Chapter Ten

Scott

By the time I wolf down some of the “healthy” cafeteria food, I’ve got the deets on Sonya in pathology and her triplets, Frank the custodian who now prefers to identify as Francesca and whom all the nurses flock to for her makeup tips, and a certain doctor who’s being sued for removing the wrong pinky. I’m wondering if maybe Crystal had anything to do with that last one because she seems to have trouble following directions. Not only does she send Jameson home with a hot pink cast, they’ve pumped her full of Percocet—AKA Oxy. I guess we’re lucky Jameson wasn’t having a kidney removed.

I see immediately why it was that Jameson didn’t want the Oxy—it’s like she’s knocked back a bottle of Stoli, chased it with a flask full of Jack Daniels, and floated a Long Island iced tea on top of it. Loopy doesn’t even begin to cover the state of Jameson O’Halloran Clarke when we pull up in front of her house on Orange Avenue. No, she’s good and hammered.

“I don’t… Why won’t this stupid thing…” She huffs with impatience when she’s unable to extricate herself from the seat belt with her one good hand.

“Hold on, let me help you,” I say, jumping to get out and come around to her door. When I open it, she looks up at me, her green eyes wide, her face earnest.

“I was right about the arm. It’s broken in two places,” she informs me for the fourth time.

“I know. And now you’ve got that very fashionable pink cast,” I repeat for the fourth time as I help her out of the truck.

“I’m fine. You can just leave me here and I’ll be good,” she says, even as she’s swaying from side to side. “Just…leave me here.”

“Uh-huh.”

I dig around in her bag until I find the house key and somehow manage to get us both up onto the porch and through the front door without falling. The O’Halloran house is dark and still. And empty. I find the light switch in the entrance way and hold the door for Jameson. She walks to the middle of the living room and then stops, staring around her blankly. “Uhh… Hmmm….” She doesn’t seem to have any clue what should come next.

“How about I fix you something to eat?” I suggest. “You never did get dinner, and you really shouldn’t be taking pain meds on an empty stomach like that.”

She seems to consider this and then shakes her head. “Nope. Not hungry. But I’ll tell you what I could use…a shower.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “A…a shower?”

She snorts at me and points. “You should see the look on your face!”

Oh, good. She’s just joking. Hard to tell right now. “So you don’t want a shower, then?”

“What? No, I do. I do want a shower, Scotty Scott. I’m dying for a hot. Steamy. Shower.” She walks up to me and pokes my chest on the three last words for emphasis.

Oh, crap. She’s not joking. I take a deep breath. Okay, okay, okay. I can do this. Just helping a family member. Sort of. Not really. Not at all, actually.

“Uh, Jameson, I don’t think I can help you out…in the shower, I mean…”

Another stupid-silly snort from her. “No, no. I just need some help getting naked, you silly goose!”

“Ummmmm…” I look down at her blouse, then her jeans, then back up at her face, feeling a mixture of concern and alarm rising from the pit of my stomach and lodging right in my throat.

“Ughh, will you please just come over here and unbutton the buttons on my blouse?” she asks impatiently. I follow her instructions without comment, my big clumsy fingers fumbling to push the delicate pearl buttons through their holes. Once I’ve finished and the blouse is hanging open, I start to step back, but she’s not having it. “Wait, wait, wait. We’re not done yet.”

This has red flags all over it. Ex-sister-in-law, attractive woman, woman I’m attracted to, woman with impaired judgment. Oh, hell, I’m in a world of trouble here.

“Jeans, please,” Jameson directs.

“I’m—I’m sorry?” She can’t possibly want me to…could she?

“I can get the zipper down—Lookie…” She demonstrates her zipper prowess by pulling hers down. “But I can’t get the pants…you know…down.” She uses her one good hand to tug at the waistband but makes only marginal progress. She’s right; she does need help.

“Umm, okay, so let’s see how we’re going to do this,” I begin, trying to survey the situation from a practical standpoint. Of course it’s as easy as pulling her jeans down, but what if her panties come along for the ride? Or I see something I shouldn’t see? Then an idea occurs to me. I run to the bathroom and come back with a towel.

