CHAPTER EIGHT
JACK
Sydney's been in the hospital for close to a week now. Every day though, I've come down to visit her. Every day, I've made sure to sit by her side and talk to her. I've tried to find the words to tell her that I'm not actually her husband, that it was all a lie. Every day though, the words still don't come.
I have my reasons for the lie. It was to protect her. To be by her side. To take care of the paperwork and to make sure she had everything she needed. Being an old boyfriend doesn't give you those privileges, and I feared they might reach out and find Peter. That's the last thing I want to see happen because I'm positive he's behind this somehow. I can't prove it, don't have a shred of evidence to back that theory up, but all the same, I know it. I know it in my heart and in my gut. Otherwise, where in the hell is he?
I want to tell Sydney the truth, but she's scared enough as it is. So, I remain quiet and say nothing. I'll tell her eventually, but not here at the hospital. I need to be able to see her, to protect her. I need to make sure we're in a secure place where I can do those things before I tell her the truth.
That's what I tell myself anyway. But, even I have a hard time not believing I'm selfish for taking this opportunity to get back into her life. When I saw her again in Daisy's the other night, it re-opened old wounds – wounds I thought had healed over long ago.
When I saw her again though, it made me feel like I'd been given a second chance. A second chance I probably don't deserve, but a second chance nonetheless. I want to make the most of it. I don't want to screw it up.
Today is the day she's being released from the hospital, and I'm supposed to take her home; to my home, where she will be safe. I consider contacting her parents, but memories of their disdain for me inflame my anxiety and make me put it off. I keep telling myself I'll do it later – but later hasn't come yet.
Once she's home though, we'll talk about what happened and I can finally admit the truth about who I am. After that, we can call her parents and I'll see about sending her back to her real home, as soon as she's approved to fly.
I’m running a big risk. She might absolutely flip out that I lied to her and the hospital about who I am. I'm hoping she understands my reasons, but I know it's a crapshoot at best. Regardless of how it all shakes out though, I know that once I get her home, I'm finally going to have to come clean about it.. About everything.
That's the plan, at least. Another part of the plan includes locating that douchebag she came to Redstone with and asking him some very pointed questions about what happened. If I don't like the answers I'm hearing, or I suspect he's lying – which, I assume he will – he's going to have a very, very bad day.
She has no phone, no wallet, nothing. Not even shoes to wear. So, I'm asked to bring her a change of clothes and some shoes to take her home in, and that's a challenge, because obviously, I have nothing of hers. Peter has everything, but as her “husband,” I'm expected to have something for her to wear. Which means I'm going shopping before I pick her up. Which, of course, is going to provide me with a whole fresh set of challenges.
I park at the curb of Redstone's shopping district and try to get my bearings. I don't usually do clothes shopping down here, so I don't know what the lay of the land is exactly. The first boutique I walk into, I see a twenty-something young girl behind the counter playing on her phone. She hardly looks up as I enter. I stand there and look around the shop, feeling completely lost.
I finally give up trying to figure it all out, walk over to her, and clear my throat.
“Excuse me?” I say. “Can I get some help, please.”
The girl rolls her eyes as she finally tears her eyes away from her phone and meets my gaze.
“Yes?”
Her name tag says Brittney and her tone is well beyond snotty. It's a suitable name for a stuck-up little girl, I think to myself. Her bleached blonde hair is nearly white and fried beyond belief, and her makeup is too dark for my tastes. The clothes on the rack all seem to be for twenty-somethings as well, showing a lot of skin in crop tops and miniskirts. I'm suddenly not sure I'm in the right place.
“You know what? I think I made a mistake,” I mutter. “Sorry to bother you.”
She lets out a derisive snort as I turn to go, and she drops her gaze back to her phone again. I feel lost. I have no idea how to shop for a grown woman. I know though, I'm not going to find what I need in a shop like that.
The next store I walk into seems to be a bit more sophisticated. Two women rush me as soon as I enter the door, both of them eager to help me. Perhaps too eager, I think, but they likely work on that, are they're just really enthusiastic and love what they do.
The brunette named Marianne is dressed in a knee-length skirt, tall boots and a sweater, which seems like Sydney's style, based on what she was wearing when I saw her last. The other woman, a more natural-looking blonde than Brittney, introduces herself as Katya. She has a Russian accent and wears what I can only describe as an upper-class cocktail dress.
I go off with Marianne, which puts a broad smile on her face.
“I need to pick up a few things for a friend of mine who's staying with me,” I tell her. “She doesn't have much with her right now.”
I mention that she's in the hospital but leave it at that. The fewer details, the better. Marianne offers a sweet smile, her red lipstick perfectly complementing her pale skin. Her brown hair is long and falls around her soft face, highlighting her delicate jaw line and petite features.
