The Lost Recipe for Happiness - By Barbara O'Neal Page 0,129
had already died down, and the music Ivan had chosen was already starting to play. “When Doves Cry” came through the windows faintly.
He didn’t have his coat. His lip was bleeding pretty fucking bad. Patrick was sitting in the booth, drinking his wine. Didn’t he know what happened? Dag sauntered over to the booth and Ivan saw him pointing toward the door. Patrick nodded.
And didn’t move.
Ivan stood there, blinking. How was that fa—
Fair.
Pierced to the bone, he headed back to the Orange Bear, where his car was parked. What the fuck. He’d get drunk somewhere else.
Because what had toeing the line got him? Same fucking life he had all along. What was the point?
What was even the fucking point?
Julian watched Elena moving around the bedroom and took her arm. “I’m worried about you.”
As she always did, she made a conscious effort to straighten her spine. “I’m just tired.” She sank to the ottoman and took off her shoes. Her skin was pale.
“You’re not fine, Elena. You need to see a doctor.”
“So they can tell me how bad it is, Julian? So they can show me the intolerable choices left to me?”
Alvin jumped up and came over, his tail swinging nervously.
“You’re worrying him,” Julian said.
She bowed her head. “I’m sorry. I did see a doctor. Last week.” She swallowed. “They want to do more surgery.”
He sank down beside her, took her hands, even though she was trying to pull them away. “Elena. Stop resisting me.”
She smiled a little, let her hands still. Took in a breath. “So much for your chef, huh?” she said, and couldn’t quite cover the despair she felt. The blue of her irises seemed to bleed right down her face.
He cupped her face, touched her hair. “What kind of surgery?”
“A lot. Pins and cages and braces and things.”
“And what’s the prognosis?”
“I didn’t get that far. It would mean being in a brace for maybe six months. I can’t run the kitchen that way.”
“Do you think we—”
Her cell phone rang. In the quiet, the late hour, the sound seemed ominous. She shot him a glance and grabbed it from the table. “Hello?” Through the line, she heard a voice, rushing and urgent. “Slow down, Patrick. I can’t understand you.” She put a finger against her opposing ear. “What happened? Who is—”
The color bled from her face. “When? How did that happen? I thought he’d been on the wagon.” She listened a little longer, made soothing noises. “I’ll be there soon. Don’t freak out. It’s not your fault.”
She clapped the phone closed. “Ivan got into a fight with Dag at the bar, then got in his car and drove it into a tree.” She stood up. A white line edged her mouth, and she swung her hair over her shoulder. “I’ve gotta go to the hospital. Patrick’s losing it.”
“How’s Ivan?”
Her shoulders twitched. “He’s in surgery. They don’t know.”
“I’ll drive.”
She shook her head. “That’s not necessary. Why should both of us be sleep deprived?” As she spoke, she moved stiffly around the room, picking up bits and pieces, a blouse, her socks, a bracelet she wore on her left wrist where most people wore a watch. Her defenses were so thin and tattered they were like an ancient negligee. He could see right through them.
He went to her, pulled her into his arms, and held her against his chest. “Elena, let go for once in your life, let go before you shatter.”
She only allowed his comfort for the blink of an eye before she pushed him away. “I can’t.”
“Be hugged or let go?”
“One leads to the other, and I can’t afford them. Not right now, Julian, okay?”
And suddenly he realized that she might never let him in, that this might be an entirely one-sided relationship, with Elena offering tidbits here and there, while Julian poured himself, all of his heart and soul and longings and dreams, into it. He thought of her friend Mia, whom she’d cut out of her life so coldly, after how many years of friendship?
As he stood there, he felt the distance between them widen, or perhaps it was that he was only now seeing the truth of it, the truth of the dynamic, that Elena stood aloofly at the top of an icy mountain, and he—her swain, her supplicant—tried to scale the slippery summit to no avail. He saw that the events of her life had stranded her there, alone, that she had not gone willingly. And yet…