“Here, hold this up,” I say, helping her pull the material to her body. Then I reach around and gingerly tug the denim down until she’s able to step out of the legs. “Excellent!” I declare, proud of my handiwork. “Why don’t I go start the shower running for you…”

“Wait!” she whines. “We’re not done yet!”

“We’re not?” Crap.

“I need you to unhook my bra for me.”

What? No, no, no, no. That’s way past trouble. That puts me squarely within the city limits of apocalyptic disaster. “Oh, hey…maybe we should wait for Bailey to get home for that,” I suggest quickly.

“I doubt she’ll be coming home. She doesn’t think I’m her mother.”

“Her…mother? Why would she think you’re her mother?”

“I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t want me for a mother, either…”

“Jameson, you’re not thinking straight right now…”

“Besides, I’m sure you’ve unhooked one or two in your lifetime, right?”

Suddenly we’ve abandoned wistful tears in favor of fits of giggles. It takes me a second to realize she’s leapfrogged back to our previous discussion. “What? Bras?”

“Yes, bras! Don’t you even pretend you’re bashful, Mister…Mister…” She pauses and seems to consider what it is she’s trying to get out. “Mr. Manly-Dead-Skull-Tattoo-Chest! You were half naked in the kitchen not six hours ago!”

Ugh, jeez. She’s right. If I’m honest with myself, I kind of enjoyed seeing her get all flushed in the kitchen. It gave me a thrill to know that I could have that effect on her. What I didn’t expect was the effect she’d have on me.

“Okay, let’s get this over with then…” I mutter, lifting the bottom of her shirt, unclasping her bra and stepping away as quickly as if there was a snake under there waiting to nail me with its super-duper-killer venom. And God knows I’ve got enough problems already. Still, the way she’s swaying and going back and forth between topics, leaving her alone isn’t an option right now. “You know, I’d like to hang around until you’re done if that’s okay.”

“Thank you!” she says with a nod and a smile. A smile that makes my heart beat a little faster. “You’re very sweet, you know.”

“Thanks.”

“Much sweeter than Win.”

“Yeah, well, sweet was never my brother’s strong suit.”

She giggles as I follow her down the hall toward the bathroom, where she reaches in and gets the water running.

“So they said it’s okay to get the cast wet, so you should be good. I’ll just wait out here in the hallway. But I’ll keep this door open so I’ll hear you if you need me, okay?’

“Hah!” she snorts and points at me. “You just want to see me naked!”

“Right out here,” I repeat, stepping into the hallway and waving at her around the doorjamb. “You go ahead. I’ll just be sitting on the carpet here. Out here. Out of sight…” Then I turn around so that my back is to the wall and allow myself to slide down until my butt hits the hallway carpet. I hear her behind me as she shucks her clothing. The swish of her blouse. The thunk of her jeans. A few seconds later comes the jiggling of the plastic rings atop the shower curtain as she pulls it aside and climbs in.

“I’m in!” she confirms for me. And then there’s music. It’s coming from inside the bathroom—inside the shower itself, based on the muffled sound.

Before I can ask her about the apparently waterproof source of the sound, she starts to sing along. Unfortunately for both of us, Jameson O’Halloran Clarke is an appallingly bad singer. And it doesn’t help that I’ve never heard the tune—such as it is—in my life.

The song—which has something to do with someone being someone’s “next mistake” hits home for me—reminding me of all the pretty faces that have turned into huge mistakes over the years. Pretty faces that I walked away from because it was easier than trying to “work it out.”

“So we’re gonna get together,” she croons off-key, “and row down the Thames…”

The Thames? Really? Who wrote this song, Prince Harry? I start to suspect she’s putting her own spin on the words when she belts out, “Don’t say I didn’t make some popcorn for ya…”

“Jameson?” I call into the bathroom tentatively. “You okay in there?” Of course she is. She’s high as a kite, mutilating some bubblegum anthem that bears a shocking resemblance to my life. Except for the popcorn thing. And the Thames.

“Yup! I’m good. Scott?”