“What a nice thing to do,” she says, patting me on the shoulder. “It's so hard to find good men these days. Your friend is lucky.”
She winks when she says the word, “friend” as if she knows there's something more there. I only wish that were true, but there's not. Nor will there ever be. I saw to that long ago. The best I can hope for now, is some form of closure. All I want is for Sydney to say she understands and forgives me for what I did.
“No, I swear, she's just a friend. An old friend,” I say, running a hand over my head, not really sure why I feel the need to explain myself to her.
“So you're single?” Marianne asks, her brown eyes twinkling.
“I am.”
She gives me a once over, and a flirty little smile before turning to a rack of dresses. She pulls out a frilly, pink one and I grimace.
“Not a frilly, pink type of girl?” she asks. “Tell me, what does she like?”
“I don't really know,” I mutter. “To be honest, something along the lines of what you're wearing, maybe? I guess she needs pants more than skirts though, it's probably way too cold for dresses.”
“I've got just the thing,” she says brightly.
Marianne takes my arm and leads me through the store until we reach a rack that's stuffed with cashmere sweaters. She urges me to touch them and they're so soft, like clouds against your skin. Marianne's words, not mine. Still, I can't say that her description is that far off the mark. They feel nice.
One of the sweaters in heather gray catches my eye. I remember Sydney used to like black and gray clothing, but I'm not sure what she likes anymore. I imagine her style and tastes have changed over the years. Still, it's a start.
“The price is a bit steep,” Marianne warns me.
“I'm good for it.”
I don't even look at the price tag, since it's not even an issue for me. Whatever I can do to make Sydney comfortable, I'm going to do it.
“Money isn't an issue for me,” I say.
The magic words every salesperson wants to hear. The look on Marianne's face is almost orgasmic, with wide eyes and her mouth open in the perfect “O”.” She glances at me again, clearly surprised. I don't dress the part of millionaire for a reason. I don't like the attention or the assumptions that come from it. Plus, my jeans and t-shirts are more comfortable, more me. “What size is your special friend?” she asks, again teasing me about the word friend.
The question catches me off guard and I'm not sure how to answer it. I look at the tags on the shirts, those are easy enough – small, medium, large, etc. But a specific size? I'm clueless.
“Probably a small? Maybe a medium?” I say hesitatingly. “She's got some curves though, so maybe larger?”
“You have no idea, do you?” Marianne asks me, clearly amused by my befuddlement.
“I don't,” I say, shaking my head. “Not really.”
“That's certainly going to make things difficult,” she ponders. “Though we have a generous return policy, so if something doesn't fit, you can always bring it back.”
Music to my ears. “I'll talk a small, medium and large sweater then. All of them in gray, please.”
“They're $300 a piece,” Marianna says, blinking up at me. “That would be – ”
I hand her my card. “Nine hundred dollars. I'll need some pants, and maybe a few more shirts to go with them too,” I say. “Just pick some nice things out. You have a nice style, so I'll trust your judgement.”
“What size pants?”
I stare at the pants in her hands and see that it's not a small, medium, large sort of thing. There's a number, and unlike with men's pants, it's not the size of the waist. It's merely one number. In this case, she's holding a size four, which sounds incredibly small to me.
“I honestly have no idea – ”
“Here, what if we got her some jeggings instead,” she says, putting the jeans away.
“Jeggings?” I scratch my head. “I have no idea what those are.”
“Stretchy jeans,” she says. “A mix between leggings and jeggings.”
“Huh, okay.”
She pulls out a few pairs for me, and I tell her to give me all three sizes – small, medium and large in those too. With that, I let Marianne run off to pick out a couple more outfits, some socks, a pair of shoes based on an estimated size. I have no idea what I'm doing here, but thankfully I've found a decent salesperson who does the work for me.
“You sure price isn't an issue, Mr. – ”
“Just call me Jack,” I tell her.
“Jack. Fitting,” she says.
I have no idea what she means by that, but the way her cheeks flush, she seems to mean it as a compliment. I think.
“And no, price isn't an issue,” I say.
Katya is leaning against the counter, watching us with pure envy in her eyes. Her perfectly manicured nails clack against the countertop, and with each item that Marianne rings up, Katya seems more and more disgruntled. Again, I assume they're paid on commission and considering my total, it's one hell of a sale. I can understand why she's disgruntled about it.
“Here's your receipt, Jack. Please make sure you hold onto it to return the items that don't fit,” she says as she writes something at the top. “And this is my cell phone number in case you have any questions or need anything else. I'm happy to help you, Jack.”
I have a feeling she's giving me her number for other reasons – not strictly, just to be helpful. She's a cute girl, I'll give her that, but I won't lead her on. I'm not interested in dating anyone – especially a good girl like Marianne. I'd just fuck her up big time if I got involved with her. Just like I did with Sydney.
“Thanks, Marianne,” I say, taking the paper from her and shoving it into my pocket.
