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Gabi – Present Day
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I GOT BACK TO MY DAD’S house, still reeling from the altercation with the woman in the parking lot, and from seeing Cole again. I hated that he’d gotten even hotter with age. If the universe had been kind to me just the once, he would have had a beer gut and a receding hairline by now. But no, instead he was even better looking—a grown man now instead of a boy. Tattoos and muscles, and a hard edge to his jawline. I didn’t know what he’d been through in prison, but he appeared to have lost the playful, relaxed air I’d loved so much about him. Sure, he’d had a temper back then, and even at eighteen had been quick to fight, but I’d always believed that had been an act so he could survive in the world in which he’d been raised. I’d always resented only having one parent—especially as the parent who’d been left behind wasn’t exactly a functioning member of society anymore—but I couldn’t imagine having grown up feeling like no one wanted me. My dad had plenty of faults, but, other than the drinking, he’d never made me feel like he didn’t love me. If anything, I was the one who probably made him feel like the unloved one.
I pulled my car up in the driveway and began the awkward process of climbing out with my prosthetic limb. The position always reminded me of a dog cocking its leg—something that didn’t do much for my self-esteem. To be fair, no part of the last six months had done anything for my self-esteem. Here I was, twenty-eight years old, out of work, and living with my alcoholic father. Oh, yes, and missing a limb, and now an ex-boyfriend on the scene who looked better than ever, and who’d witnessed me arguing with a woman in a parking lot, while bright red and dripping with sweat, all before flashing my prosthetic limb at half of town. As far as I could tell, I had absolutely no reason to feel good about myself.
Trying not to think about it, and failing miserably, I let myself into the house. Immediately, I caught the waft of bacon cooking, and my stomach grumbled with hunger. I’d only grabbed a banana before leaving the house, and though I suspected my dad had only just managed to get out of bed, I’d already been up for hours.
I walked into the kitchen to find him standing at the stove, flipping rashers. He smiled at me as I entered, and I tried not to notice his bloodshot eyes and puffy complexion.
“Hey, sweetheart. There you are. I wondered where you’d gotten to.”
I gestured to an envelope on the countertop on which I’d scribbled him a note before I’d left. “I wrote you a note, Dad. Didn’t you see it?”
“Obviously I didn’t, or I wouldn’t have asked you,” he grumbled.
He got frustrated with himself in the same way I did. His drinking made him miss things, and he wasn’t as sharp, mentally, as he used to be. He got frustrated, and then he got angry. He wasn’t a mean drunk, by any means, and had never hit me, though he’d shouted plenty. I knew he was angry at himself for not being able to control his addiction—especially now I was home and in the condition I was in. He wanted to be able to do more for me, but the drink was stronger than he was.
“I just went to the drugstore to pick up my meds. It’s no big deal.”
“Okay, good. Sit down and I’ll bring you some breakfast. Got to keep your strength up.”
I did as he suggested, though it was closer to lunch than breakfast now, and slid into a chair at the dining table.
He placed a cup of coffee in front of me, and I knew without tasting it that the beverage was full of sugar. I’d told him multiple times I didn’t take sugar in my coffee anymore—I hadn’t since shortly after I’d left home—but he kept forgetting and I didn’t have the heart to remind him again. A bacon sandwich—thick white bread, dripping with butter, and half a pigs’ worth of bacon—slid onto the table beside it.
I forced a smile. “Thanks, Dad. Looks great.”
I knew I would barely eat half of the food, and would have to dispose of the uneaten part without him noticing so I didn’t hurt his feelings. I had to watch what I ate now I wasn’t so active. I’d been told I would be fitted for a blade once my stump had settled down, but that wouldn’t be for another couple of months or so yet, and that was only if the funding for the blade came through. I was desperate to get back to running—I’d run six miles almost daily for most of my adult life—and the loss of this ability to do what I loved, and allowed me to de-stress, was as hard as the loss of the limb itself.
