Chapter Six
Aveline
AFTER A FEW comforting words, Dr. Redmond attempted to wrap things up. “As you can see, we often blame ourselves for things we have no control over. My dear, you were a young child. It’s not your fault you fell in the water and were unable to swim. I can see you carry that guilt with you. Are you like Walter, a risk taker?”
I shook my head, a wry grin forming. “I’d say quite the opposite.”
Dr. Redmond nodded. “A near-death experience as a young child will have a strong developmental impact on an individual’s personality. Thank you for sharing, Aveline.”
I couldn’t move fast enough off that stage and to my seat. I sat and listened as Dr. Redmond clinically analyzed her three case studies. At some point, I turned off, unable to hear any more. The end of Dr. Redmond’s lecture roared dully in my ears as I processed my thoughts.
My hands were ice cold compared to my face. Sitting back in my seat, I pressed my fingers against the heat of my cheeks, willing my racing heart to slow down. Those were the toughest words I had ever uttered.
And that was the first time I had ever spoken them aloud. Sure, my parents and I had talked in sign language about the accident as we did with everything else. But I had never had a reason to form the words with my lips and hear them with my own ears. The shock that coursed through me at hearing my story was surprising. Even eighteen years later, the pain was fresh.
My God, I could still picture everything about that day. The sun, the breeze, the clouds in the bright blue sky. I could smell the fresh cut grass, hear the birds chirping and children laughing as they kicked a soccer ball around or tossed a Frisbee.
In the life of a four-year-old, it was a great day. Mom had her special picnic blanket on the grass and spread on top were salads, sandwiches, and yummy cupcakes. I loved to dance back then, and I twirled and twirled moving faster and faster in circles until…
Black.
Cold.
Silence surrounded me.
All around, students began standing, closing laptops, and grabbing bags. I moved quickly, shoving my laptop into my satchel and following the herd out of the building into the cold January afternoon.
Head down, I walked to the parking lot slowly. There was no need to rush. Nowhere to be. No one waiting at home.
The biggest impact of my accident was a paralyzing fear of loss from my parents. To me, it was understandable. Being unable to hear your drowning child call for you and having to rely on strangers to find her and save her, was debilitating for them. They explained that this was why I was homeschooled. I was only allowed to attend a college course in person this year after taking classes online to complete my undergraduate degree. My mother became the ultimate helicopter parent, hovering, fluttering, and fussing, until I was afraid of my own shadow. Afraid one wrong move would catapult me back under into the dark, cold, silence.
Reaching my car, I unlocked the trunk and placed my bag inside. Across the lot, a man stopped and stared.
He was the boy from class that bumped into me and helped me find my glasses. I’d thanked him and tried to apologize for being in his way and troubling him, but he stormed off, looking irritated.
Again, as he looked at me, I sensed he was mad.
My first instinct, as always, was fear. But it was fleeting and replaced with something much less scary. Intrigue. He was simply stunning to watch. Tall, with jet black hair, pulled away from his face and shoulders into what I assumed was a ponytail behind his head. His skin was light brown, not black, but most likely Hispanic, with multiple tattoos visible along his neck. He dressed simply, almost rough, in heavy boots, worn jeans, and a leather jacket that looked like it had seen better days. My eyes lingered on his body. Muscles so defined, they appeared to be painted on with an artist’s brush. He was, quite simply, breathtakingly gorgeous.
But it was his face… his… fury that caught my breath in my throat.
His jaw was tight, visibly popping as he clenched and unclenched. Eyes narrowed at me in a lethal glare. He looked me up and down, and then at my car, before slinging his backpack over his shoulder, and hitching a leg up and over a huge motorcycle. Seconds later, the engine was roaring, the sound so loud my ears rang and were wracked with pain. He tore out of the parking garage, his body leaning with his bike first to the right and then to the left, dropping close to the ground. I feared he would crash as he navigated the turns in the road ahead of him.
Then he was gone… out of my sight.
Climbing into my car, I closed the door, locking it behind me. My finger found the ignition button, pressing and waiting for the engine to start.
That angry boy was the most beautiful person I’d ever seen. But why had he glared at me? What had I done to upset him?
I placed the car in reverse, using my rear cameras as I navigated out of my space and the garage.
I drove the short distance home from school, my mind wandering every which way. What would it be like to ride a big motorcycle like that? To feel all that power between my legs. My core clenched at the thought and I bit my lip as my body stirred to life at the idea.
What would it be like to be touched by a man like him? Someone tall and strong and… sexy. Up until the age of eighteen, I had never been allowed to date. My parents made it clear that was not an option. They worried too much about all the what ifs…
Date rape. Roofies. Alcohol poisoning. Drunk driving. STDs. Unexpected pregnancy.
The list went on. I often wondered what my parents would do with themselves if they weren’t worrying about me.
But then, after turning eighteen, I never had any offers for dates. Of course, being homeschooled up until now prevented those opportunities from coming my way. If I was being truly honest with myself, I wasn’t ready to date when I was younger. Fears, anxiety, and debilitating shyness were struggles I still dealt with. Part of my reason for taking this class on campus was to face them. And to meet people. Perhaps date one of those people. One day, I had to hope that my time would come.
And when I wasn’t working on my four-point-oh grade point average at home on my computer, I devoured romance novels.