“Yes, Jameson?”

“You know, you’re very sweet,” she repeats.

“So I’ve been told.”

“Got a list of Starbucks lovers…they’ll make your latte plain…”

I find myself laughing out loud at the absurdity of this situation. I’ve been in town a little over twenty-four hours, and here I am keeping watch over my brother’s ex-wife who’s looped on opioids and doing karaoke in the shower. My brother’s holding my personal documents hostage, and my father is probably on his deathbed. I’m starting to think I made the wrong decision. Maybe I should’ve stayed in Mexico.

But then…

What? Something.

But then, I wouldn’t be here, sitting on the floor of a hallway experiencing an unprecedented level of confusion. And angst. And…attraction?

“Scott?”

“Yes, Jameson?”

“Will you sign my cast?”

“Later on, when it’s dry.”

“My cast’s got blank space baaaaaaby…. and Scott’ll write his name…”

…

She’s out cold when I stick my head in to check on her. In another hour, Walker will come home and relieve me, but until then, I’m keeping watch to make sure Jameson doesn’t do anything to hurt herself or anyone else. Like sing.

“Hi,” she says quietly, her eyes fluttering open as I pull the blanket up over her shoulders.

“Hi. Are you okay? Can I get you something to eat or some water maybe?”

She shakes her head and offers me a smile. “No, thanks. You’ve been great.”

“Obviously, or I wouldn’t have warranted the serenade I got while you were in the shower.”

She snickers a little. “Mmmm. I told you, Oxy and I have a love/hate relationship. I love the way it makes me feel…but I hate the things it makes me do.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Are you in pain now?” She shakes again. “Okay, well, it’s not your enemy then. Besides, what’s a little karaoke between friends?” I tease.

“Are we?” she asks, looking up at me.

“Are we…friends? I think so. I hope so…”

She closes her eyes, and just when I’m sure she’s nodded off again, she speaks.

“You know, Henny and Walker and Bailey…they all think I should be looking for another man.”

“Do they now?”

Her eyes are closed, but she’s nodding. “Yup. But how can I? How can I trust myself when I screwed it up so badly the first time? Besides, I wouldn’t even know where to start…”

I’m torn between comforting her and running from the room. I just don’t do this kind of intimacy. It comes with too many expectations. And I don’t do expectations, either. Not anymore.

“What if…” she begins softly, slowly, her brow furrowed with concern, “what if nobody wants me, Scott?”

“Oh God, Jameson, of course somebody’s going to want you! Jeez, you’re so smart and funny and—”

“He’s the only man I’ve ever been with,” she blurts, her eyes flying open now. “I don’t know how to be with anyone else… You know what I mean?”

This is so not a conversation we should be having.

“I…uh…well, yeah, I suppose…”

“And the thing is I’m not my sisters. Bailey with that blonde hair and blue eyes. Walker is so chic and edgy. And Hennessy, well, she’s like a walking definition of radiance. And then there’s me. Plain Jane… Oh, hey, that kinda rhymes!” She starts to giggle. “Plain James! No, I guess it’d have to be Plain Jame. But that doesn’t make any sense…”

“God, you’re beautiful,” I blurt out.

She stops. I stop. We both stop.

I hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

Okay, okay, don’t panic. She won’t remember any of this in the morning—she said so herself. Still…

I’m considering how best to extricate myself and make a run for it when she uses her good elbow to push herself up on the bed.

“Scott?” she whispers so softly that I have to lean in closer.

“Yes, Jameson?”

And then her lips are on mine, and I feel a smooth, warm hand on my right cheek—the scratchy casted one on the left. The kiss is sweet and tender…until it’s not. Suddenly, she’s putting everything she has into this kiss, and I have to hold my hands up to keep from touching her. Because, if I touch her body, I’m lost. But before I can worry about that, she pulls away—all too soon—and smiles at me. I can only stare back at her, stunned.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” she murmurs, allowing herself to slip back down onto the bed. “I’m tired.” She’s out like a light within a few seconds of hitting the pillow.

“And I’m screwed,” I reply to no one in particular.