14 Days, 7 Prompts, 1 Story (Feb 2010)

Security Bypass

What happened to your leg?

In retrospect, the question was obvious.  He even had a two-minute sanitized version prepared, for people he just met.  A ski accident where he plowed into a tree, shattering almost every bone on his left side, the several corrective and plastic surgeries and months of rehab.  Usually he’d add that although it took him some time, he realized how lucky he was to not have died on that mountain.  Sometimes he could swallow the bitterness enough to sound convincing.

Instead, he found himself telling her about Amanda.

About how excited he was that entire weekend, having finally found the perfect ring.  How he had arranged with the chateau to hide the ring under the cover of the room service tray, for the dozen roes, for the bottle of champagne even though it was ten in the morning.  The butterflies that dive-bombed in his stomach when she reached for the French toast, eyes widening as she saw the jewelry box.  How the joy escaped through his pores, leaching his skin of all color until he was as white as the hotel sheets, the moment it became obvious she was going to turn him down.  About the embarrassed rage that propelled him out of the room while she stumbled over apologies and halting explained reconnecting with her ex-fiancé.  He told her about the horrible feeling when he realized there was no way to avoid ramming headlong into the tree, the despair of being told he might never walk again, and the mortification of Amanda’s one and only hospital visit, where she brought her once and future fiancé to meet him.

John told Tory about the suffocating fury seeing the scars that covered his body caused him every day, the resentment he felt at having almost killed himself over a woman who was never worth it.  If anyone could, he thought she might understand why he couldn’t be grateful to be alive, how the expectations of his family, however well meant, had become unbearably oppressive. 

He talked for almost an hour, distantly noting the comforting pressure of her hands stroking his back, his arm, his leg.  He talked until his voice and composure cracked.  At some point she hustled him into the back room, the tears he couldn’t shed manifesting as back-breaking tremors, and held him. 

Eventually even those stopped.  This was the most exhausted he’d ever been.  While he wasn’t embarrassed, he did need distance.  But in getting up to walk around, John discovered his leg was almost too sore to stand on.  Rarely did he regret not carrying around the muscle relaxants, preferring the pain to the numbness.  He would've taken one now, if he’d thought to bring them.  Instead he paced, hoping exercise would loosen the muscles.
--

“You ever think about being a psychologist?” 

Struggling to orient herself, Tory shook her head to clear the cobwebs.  That was the first thing John had said since he began pacing. 

“I am.  I mean, I’m not one yet, but I’m working on my PhD.  That’s why I work at the restaurant – the hours are flexible.”  The cane stopped tapping and suddenly he was looming over her.  At least, that’s how it seemed.  Now that he was no longer talking, she didn’t know what to do.  How was she supposed to react?  Clearly he was a private person, so why unburden himself to her? 

“My mother constantly tells me to go to medical school and become a psychiatrist because,” she pitched her voice lower and slower in imitation, “‘If you’re going to waste your time with other’s people’s problems, you should demand adequate compensation darling.’  It’s a little demoralizing.” 

Gotta love that nervous babble.  Laughing self-consciously, she threaded her fingers together, looking everywhere in the small room except John.  She felt a light touch in her hair and leaned her head towards his hand.  Silence, heavy and ponderous, thudded between them.  He lightly grazed her cheek before walking away. 

The clattering cane told her John had sat down in the only other chair in the room. 

“I should thank you.  I know I laid a lot on your plate.  You’re a fantastic listener.”  Given how hoarse he was, she handed him the rest of her glass of water.  It also gave a chance to get her runaway thoughts under control.  Hard to do when accidentally brushing his fingers shot sparks through her.

“I have to admit I’m not sure what to do.  But,” she turned sideways to face him, “I’m glad you felt comfortable enough to talk to me.”  Tory reached for his hand.  “I could tell you a whole mess of ugly stories about my mother if that would even things out.”  It was insanely gratifying when he squeezed her hand and gave her a weary grin.

He shook his head.  “Nah.  Not today.  Let’s get good and drunk instead. “ 

“One last thing though?”  The look he gave her was skeptical.  She bit her lip to keep from laughing.  “Honest!”

“What?”

“The girl you were meeting today…”

“Melanie.”

“What’s the deal with that?  Because, I like you, but I’m not one to poach.” 

His thumb traced small circles on her palm.  Those circles were sending shivers up her spine and flushing her skin.  “Tory?”  The seriousness of his tone worried her .  She looked away again. “The deal is Isadora thinks I’m a wet blanket.  Grouchy grumpy bear, she calls me.  So she set me up.  I’d have some words with her but…” 

Not letting up on the circles, his eyes dropped to her lips.  He let the silence build; she cracked, as she would bet was his plan all along. 

“But?”

Lips curved in a sensuous grin, John replied, “I’ve always preferred brunettes.”

It took her a few seconds to put it together, but when she did, she burst into howls of laughter.