“So ...” I started, unsure whether or not I should broach the subject, but finding myself unable not to talk about it. “I bumped into Cole Devonport while I was out.”
His head whipped around to face me, his thick, bushy eyebrows lifting. “Cole, as in the teenage boyfriend?”
“Well, he isn’t a teenager anymore.”
He scowled. “No, obviously not. You know what I meant.”
“Yeah, sorry.” I twisted my coffee cup in my hands and then lifted it slightly to take a small sip, trying not to grimace at the cloying sweetness. “He asked how I was.”
“So he should,” he said, gruffly. “That boy was ultimately the cause of ... this.” He gestured to my leg.
I sat up straighter. “Cole was not responsible for me losing my leg, Dad. I haven’t even seen or heard from the guy in over ten years.”
“He was the reason you ran off and joined the Army.”
“He didn’t drive a bomb-laden car into my post in Iraq.” I could feel my tone getting heated, my body tensed. Why did I still feel the need to defend Cole to my father, even after all this time? “And he wasn’t the only reason I left town.”
His head lowered, his shoulders dropping. Immediately, I felt bad, a wave of guilt swamping over me, and not only because I’d brought up my leaving. Hearing that Cole had spent the last ten years in prison twisted my insides. I couldn’t begin to imagine what his life had been like.
“I don’t want to have this conversation, Gabi,” my dad said, standing from the table and picking up his untouched sandwich.
“What about your food?” I replied, keeping my tone softer.
“I lost my appetite.” He threw the sandwich into the trash and then walked from the room.
“Where are you going, Dad?” I called after him, frustrated once more. That seemed to be what my life revolved around now—just dealing with one frustration after the other.
“I’m going to take a shower,” he called back.
I didn’t reply, but my thoughts went to the bottle of vodka I knew he had hidden in the top of the toilet cistern. I figured his shower might take a while.
I gave a sigh and turned my attention back to my breakfast. I ate a couple of mouthfuls, though my appetite had all but deserted me. My thoughts kept flicking back to Cole. Suddenly the boy—who’d been my whole life when I’d been seventeen, but whom I’d tried not to think about for the past ten years—was back in my head again. How could a pain I’d believed I’d let go of suddenly rise up back inside me as fresh as though it had happened yesterday? I’d thought I’d gotten over everything he’d done, but perhaps I’d simply buried it, like a long forgotten object, only to be unearthed again and dusted off.
No, I couldn’t start thinking about Cole again, not after everything he did back then, and what had followed. Besides, I had bigger things to worry about. I had an appointment that afternoon to be assessed for a new limb, which would be a big upgrade on what I was currently wearing. At the moment, my leg was effectively strapped onto the lower half of my body with rubber right up to my groin, and not only was it uncomfortable, when the weather was hot like it was, I sweated something awful. On top of that, I also had to wear numerous socks over my stump to try and make the stump fit into the top of the prosthesis, and the number of these had to be changed during the day as the stump would grow and then shrink again due to fluid loss, and make the prosthetic fit badly. The new leg would be a pin lock leg, so would hopefully fit a lot better, and I’d be done with the rubber.
The appointment was never a done deal that I’d get my new leg, though. First of all, my stump would need to fit the end of the prosthetic, which was never a guarantee, as it changed size and shape so much. The stump I had now looked nothing like the one I had when my leg was initially amputated after the bombing. Secondly, if I managed to get the slightest scratch or sore I wouldn’t be able to wear my leg at all. The risk of infection was high in amputees, and if I suffered a bad infection, more of my leg could be amputated. The thought of this terrified me. I’d only just started to come to terms with what was left of my leg, and the possibility of losing more and having to start all over again was a living nightmare.
