Out of the Ashes Page 22
Now that I’ve managed to come to terms with everything, it’s time. Time to try to show Presley Cole she has my heart and hope like hell I can convince her I’m good enough for her.
That I’m a good enough man who’s worthy of her love.
Chapter Fifty
Presley
Early December
“What is a centipede?” I murmur softly beneath my breath.
“Sorry I’m late, chica.” Lucia slides onto the barstool beside me at the microbrewery where I’m nursing a beer while watching Jeopardy on the mounted television. “My last client wanted to schedule for the next six months.” Shaking her head, her long dark waves cascading past her shoulders. “Ay.”
“No worries. Just glad you’re here.” I shrug casually as if it’s no big deal.
Lucia gives me a knowing look then slaps a thin, wrapped rectangular present onto the bar top. Glancing around, she squints at me, accusingly. “Any particular reason we must sit here?”
My spine stiffens because I don’t want to discuss it, nor do I want to admit I still sit at this particular end of the bar because…well, because this is where Hendy and I sat.
And I miss him. More than I’d like to admit. If I thought he’d hurt me plenty that day in my office, I was wrong. Because he’d ended up skipping town and his disappearance only poured salt in the already open wound.
It’s my birthday, and I can’t think of anything more pathetic than a woman who’s still pining over a guy so much she insists on sitting in the same spot at a bar.
I keep wondering if maybe Hendy will send a text or something, but then I realize he has no way of knowing it’s my birthday. It’s not like I’ve mentioned it to him.
Taking a sip of my beer, I eye the present on the bar top. “It’s thin.” Picking it up and shaking it gently next to my ear, I smirk. “It’s your recipe for Ajiaco, isn’t it? And maybe your other recipes I keep begging for?” Ajiaco is a chicken, corn, and potato stew that is beyond delicious, and Lucia refuses to part with that recipe, among others.
She snorts dismissively. “I’d be disowned if I gave you those.”
Ripping open the package, I pull out something wrapped in tissue paper. Flat, thin, and spiral-bound on one end, I realize it’s a calendar of some sort.
But my breathing stutters when I see the title on the front.
The Official Fearless Tour Calendar
My hands shake, and my grip on each side of the calendar turns white-knuckled before Lucia lays her palm on my arm.
“Hey.” Her tone is subdued, cautious. “You should see it for yourself.” She pauses briefly. “How far he’s come. And we both know much of that is because of you.”
Inhaling a deep, calming breath, I flip it open to the first month’s page. A handsome man by the name of Heath Mitchum, clad in American flag board shorts, smiles back at me. His body is riddled with healed wounds, and the right side of his torso, beginning beneath his underarm area down to his waistband is deformed, curving in and out.
However, his face draws my attention again because, in his eyes, I’d swear there’s a hint of mischief. And that smile in and of itself is show-stopping in more ways than one; this man hasn’t given up on life. Quite the opposite. He’s someone who’s ready for more of what life has in store for him. When I read the brief bio beneath his photo, I’m even more impressed, and tears begin to prick my eyes for all this man has endured.
I continue to page through the calendar, reading each bio and looking at each person’s photo portraying their healed wounds. When I’m on the month of November and still haven’t come across Hendy’s designated month, there’s so much nervousness in the pit of my stomach when my fingers hesitate to turn to the final page, to the month of December.
Nothing, however, could prepare me for what I see when I turn the page.
Hendy is posing, turned slightly, with the majority of the focus on his back and the left side of his face. Low-slung tan khakis emphasize his tapered waist. But that’s not what catches my attention, not what makes my breath catch.
He’s not wearing a ball cap. He’s not hiding. There’s no wide, seemingly carefree smile on his face as many of the others featured in the calendar, but the fact he’s bared himself for this…
My fingers trace over his picture, over his body, his face, wishing he were here right now. So I could tell him how proud I am of him. Even if we’re not together in any capacity, I want the best for him. I want him to be happy.
I can’t lie and say I don’t wish he could be happy with me. But if Hendy’s taught me one thing, it’s that nothing in life is guaranteed. That life is meant to be lived.
“And here’s my present,” Lucia interrupts me, setting an envelope on the bar top.
Frowning, I look at the envelope and then at her. “But I thought this…” I trail off in confusion, still holding the calendar.
She nudges my shoulder with hers. “That”—she gestures to the calendar—“was delivered to me a few days ago with this note.” Withdrawing a small folded piece of paper from her purse, she hands it to me.
Accepting it from her, I internally scold myself for being so nervous about opening a piece of freaking paper.
Pres,
A certain someone let me know your birthday was coming up, and I wanted you to have this for many reasons. One being that I wouldn’t be here, doing this right now if it weren’t for you. (And the other chiropractors I’ve seen here and there while on the road haven’t been nearly as great as you are.)
And I know how ironic it is that I’m traveling with these other individuals on “The Fearless Tour.” Laughable, right? Especially since I’ve been anything but fearless in dealing with everything.
