’ll be in my room.” He turns his chair around and starts back down the hallway.
And, I don’t know why, but something deep inside begs me to speak up.
“Well, thank God for small miracles,” I mutter quietly, knowing full well he might be able to hear me. He stops abruptly and turns back to face me with an angry expression on his face.
“What did you say?”
“Who me?” I say innocently while looking around behind me. “I didn’t say a thing.” I smile sweetly at him as he stares at me for a few more seconds. It’s almost as if he’s trying to read my mind. When he’s done trying to melt my brain with his heat vision…or whatever, he retreats back into his bedroom.