***
I SPENT A COUPLE OF hours reading on the couch, before readying myself for my hospital appointment. My dad hadn’t reappeared, and when I went to check on him, I discovered he’d taken himself back to bed. I wished I could do something to fix him, but he’d been a heavy drinker for as long as I could remember, and nothing I’d ever said or done had made any difference. I knew I hadn’t helped by taking off all those years ago, but the truth was I hadn’t even considered him at the time. I’d been filled with so much hurt and betrayal, I hadn’t had the space in my heart for anyone else. My heartbreak had been like a kind of madness, taking over my every thought. Leaving Willowbrook Falls, and Cole Devonport, far behind had been the only thing I’d been concerned with back then. I’d started over where there was absolutely nothing to remind me of the boy I’d loved.
Over the years, as the pain started to fade, I’d begun to worry about my dad more and more, but he appeared to get by—a functioning alcoholic—until the day he wasn’t anymore. Someone had grown suspicious of his behavior. Perhaps they smelled alcohol on his breath once too often, or he’d made one too many mistakes, but he was asked to take a breath-test, and it came back twice the legal limit. He was suspended right away, and then later lost his job at a hearing. I came back when I had time on leave, but I couldn’t stay. I loved my dad, but why did I have to give up my life because of his illness? I’d tried to ask him to get help so many times, but even now he was still in denial. He convinced himself his way of living was normal.
It would have been good to have my dad accompany me to my appointments, but I didn’t want him with me when he was drunk. Instead, I was resigned to the fact that, like most of my life, I would be doing this on my own.
I drove to the hospital and, after giving my name to the desk, took a seat in the waiting area. Glancing around at the couple of other people in the waiting room—an older man in his fifties, who was an amputee from the upper thigh and was in a wheelchair, and a younger man in his early twenties with no obvious disability—I offered them a smile. They both smiled and nodded back in recognition.
“Gabriella Weston?”
I turned at my name. An attractive man in his mid-forties stood in the doorway of one of the rooms which led onto the waiting room. He was a different professional than the one I’d seen previously.
“Hi, I’m Doctor Merryweather. Would you like to come through?”
I nodded and did my usual ungainly attempt at standing. I’d never realized before just how much having a calf muscle helped to be able to stand from sitting. The result was me looking like an old lady trying to get to her feet. The doctor made no attempt to help me, knowing this was something I needed to practice on my own. This was my life now. I couldn’t have people helping me all the time.
“So how have you been getting on, Ms. Weston?”
“It’s Gabi, please,” I said. “And I’ve been getting on okay.”
He glanced at his notes. “You still have the support of your father? You’re staying with him?”
I nodded. “That’s right.”
“Good. It’s important you have a good support system right now.”
I just forced a smile. What more could I do?
“And how about dealing with the emotional side of everything you’ve been through. Have you been talking to anyone about what happened in Iraq?”
“I had a counselor for the post traumatic stress disorder. It did help.”
“And now?”
I gave what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’m better now.” I glanced at my leg. “Well, mentally, anyway. Obviously, this is never going to grow back. I’m not part salamander.”
“No, of course not.”
My cheeks heated and I wondered when I’d learn how to control myself in public. Apparently flashing my leg and cracking jokes was the way I dealt with my disability.
“Well, I have your new leg here to try on. We’ll assess it for size, and then make any adjustments, and you should be able to come back in a week for a final fitting.”
I resisted the urge to clap with excitement. I was desperate to get rid of the hideous rubber which went right up to my groin and held my current limb in place. In this heat, it was so uncomfortable, there were moments when I’d considered going back in the wheelchair rather than dealing with the sweaty, horrible material. The new sleeve didn’t come anywhere near as high up my thigh, and had a type of screw attached to a disc at the end. When I pushed it into the prosthesis, it would just click into place. Being able to take my leg on and off would get a whole heap easier.
I removed my prosthesis, and tried not to stare at my stump. It looked very different than when I’d first woken up from the explosion and discovered I’d lost my limb. Back then it had a much blunter ending, and the wound sticking my skin together had been raw. Now the stump was more pointed in shape, and the scar had faded to a red line. I still found it difficult to look at, but not as badly as I had in the early days. Back then just acknowledging what had happened sent me into a full-blown panic attack. I’d not wanted to come to terms with the fact the hideous sight was now a part of me. Plus my mind played tricks on me—and still did—making it so I could still feel my limb, especially when I was about to fall asleep, or just upon waking, so I’d have to bring myself back to reality every time I opened my eyes.