By the dozen.
Countless books that described in detail every type of man imaginable. I had a type. I’d narrowed it down to the domineering CEO. I liked the suits, fast cars, and snarky banter. I pictured my dream man clean shaven, with close-cropped hair, and a lean, long body.
In short, nothing at all like the beautiful man I saw today.
Yet, I was instantly captivated by him. Would I ever have a chance with a guy like that? A date, a dinner… a chance to prove to myself that I could break out of the shell I had been carefully surrounded by ever since that day eighteen years ago.
“Argh, Aveline. Quit it. You have no chance in hell with a man that hot.” There was something that amused me about talking aloud to myself when I knew no one else in my home could hear it.
Pathetic, I know. But sometimes the silence needed to be filled. Even if it was only with my voice.
* * *
STANDING IN THE doorway to my father’s office, I took a moment to study him. His slight frame and thinning hair showed his physical aging, but his intellect and wit remained as sharp as ever. I smiled at his focused concentration. My slight movement from the doorway must have caught his attention.
My father looked up, removed his glasses and placed them on the shiny wood surface of his desk.
“Dad”—I signed—“Got a minute?” Speaking about the accident in class today left me unable to focus on anything else. I wanted to ask my father questions about that day, even though I knew it was difficult for him to think about.
“Of course, my dear. Sit, please.” Dad’s hands moved rapidly. I followed along, walking further into the room and sitting on his brown leather loveseat.
“How was your day at school?’ Dad asked.
I smiled. “I love school. I love being out of the house. I haven’t made friends yet, but I hope to soon.”
“Good,” Dad grinned. “What’s up?”
Tucking my legs under me, I nestled into the cushiony, worn, couch. “In psychology class today, we talked about how tragedy can affect a person’s personality.” Dad sat up straighter, his attention on every move of my hands.
“I was randomly picked to stand at the front of the classroom and talk about the worst trauma I could remember.” I paused in my signs and Dad looked into my eyes, his own glistening with unshed tears. “Of course I talked about the accident and how I was saved. I spoke about never meeting the man who saved me and how all we know is that he broke his neck.”
“That’s right.” Dad signed, with a deep frown on his face.
“Is that all we know? In all these years, did you ever get a name? Find out if he lived? Try to thank him?” My fingers moved furiously as I hit my father with question after question.
Dad pushed his rolling desk chair away. Walking to the window, he kept his back to me. His head dropped, but I gave him his space to process. Finally, he faced me again. “I don’t know any more than that and it has haunted me, too. I tried to ask the paramedics at the scene after the man was helicoptered out and once we knew you were breathing and okay. I wrote on a sheet of paper, ‘name of man who was hurt’ but they only shrugged. A bystander responded to my note, telling me that the man didn’t speak English and his family had left the park for the hospital. Your mother and I had a hard enough time communicating with the people helping you. We did find out you both went to different hospitals, but they wouldn’t tell us which one. At that point, we wanted to put the whole thing behind us. I know it makes us sound like terrible people, but you were our only priority.”
Standing up from where I’d ensconced myself from the couch, I walked to my father and hugged him. Even without the intonation of his voice, I could tell how hard it was to communicate about that day with me. His fingers drooped, sadness and fear straining his hands like they were attached to an anchor plummeting to the bottom of the sea. It gutted me to hurt him. But I had to ask. I had to know.
When I pulled back, I signed, “I understand, Daddy. I’m sorry about it all. That I fell in. That he got hurt. That I’ve scared you and Mom so badly.”
He placed a gentle kiss on my forehead before his hands relayed his response. “It haunts me that I couldn’t say thank you and to apologize for his pain.”
That haunted me, too. The poor man, if he had lived, most likely had terrible injuries and we had never been able to express our gratitude for his choice.
Dad hugged me, and when I pulled back, we signed good-night before I headed to bed.
Nestling under my covers, I powered on my Kindle and settled in to read. As my eyes closed, heavy from the emotional exhaustion of the day, I pictured two people. One was faceless, strapped to a gurney. The other was angry, hot, and untouchable, racing away from me on his bike.
* * *
TWO DAYS LATER, I walked into psychology class feeling exposed after my involuntary overshare.
I moved back a few rows, almost to the middle of the auditorium and closer to the center of the row.
I settled as low in my chair as possible, pulling out my laptop and bringing it to life. My fingers drummed lightly on the desktop, and I chewed on the corner of my upper lip as I waited for the home screen to appear.
My email loaded, and I scanned the advertisements and other junk emails without reading them. All around me, students settled in seats, playing on phones or tablets, some making idle chatter with a neighbor.
As I zoned out, a sudden warmth hit my chest, traveling up my neck and to my cheeks. I had the immediate sense I was being watched. Looking left and then right, no one on either side of me was paying me the least bit of attention.
But the odd sensation continued. Growing stronger, if that was possible.
Slowly, I turned my head, looking back over my shoulder.
It was him.
Him.
Tall, dark, so incredibly hot, and very angry. He hadn’t lost a bit of the rage written plainly across his face. I whipped my head back, staring straight ahead, as I inhaled cool, clean air into my lungs.
Professor Redmond entered the room and began her lecture. I focused on typing notes, desperately trying to ignore the hotheaded, sexy man behind me, who for the first time, intrigued me more than my studies.