Tonic (7 page)

He shrugged and knelt, taking my arm and hand to help me up. “I’m not supposed to be in the shop today. Seems there may be some potential hazards I wasn’t aware of before this morning.”

“Convenient.” Once up, I leaned into him again, grateful to have him solidly next to me.
 

“Can you call your … driver, or whatever?”

“I’ve got it,” Laney answered for me and handed over my purse, which Joel took. “Take care of our girl.”

“I will,” he answered, and the resoluteness in his voice did something to my uterus. My brain shouted at me to stop being such a freaking ninny. I didn’t need anyone to take care of me.
 

So I said, sounding way more bratty than I meant to, “I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”

I nearly missed the first step, and he caught me, squeezing me in his grip before I’d moved much more than my feet. “Right, princess. You’re doing just fine on your own.”

I made a noise in dissent but let him guide me down the stairs anyway.

Within a few minutes we were in the car — Joel ran back into the shop to get a couple bottles of water. Literally ran, or jogged, I guess. I watched his broad shoulders, muscles bulging as they expanded and contracted, then the serious bend of his brow as he slipped in next to me. I thought it was funny — Joel, serious — and stifled another giggle. He didn’t take anything seriously. His serious face looked more grumpy than anything.

I leaned back in the seat, chin lifted, eyes closed, trying to get a grip on my brain.

“Want some water?”

I didn’t open my eyes, but extended a hand, closing my fingers around the cold plastic when it touched my palm. “Thanks.” I twisted off the cap and took a drink.

“Gonna puke again?”

“No promises either way.”

“Gonna keep fighting my help?”

“Probably.”

He chuckled, and I cracked my lids, turning my head to look at him. He really was handsome underneath all that hair and ink. I knew in my head that he was much older than me, twelve years older, in fact. But he didn’t look older. I mean, he looked older, but not
older
. The only indication that he was a couple years shy of forty were the smallest of creases next to his eyes, lines that said he laughed, and often.
 

I found myself smiling, and he looked over, smirking when he caught me.
 

“You’re pretty funny when your brain’s furry, you know that?” he asked.

I shrugged.

“I bet you’re a riot when you’re drunk.”

I shrugged again. “I only drink vodka. Pretty much all other liquor makes me take my clothes off.”

One of his dark eyebrows rose. “I’ll be sure to stock up on whiskey, in that case.”

“Okay, first — stock up all you want because I won’t drink it. Second, stop hitting on me.”

“Whatever you want, princess.”

“And stop calling me princess.”

“Sorry, that one’s non-negotiable.”

I huffed and fixed my head back where it had been, closing my eyes again, knowing it was useless to argue, even if I had the energy for it. I really did feel terrible. Not to mention confused — I wasn’t mad at him at all. Mostly I just thought he was funny and cute.
Obviously you have a head injury
, I told myself. But I liked that he pushed back, didn’t back down, didn’t run away. He stepped right up, spit in his hand, and got ready for the fast pitch.

Baseball metaphors. That’s how you know you’ve got a concussion. I don’t even like baseball.

It was just because he was being nice, going all caveman to take care of me. Pretty sure it was an autonomous response, something my genetics screamed for like fangirls. Double-crossing, anti-feminist DNA.

We hit a pothole, and I groaned when my head bounced against the headrest.

“Drink some more water,” he said, not asking.

I sighed and obliged.
 

“And try to stay awake.”

“That’s a myth,” I mumbled.
 

“What is?”

I opened my eyes and lolled my head over to look at him again. “Not letting someone sleep when they have a concussion. It’s a myth. Sleep is good for healing, so long as there aren’t any other major symptoms, like dilated pupils.”

“How about barfing?” It was a challenge.

I gave him a flat look.

“I’m just saying. Try to stay awake.”

My head thrummed, but I didn’t feel nauseated anymore. I was tired though, my body heavy and mind slow, that kind of tired that could let you sleep anywhere. I breathed slow, hands in my lap, telling myself to stay awake or have to converse with Hairy. But I felt myself drift away, unwilling, unable to stop myself.

Joel

I WATCHED HER FROM ACROSS the bench seat, studying her breathing, but when her hand slipped off her lap and into the seat, I knew she was out.

I reached for her, clasping her hand in mine. “Annika. Wake up.” My other hand slipped into the curve of her neck.

Her eyes opened slowly. “Hmmm?”

“Come on, princess. Stay awake. Don’t make me resort to singing show tunes.”

She smiled faintly. “You know show tunes?”