It's almost noon, and Sydney is being released soon, which means I need to hustle down to the hospital. Now, with bags full of clothing, I can at least bring her back to my home. There, I can tell her the full story and we'll be able to sort everything out.
Hopefully, she'll stay with me until she heals, but in the end, it's up to her. Given our past, as soon as she remembers me, there's a good chance she'll want to run like hell. I can hope things turn out differently, but I have a feeling she'll head for the hills.
Not that I can blame her.
ooo000ooo
“You ready to go home?” The nurse asks her just as I step inside the hospital room.
Sydney glances at me, and the look in her eyes is one of fear of the unknown. I'm sure this all still feels so foreign to her, and I can't blame her at all. The fact that I'm taking her out of the hospital and taking her to my home – a man she doesn't even recall – has to be more than a little disconcerting.
It's almost unfair. Which gives me yet another reason to feel like an asshole.
I hand the bag of clothes over to Sydney and she looks at it, then up at me.
“I wasn't sure what size you are, so I bought one of every size. Just to be safe,” I tell her. I scratch my head. “We can return whatever doesn't fit.”
The nurse's smile falters and the light of suspicion blossoms in her eyes as she looks at me.
“Doesn't she have clothes at home you could have brought with you?” she asks.
I look back at her. “Sure, but I wanted to get her something nice,” I say. “After everything she's been through, she deserves it.”
A lie, but a harmless one. Tara, the nurse, smiles brightly at me. I guess my answer somehow appeased her and allayed her fears.
“You sure have found yourself a good one,” she says, patting Sydney on the arm.
“Thank you,” Sydney says quietly, uncertainty coloring her every word.
She can't meet my eyes, and I can't bring myself to meet hers either. The lie has gone on long enough. As soon as we're at my place, I'll tell her the truth. I have to. It's like this tremendous weight bearing down on me and I can't deal with it much longer. She deserves the truth – and I need to get out from under this oppressive weight.
Sydney gets up from the bed and walks to the bathroom with the bags in her hand. I want to offer my help, but I'm not sure it would be welcomed. So, instead of saying anything, I just hold the door open for her instead.
“Just call out if you need me,” I tell her. “I'll be right out here.”
She nods but doesn't speak to me. She's hardly said anything to me these last few days, except to ask questions. Questions I don't have the answers to. The door closes behind her, and Tara tells me to buzz her if we need anything before leaving the room herself.
It's all so ordinary. So normal. A husband taking his wife home from the hospital, to care for her. To help nurse her back to health and get her back on her feet. Except I'm not her husband, and she's going to realize that sooner or later. Probably the moment she steps through the front door and realizes that none of the things in my house belong to her. My place isn't exactly domesticated. It's rugged bachelor chic, I like to call it.
After Tara leaves, the room is uncomfortably silent. I sit on the edge of the bed looking around until finally, I can't stand the silence anymore. Sydney is in the bathroom for a bit longer than expected, so I knock gently.
“You okay in there, Syd?”
“I'm fine,” she says.
That's what all women say when things are certainly not fine. Nothing is fine and I know it. I flop down in the chair by the hospital bed and stare up at the television. It's muted, but there are subtitles. Some shitty daytime talk show is playing. Something Sydney wouldn't be interested in. Or would she? Hell, a lot has changed since we were together. Maybe this Sydney likes Maury or Dr. Oz, or whatever the hell is on. How would I know?
The bathroom door opens and Sydney steps out in the cashmere sweater, dark denim jeggings and black boots. The outfit fits her. She looks good in it. Her skin is still paler than normal, and her reddish-brown bob hangs loosely around her face rather than it being styled like normal. Her green eyes are bright and large – larger than I'd ever seen them before.
“The sweaters still had the tags on them,” she says. “Were they really three hundred dollars apiece?”
Shit. In my rush, I'd forgotten to remove the tags. Not like it really matters, I guess.
I shrug. “They're real cashmere,” I say. “I thought you'd like it.”
“I do, it's just – do you – I mean do we – have that kind of money?”
I stifle a chuckle. “I'm, or rather we, are comfortable,” I say. “Yes. There is nothing for you to worry about.”
“I can't imagine how much all this cost,” she says.
“There's more in my truck too,” I say. “Figured you'd need a few new things. At least, until we figure things out.”
“Figure what out?” Sydney asks.
“We'll talk about it once we get home,” I say.
I stand and take her hand, bringing it to my lips. I have no intention of coming onto her, not without her remembering me. Not without her consent or some signal that she's into it and wants the same. And especially not without her still thinking of me as her husband. No, the truth has to come out first. Anything else would be wrong and immoral. I'm a lot of things, but I'm not immoral.
Still, I find it hard to resist pressing my lips to her skin, so I settle for her hand.
“Let's get you home.”