The second reason I wanted you to have this is to show you I’m making progress. Not just for you but for me, too. You were right that day, and I just didn’t want to admit it. Instead of manning up and choosing to deal with the obstacles in my life, choosing to handle them as I should in order to focus on the bigger picture, I hid from them. I’m not proud of that. I know better—hell, I learned better in BUD/S. Learned that hardships would come along the way and the key was not to let them overwhelm me. To handle diversity, to negotiate those obstacles in a manner that I would be proud of.
I didn’t do that. Instead, I took it out on you. I hope you can forgive me somehow and be proud of the progress I’ve made so far.
You’re still the most incredible woman I’ve ever met, and I am doing everything in my power to make you proud.
Until we meet again,
Hendy (and Izzy, too)
P.S. Clue: Jackass who still thinks you’re the greatest thing since sliced bread.
My brows furrow as I flip the note over to the back, finding nothing else written down—no answer to the Jeopardy-like clue. Glancing at Lucia, I hold up the note. “That’s it?”
Without answering, she withdraws a second note from her purse, handing it to me. Written on the same paper, I open it and find my lips curving up at the corners.
Lucia,
I know you’re pissed at me—it wasn’t tough to tell by all the text messages you sent me, half of which I had to use Google Translator for. Kudos to all the creative cussing phrases, by the way. Anyway, I appreciate you letting me know Presley’s birthday is coming up soon. If you could please give her this package and the other note, I’d appreciate it.
I’m working on being the best man I can be. If you end up giving that stuff to her, can you tell her that the answer to her clue is ‘Who is Mr. December?’
And yeah, I realize you’re rolling your eyes at me for that cheesy reference to the calendar, but hey, I’m a former SEAL, not Ernest Hemingway.
Please take good care of her for me.
Hendy
P.S. Word is Kane’s still striking out with you. Give the guy a chance, would you? I promise he’s got his act together, far better than most.
“Wow,” I breathe out, still staring at the note in my hands.
Leaning my head on her shoulder, I let out a sigh. “If it’s a spa day at the Omni, I’ll be a happy camper.”
“It’s a spa day at the Omni.” I can hear the smile in her voice.
After a beat of silence, I smile. “You’re the bestest friend anyone could ask for. You know that, right?”
She pats me on the head. “No need to get all maudlin, now.” There’s a pause. “Did you notice what he said in his note?”
Raising my head to look at her, I tip my head to the side. “That he’s working on himself?”
She studies me for a beat before answering softly. “He signed your note, ‘Until we meet again.’” With an eyebrow raised, she flashes me a knowing look. “That means he’s hoping you haven’t yet closed that chapter.”
Lucia nudges my shoulder with hers, her tone gentle. “You just have to decide if you’re done reading or if you want to continue to see how the story ends.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Presley
Resting my chin on my hand, I slump in my desk chair, trying to stay focused on the new patient files in front of me. Hendy and I have exchanged some text messages over the past few months, and I’ll admit, I held off from communicating with him at first—after he’d left. Because I was hurt, damn it.
But after his simple apologetic text message, I’d had time to digest everything. So, after a few weeks, I sent him a text message to say I hoped he was doing well and to tell Izzy hello from me. He responded back, thanking me, but it was along the lines of being too polite and stilted. Like we hadn’t been anything more than acquaintances. As if we both were overly cautious with where the conversation might lead.
After he’d sent the note and the calendar for my birthday, however, I’d sent him a text message thanking him for thinking of me. His response had been simple but so sweet.
I always think of you, Pres. Always.
That was the turning point, ultimately, for us. I began to text him random Jeopardy clues here and there. Once I’d sent a Hey. Clue: Thinks it’s a brilliant idea to drink prune smoothies.
He hadn’t responded until much later that night, and as I was getting ready for bed, a text came in.
Sorry. Our flight was delayed on the tarmac because some lady went into early labor. They called for anyone who might be a medic or have any medic experience, so Heath and I ended up helping another nurse. That’s why we’re so late getting to the hotel and unpacked.
And answer: Who is Mrs. Sommers?
Someone needs to get that woman turned onto fruit smoothies, for God’s sake.
Another time, I’d sent him a picture I’d snapped really quick when Lucia wasn’t looking. Kane had left her a note, along with a bouquet of sunflowers, saying her “sunny disposition” reminded him of those bright, cheerful flowers. She’d been holding the note, smiling wide as she read it once again.
Another night, he’d sent me some text messages that had brought tears to my eyes.
Tonight, a woman approached me after we’d finished speaking and told me she had gained such inspiration from all of us and thanked me. She told me I reminded her of her son who’d been killed in Iraq. She’d also mentioned the story of the phoenix rising from the ashes, saying she thought of me like that; that I was reborn, but only stronger now.
It made me think of something Kane had said to me a while back. He wanted me to “own it.” To be proud of what I’d endured and survived. To take pride in my scars. And I didn’t get it at the time. Maybe I didn’t want to get it. I wasn’t ready.
But this woman tonight, not only had she lost her son, but she was a three-time cancer survivor. And here she was, complimenting me. Turns out, they’d found another lump, and she was preparing to undergo treatment again. Her attitude inspired me. She’d asked me if I was close to my mother, and when I’d told her my mother had passed away a while back, she’d hugged me tight and told me that she knew my mother was proud of me. That she was proud of me, too.
