Didi
I press my lips together and blot my lipstick before stepping back to check my reflection in the mirror. This morning I’m wearing a pencil skirt and a white silk shirt, buttoned high. I’ve also borrowed a pair of my mom’s heels. I look the part of a professional. I just wish I felt like one. In reality I feel like an actress in a movie, wearing a costume and rehearsing my lines in the bathroom before the cameras roll into action.
I’m ready to go out into the corridor when my phone rings. I pull it out. The number is undisclosed.
“Hello?” I say, putting the phone to my ear.
“Hi, beautiful.”
It’s Zac. My heart rate doubles and I have to lean against the sink to steady myself. “Hi,” I say.
“How are you doing?” he asks.
“I’m great.” I glance up and catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. Two bright spots of color have appeared on my cheeks.
“You got the flowers, then?” he asks.
“Yes, they’re beautiful. Thanks. Did you get my text? I would have called but I wasn’t sure if it was the middle of the night where you were.” I pause. “Where exactly are you?”
“Vietnam,” Zac answers.
“What are you doing there? I thought you were in Hawaii?”
“No. That film wrapped. I’m doing reshoots for Dogs of War.”
“The Vietnam War movie?” I ask, frowning. I think I remember him telling me that film was already in postproduction.
“Yep, that’s the one,” he says. “The ending didn’t play well to test audiences so they’re reshooting the final scenes. In this version my character gets to live.”
“Oh, great,” I say, wishing there was an option for reshoots in real life. I’m sure the real soldiers here at the center would appreciate that. “How’s it going?” I ask.
“It’s hotter than hell,” Zac says. “But the food is amazing.”
I smile. Zac and I share an obsession for good food, though I like to cook, and not a single one of the multitude of shiny appliances in Zac’s kitchen other than the bottle opener has ever been used. His cutlery drawer is dedicated to take-out menus.
“I’m back a week next Thursday,” he says. “I was hoping we might catch up.”
My stomach flip-flops like a fish out of water. “Um, sure,” I stammer.
“How does that Thursday sound? Do you want to come to my place? I’ll cook.”
I raise an eyebrow. I want to see him, but is this a bootie call? I’m not sure how I feel about a bootie call. What if I go and then he never contacts me again? I don’t think I can handle rejection a second time. Then again, it’s Zac Ridgemont asking. I think about the girls who hang out outside his apartment building in LA screaming hysterically. They would probably give their right arm to be in my shoes.
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll bring cheese.”
• • •
Still riding a wave of happiness and excitement, I exit the bathroom and head down the hallway, an imaginary soundtrack playing in my head.
José, who’s sitting at the nursing station, looks up from his paperwork as I pass. “Someone’s in a good mood,” he observes with amusement.
I grin at him and stride into Walker’s room. Straightaway the grin dies and the soundtrack playing in my head screeches to an abrupt halt.
Walker’s sitting up in bed. He’s no longer wearing a sling. He’s facing the window and I wonder if he’s imagining the view or thinking about something else entirely. Judging by the downturn of his mouth, I’m guessing he’s not visualizing rolling green hills or sparkling ocean.
“Hi,” I say, and then remember to add, “It’s Didi.”
He turns his head my way. Because his eyes are covered I can’t tell what his expression is, but I do notice the way his lips purse ever so slightly. He still hasn’t shaved. That’s what strikes me now. It’s odd, because in the military the grooming standard means most men are clean-shaven, except for Navy Seals or Special Forces soldiers who have a get-out clause. I wonder if it’s because Walker’s refusing all help and can’t manage to shave on his own.
“Can I come in?” I ask.
Walker shrugs. “There’s no lock on the door.”
I bite back my smile and enter the room.
“I brought you something,” I say.
He turns toward me as I approach, a deep furrow creasing his forehead. He’s wearing a marl-gray T-shirt and I notice the Naval Academy logo on it.
I take a step closer to the bed.
“What is it?” he asks.
“It’s my iPod,” I say, pulling it out of my bag.
“I’ve got an iPod,” he says, nodding his head at the nightstand drawer.
“I know,” I say. I saw it the last time I was in his room and noticed the cracked screen. “I just thought you might like some audio books. I have hundreds. I listen to them in the car. When I’m driving. I drive a lot. Back and forth to classes. And back here to see my parents,” I add when he doesn’t say anything. “Do you read?” I ask, my voice taking on a disconcertingly high pitch. It’s usually the therapist who’s supposed to say nothing and the patient who’s supposed to babble on.
A smirk pulls up one corner of his mouth. “Yes. I might be a jarhead but I can read.”
“I mean do you like books?”
“Yes,” he says with a sardonic voice. “I like books.”
I choose to ignore his tone. “I’ve got a mix of fiction and nonfiction on there. Hopefully there’s something you might like.” I set the iPod down on his nightstand. This close to him I also get a hit of his deodorant (it can’t be aftershave) or maybe his shampoo, and find myself inhaling again before I can stop myself.
“Right. Um,” I say, backing away from him. “Well, it’s there on the side, all set up to go. José can help you if you need it.”
“I don’t need help,” he growls.
I wince. “Okay. Well, it’s there if you want it,” I say and glance over my shoulder at the open door. Half of me desperately wants to escape and the other half of me wants to stay—to talk, to get him to open up. I’m not sure why I’m so focused on him when there are two hundred other people I could focus on and Walker seems like the one who’s least interested. But, then again, a psychologist would probably tell me that’s exactly why I’m focused on him.
Didi, you are not here to fix him! I remind myself. I take one last look at him—he’s chewing the inside of his lip—and then turn to go, resolving to leave this one to my dad.
“Is there any music on there?”
I spin back around. “Um, yeah,” I say, frantically trying to remember what music is on it. It’s my old iPod and I’m sure it contains some very questionable choices.
“What have you got?” he asks, feeling for the iPod and picking it up.
Oh God. I’m guessing that One Direction isn’t what he wants to hear.
“What do you like?” I ask, turning the question around and wondering how I can prise the iPod out of his hand and delete all the dud music before he presses shuffle.
“A mix,” he says, and I catch the first hint of a smile from him, a relaxing of the jaw. “Classical, jazz, blues.”
My eyebrows lift. I hadn’t pegged him for a classical guy. “So no Justin Bieber, then?” I ask, mock hopefully.
He raises an eyebrow. I can just see it poking out of the bandage.
“I’ll bring my computer tomorrow and load some new music on there for you, okay?”
“Okay,” he says after a small pause. “Thanks.”
“No worries,” I say. “See you later.”
I walk out grinning. José cocks an eyebrow at me as I stroll past. “You’re not covered in yogurt,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “I’d call that progress.”