Finally she turned to look at me. Lips trembling, eyes filling with tears that would taste salty if I licked them, she opened her mouth to speak. Her throat swallowing reflexively, her voice cracked, “I—I have to go and see Lance…don’t I?”
I cringed at her question, knowing there was only one answer I could give. Clusterfuck motherfucking load of steaming shit.
WHOEVER says the government moves slowly is not talking about the people that work for the future Vice President of the United States. Things moved at the speed of light as soon as I gave my agreement to visit Lance Oakley.
You have to do this. I stood in the hospital corridor waiting to go in, the smell of antiseptic and food permeating the sterile air making me want to retch. The bouquet of flowers I’d been given shook lightly in my hand as I tried to pull myself together. You don’t have a choice. Ethan’s hand at my back felt possessive, but I couldn’t deal with whatever emotions he was struggling with at the moment. You have to do it to protect your baby. I knew why Ethan was freaking. But there was nothing I could do for him right now.
The moment Ethan had sent my agreement to meet Lance via the text message on my phone, a very well-organized media show geared into motion. Limousines, police escorts, secret entrances, personal photographers, gifts for the patient, debriefings on what to do, how long to stay, what to say. Everything arranged down to the millisecond. You’re doing this. Ethan’s hand caressed my low back. He was being forced into being a part of this bedside circus too. My husband was about to meet my past. Everything I wanted to forget about. He’s just a soldier who’s been injured serving his country.
“Mr. Blackstone, you’ll stay on her left, until after your introduction to Lieutenant Oakley, then you’ll excuse yourself from the room to take a phone call. Your wife will finish the visit alone with Lieutenant Oakley.” The press secretary who addressed Ethan blanched at the look her gave her. Make that a wince. I couldn’t see him shooting her the f**k-off-you-pretentious-gash glare, as he was slightly out of my range of vision, but I could imagine what his face looked like right now. And no, Ethan wouldn’t take to her instructions well at all, now would he? Especially as she just told him to leave me in the hands of another man. Lance is not just any other man. Ethan might not even follow her instructions. I guess Miss Press Secretary was about to find out.
“We’re all ready?” she asked me, pointedly avoiding eye contact with Ethan.
No. “Yes.” He’s just a soldier who’s been injured serving his country. You knew him a long time ago…you can do this.
MY legs propelled me forward. I don’t know how.
I felt close to an out-of-body experience to be honest, but somehow I moved in slow steps that brought me into his private hospital room. I don’t know what I expected. I knew Lance had been horribly injured and that his leg had been amputated just below the right knee, but the person lying in that bed, was nearly unrecognizable to me.
The Lance Oakley I remembered was a prep-school, west coast society boy. Clean cut and ambitious. He’d been a student at Stanford headed for a law degree when we were together.
He didn’t look like Stanford Law now.
Tattoos covered his arms in sleeves down to the knuckles on his hands. His brown hair was cut short as it would be for a military officer, but blended with the unshaven beard, he looked raw and edgy. Big bodied, muscled and inked, dressed in a hospital gown and lying in bed, his gaze straight ahead on the wall. Not at me. He looked bereft, and not at all like the cold misogynist I’d carried in my head these long years.
I must have stopped short because Ethan’s hand at my back pressed more firmly.
I took another step, moving closer. He flipped his eyes up. Very dark brown as I remembered them. Gone was the cocky self-assuredness I also remembered.
Now, I saw something in him I’d never seen before. There was regret, and apology, and shame in the way he appeared before me, in his hospital bed, missing one of his legs. At some point in the past seven years—maybe just since his injury—Lance Oakley had found a conscience.
“BRYNNE.”
“Lance.”
His face softened. “Thank you for coming…here,” he said clearly, as if he had also been briefed by his father’s press secretary.
“Of course.” I came forward and placed the flowers on the side of the blanket and reached out my hand.
His tattooed fingers gripped my outstretched hand, and miraculously…nothing horrible happened. The world didn’t end, nor did the sun go dark. Lance brought my hand up to his cheek and held it there. “I’m so happy to see you again.”
The photographer shot the hell out of that moment, and I knew I would see the pictures in print, on TV, magazines, everywhere. I was in it now, and there was no going back. For any of us.
I could feel Ethan beside me, as tight as a bowstring about ready to snap. He was undoubtedly furious that Lance was touching me in an intimate way. Strangely, it didn’t affect me much at all. I felt numb more than anything. So I forced myself to continue on with the charade, to propel it forward so we could all end the torture.
Retrieving my hand from his grip, I said, “Lance, this is my husband, Ethan Blackstone. Ethan, Lance Oakley, an old…friend from San Francisco.”
Lance gave Ethan his full attention and held out his hand in greeting. “Pleasure to meet you, Ethan.”
There was a long pause where I wasn’t sure Ethan would return the handshake. Time stopped as everyone held their breath.
After what felt like an eon, Ethan brought his own hand forward and delivered a firm shake. “How do you do?” The greeting was conveyed smoothly, but I knew my man, and he was hating on every bloody second of being here. Of me having to be here. Of him having to pretend.
Then, as if a screen director were calling the shots, someone came up and tapped Ethan on the shoulder, apologizing for the interruption, but he had an important call that required his attention. And just like that, he excused himself. I watched Ethan walk out, the rigid gait showing me how hard it was for him to leave me there alone. You can do this.
“Will you sit down?”
“Yes, of course.” I followed the script, astounded that my brain was remembering what to say and do.