I responded afterward with a brief but to-the-point text.
I’m proud of you. And I know that woman is right. Your mother’s proud of you. I’m certain of it.
Other nights, we’d exchanged silly text messages about a Final Jeopardy question that stumped us or, if we’d gotten it correct, gloated.
He’d written: I had a beer AND got the right answer to Final Jeopardy. #winning
I’d laughed and returned with: #lifegoals #spoton
But it was the last few text message exchanges that made my heart race. Because they had a different tone. More intimate.
For nearly three months, I’ve been without my ball cap (i.e. my “woobie”). Sure, I’ve had to be careful when I head out to go running in the sun, got to slather on more sunscreen over the left side of my face. But it’s freeing. Sounds stupid, doesn’t it? But I’m getting there, Pres. I’m trying. When I see you next, I want you to be proud. Maybe you’ll even let me take you out on a date.
I’d stared down at that text so long with my fingers hesitating over the keys, unsure of how to respond. He was clearly testing the waters, trying to gauge my interest. Finally, I’d typed: Maybe even a date where we’d go out and I wouldn’t end up puking in some bushes? Because that sounds super fancy.
His response had been quick. LOL. Ah, memories were made that night, for sure.
Smiling, I wrote: That’s a nice way of saying I was a shitshow.
But I wouldn’t have changed any part of that, Pres, he’d written. Even leaving things with us in a less than spectacular way, I still wouldn’t go back and change any of it. And I’d hold your hair back for you any day of the week.
That made me smile. That’s oddly romantic, Mr. Hendrixson.
Smartass. I mean it. I wouldn’t change any of it. Except for hurting you like I did. I’m sorry for that.
I hesitated but then decided to go for it. Sorry enough to maybe even call me and talk like adults? Instead of texting back and forth like teenagers?
Barely a second after I’d sent that text, my phone lit up with an incoming call from him.
“Hey.” I heard the breathlessness in my voice, the excitement.
“Hey, Pres.” God, the way he’d said my name, like a soft caress… My lips parted to say the words that begged to slip out, but I hesitated, letting out a sigh.
“Say it.” He sounded like he was settling into bed, the sound of covers shifting. “Please. Whatever you were going to say just now.”
“I was going to say that I…” I inhaled deeply, bracing to put myself out there. “I miss you.”
He expelled a sigh. “Presley Cole.” When he continued, I swore I could hear the smile in his voice. “I miss you like crazy.”
My lips formed a wide smile. “You miss me for more than my awesome chiropractic adjustments?” I tease gently.
He chuckled softly. “I miss you for more than that.” There was a brief pause. “I miss you for far more than your adjustments.”
“Really? Do tell.” I was fishing. I knew it, and he knew it, but luckily, he played along.
Letting out a long sigh that sounded tinged with sadness, he lowered his voice to a husky whisper. “I miss the way you’d nearly match me answer for answer at Jeopardy. I miss cooking for you and hanging out. I miss the way you’d make me laugh.”
He paused, and his voice deepened to something low and seductive. “I miss the way you’d touch me, the way you’d look at me as if my appearance didn’t matter. As if you…” Hendy trailed off, and for a long moment, I thought he wasn’t going to finish until finally, he said, “As if you could see my potential; as if you thought I was good enough to love.”
My chest tightened at his words, a lump developing in my throat. “I did,” was all I could force out, so overcome with emotion.
There was no response for a long beat. “You did?” The
n he quietly tacked on, “Past tense?”
“I do,” I whispered softly, wishing with everything in me that I could see his face.
“I want to be good enough, Pres,” he whispered back. “Good enough for you to love.”
Ever since that conversation, we’ve continued texting, some calling, and exchanging a few silly selfies. He’d taken one of him and Izzy where he’d been indulging in an ice-cream cone. At the last minute, right when he’d pressed the button to take the picture, Izzy had stuck her tongue—her exceptionally long tongue, I might add—out for a taste, and the camera had caught it. I’d laughed out loud when I’d seen it along with Hendy’s caption: Clue: The man who refuses that much tongue action and throws his ice-cream cone away.
I’d responded with a quick, teasing, Never thought I’d see the day when you’d turn away tongue action from a lady.
He’d responded with LOL and an emoticon of a smiley face with a tongue sticking out.
That was yesterday, and I haven’t heard from him today. It’s been a bit of a letdown after having so much back and forth communication with him, but I figure he must have gotten busy with something.
“I have a delivery for you.”
Jerking in surprise, I glance over at the doorway to where Lucia stands. She waves a hand toward the hallway as if gesturing for someone to move into my office, and Kane steps into view.
“Hey.” I smile up at Kane. Rising from my chair at my desk, I walk over to give him a quick hug.
“Hey, darlin’. I come bearing gifts.” He’s holding what appears to be a thick envelope, tapping it against his other palm.
“Gifts?” My brows furrow in confusion because my birthday’s already passed—nearly twelve days ago.
“Yes, ma’am.” Kane grins. “A gift especially for you.” He lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I convinced him to stop being a pussy and just do this,” he says as he hands me the envelope.