Doctor Merryweather smiled as he examined my stump. “This is looking great,” he told me. “Some people wouldn’t be ready for this type of prosthetic for another six months, but you’ve healed brilliantly. Being young and physically fit has definitely helped you with that.”
A warm glow expanded inside me at his praise.
The doctor showed me how to attach my new limb, and I smiled at him as this time he put out his hand and helped me to my feet.
“Have a walk up and down the corridor for five minutes,” he told me. “Make sure it feels completely comfortable. If there are any niggles or anything rubbing, just say, because what feels like something tiny after five minutes, will feel like a rock caught inside the sleeve after you’ve worn it all day.”
“Thanks. I guess I’ll be back in five minutes, then?”
His smiled widened. “See you in five.”
I did as he suggested, walking up and down the hospital corridors, focusing on how the new leg fitted and if there was anything causing me any discomfort. As far as I could tell it was far superior to the other one, and I loved the freedom of not feeling like half of my lower body was encased in rubber. Some people might get their kicks from that kind of thing, but I wasn’t one of them.
I went back to the doctor’s office and told him I was completely happy with the new prosthetic.
“That’s great,” he replied, scribbling something on the notes in front of him. “We’ll schedule you an appointment for the same time next week, and then you can take your new leg home.”
“Thank you so much.”
“You’re very welcome.”
He left me alone to put my old leg back on, and then I gathered my purse and made my way out of the hospital and into the parking lot. The idea of my new leg had put me in a great mood, and I planned on treating myself to a drive-thru Starbucks on the way home. Since losing my leg, I had begun to truly appreciate the genius of a drive-thru anything.
My car was in the other handy thing I’d learned to love—the handicapped spots, right next to the entrance.
As I fumbled in my purse for my keys, I lifted my head and a figure across the parking lot made my heart stop.
I’d only ever seen him one other time as an adult, but despite this, I recognized him instantly—the newly tattooed sleeves, the broad shoulders, the buzzed short blond hair. My heart leaped into my throat, my body tensing. Absurdly, my first instinct was to throw myself onto the ground between the two cars I was standing beside, and hide until he had gone, but I knew if I did that, I’d never get up again.
Keep walking, I willed him. Don’t turn around.
And yet, as though my thoughts had caused him to do so, Cole threw a casual glance over his shoulder and his line of sight landed directly on me.
He smiled at me, and then turned directly around and strolled toward me. I stood, rooted to the spot, my cheeks already burning.
“Gabi,” he said as he approached. “Are you stalking me?”
My eyes widened. “No! Of course not.” I gestured wildly behind me. “I had an appointment.”
“It’s okay. I was kidding.”
The burning in my cheeks grew hotter. “Sure. I knew that.”
His eyes were so blue, and exactly as I remembered them. He’d always had a way of seeing right inside me, his eyes able to search my face and know exactly what was written on my heart. I didn’t feel like that had changed at all.
“So, is everything okay?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yeah, I was just seeing my specialist. I’m going to be getting a new leg soon.” I felt ridiculously awkward and embarrassed talking to him about my amputation. This guy had once upon a time used his tongue to trace every inch of my skin, and now a massive part of the skin he’d loved—or at least had said he’d loved—no longer existed. Was it weird for him, too? Or did it completely gross him out and he was trying not to think about it?
“So you get a new leg?” he asked, appearing genuinely curious. “Do you have more than one?”
“Well, I have two legs, but only one prosthetic leg.”
I was pleased to see his cheeks color in return. I had gotten to him, and for some reason, I liked that. This was certainly an area where I had one over on him. Annoyingly, the blush made him look even more handsome, the pink in his cheeks a contrast to the ice blue of his eyes and hardness of his jawline.
It suddenly occurred to me that he’d made a joke about me stalking him, but what was he doing at the hospital? I asked him the question.
“Oh, I’m mentoring a kid. He’s not doing so well.”
“What?” There was so much in those two sentences that threw me for a loop. “A kid? Not doing well?”
“Yeah, he’s got issues with drink and drugs. Actually, he’s got issues with pretty much everyone and everything. I’m trying to help him, but it’s not going so well.”
“Why would you be helping him?” Considering Cole’s background, I was amazed he’d be allowed anywhere near another kid who was trouble.
“It’s part of my program to get me back into society. I’m volunteering to try to help youngsters not to make the same mistakes I did.”
He studied me again, and my whole insides lifted and tightened. I hated how he had such an effect on me.
Cole ran a hand over his head. He used to do the same thing when he was eighteen and had long hair to push back. “Look, Gabi. We don’t have to talk about all of this stuff in the parking lot. Let me take you for a coffee.”
I physically backed away. “Oh, no,” I said, even though I’d been promising myself coffee—ideally iced, with vanilla syrup—only moments earlier. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“We have a lot to talk about, though. Surely that deserves at least one coffee.”
All I could think about was the pain he’d caused me, how long it had taken me to put myself together again. I’d managed to do it back then, but now I was literally not the same person—not all of her, anyway. I didn’t have the strength to let him back in only for him to break my heart again.
Don’t be stupid, Gabi. He’s not going to want you again. Look at him. He’s ridiculously hot, and you don’t even have both legs anymore. The idea of being with you in any way other than fully clothed would totally gross him out.
I hadn’t even been able to bring myself to think about what sex would be like with a missing limb. I couldn’t imagine it—especially not with Cole.
“I’m sorry, I just can’t.”
“Gabi, I know you still hate me for what happened, but we both live back in the same town again, and we’re going to keep running into one another. Can’t we make this whole thing a lot easier on both of us and at least try to be friends?”
Sudden anger surged up inside me. “So you just want me to sit and drink coffee with you, smile nicely, and chitchat about the good old days.”
His forehead pulled down in confusion. “No, I just want to talk to you, that’s all.”
“Yeah, to make you feel better about all the shit you put me through when we were kids. So you can go home and sleep better in your bed, without having to worry about the poor girl who you’re now living in the same town with, and who is missing a fucking leg.”
It was his turn to step away. “I promise, there was no ulterior motive in asking you for coffee. I honestly just wanted to spend some time with you.”
“Sure, I know how that works. Then you’ll go and share all the juicy gossip with your buddies over beer, and you can all have a good laugh about how Gabi Weston is now hopping all over town.”
He shook his head, looking to the ground. “I’m sorry you think that.”
“Yeah, sure you are. You proved to me just what kind of person you are ten years ago.”
With tears burning the backs of my eyes, I fumbled for my keys again. I secured my fingers around them, and without looking back at Cole, I walked at a quick pace to my car.
I got in, and sat, trying to breathe without crying. I was too old, and had been through too much, to sit in my car crying over a guy I hadn’t seen in over ten years. Besides, my outburst at Cole hadn’t been all about what he’d done to me. I had my own guilt to live with, and deep down I was worried that if I had to hear too much about those years he’d spent behind bars, I’d find myself confessing.
Sniffing, blinking back the tears, I put my car into reverse and started to pull out of the space—
Hands slammed down on my rear windshield, and I jumped, jamming on the brakes. “Jesus Christ!”
A figure appeared at my car window and tapped with knuckles. I rolled it down and Cole’s face appeared in the space.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I demanded.
“I didn’t want you to leave without giving you this.” He held out a slip of paper. “I know you’ll probably burn it, but I just wanted to say that if you ever need me for anything, you can call me, okay?”
I stared at him, not taking the slip, so he leaned in and placed the paper on my dashboard. “Take care of yourself, Gabs.”
And he stepped away, allowing me to pull out of the parking lot.