“Do I know show tunes,” I said with a laugh before clearing my throat. “
Ohhhhhhhhhhhh-klahoma where the wind goes sweepin’ down the plainnnnn. Where the wavin’ wheat can sure smell sweet, where the wind comes right behind the raaaaaaaaain.
” I bellowed the lyrics, knowing full well I was tone deaf.

She gaped, eyes bright for the first time since she’d been knocked out. “Oh, my God.”

It took all I had not to laugh. “
Ohhhhhhhhhhhh-klahoma, Ev’ry night my honey lamb and I, sit alone and talk and watch a hawk makin’ lazy circles in the skyyyyyyyyyy.
”

And then, she laughed. It was a glorious sound, rough and raw, unbridled. The gift was one I knew not many received. I checked off the box next to making her laugh and made a new mental checkbox — make her do it again.

“I cannot believe you.”

I shrugged, realizing then that her hand was still in mine, her long, white fingers draped over my palm. “My mom loved old musicals. I’ve seen a million of them, watched them with her ever since I was a kid. I think that’s where I learned to really love music, honestly. Or not. I dunno. Our house was never quiet, Mom couldn’t stand it. She always had something on, classic rock from the 70s, they’d say now. At the time, it was just the radio.”

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

I smirked. “You have no idea.”

“Except that you’re tone deaf. I would have guessed that.”

I sighed. “I wish I wasn’t. My mom could sing like an angel.”

Her face softened at the mention of my mother. “I can’t imagine losing my mama. I know it’ll happen — they’re already in their seventies. I’m trying to convince them to retire, but it’s no easy task. They never planned for much of anything.”

I didn’t question her openness, assuming it was her concussion. “You’re close?”

She nodded, eyes closed. “They’re my safe place. I don’t have to be anyone but me when I’m around them.”

I didn’t press her, sensing that if I pushed, she’d lock it down again. I squeezed her hand. “Stay awake, or I’m switching to
Music Man
.”

That elicited a soft laugh as the car came to a stop. I glanced out the window and saw we’d reached the hospital.
 

“Thanks,” she said to the driver as I opened the door and helped her out, slipping an arm around her waist.
 

I tucked her into my side, and it felt good, taking care of someone. It had been a long time. A very long time. Liz and I were rarely tender, more intent on destroying each other than taking care of one another. I wondered if this was what everyone else felt in their relationships. Not like they were a dead end, a brick wall, but an open road. If it was possible to really be in it together.
 

I saw my brother and Ramona together and knew it was. Or Patrick and his girlfriend, Rose.
 

Maybe I just thought it wasn’t for me. That it couldn’t be me. That I wasn’t made for it. But if I were being honest with myself, I’d admit that the idea of repeating what I went through with Liz scared the hell out of me.
 

But for the first time in more than a decade, I felt the desire to try. Whether it was with the girl pressed into my side, I didn’t know. But I was starting to hope it would be.

Two hours later, we pulled up to her brownstone in Park Slope, a ritzy neighborhood in Brooklyn. I couldn’t help but gape at the beautiful old building, wondering how she could afford such a place, then wondering exactly how much television producers made. She was able to walk on her own at that point, and was sure to tell me so as she climbed out.

“Seriously,” she insisted. “I’m fine. My driver can take you back to Tonic.”

I slid across the bench to get out, but she barred my way. “Is anyone home to take care of you?”

“My cousin and her daughter will be home in a few hours.”

“A few? What time?”

“Six.”

I gave her a look. “That’s five hours from now. The doctor said someone has to wake you up every few hours if you go to sleep.”

“I’ll set an alarm.” The words were firm.

“I’m staying.”

Her jaw clenched, and she let out a breath. “I really appreciate all your help today, honestly, but I’m fine. I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sure you can,” I said as I slid back to my door and climbed out, smiling at her over the roof of the car, in part because she looked so pissed.
 

“What the hell are you going to do in my apartment for five hours?”

“Make sure you don’t have a subdural hematoma. Maybe read. Probably go through your medicine cabinet.”

“Joel,” she warned.

I walked around the car to the sidewalk where she stood. “Listen, if something were to happen to you when I could have stayed, I’d never forgive myself. That’s the honest truth. So, for my own lousy peace of mind, can I please sit on your couch while you sleep until your cousin gets home?”

She was quiet while she thought it over, her eyes cool and hard. “All right.”

“Thank you.” I relaxed considerably.

She sighed and turned for the stairs to her building, fishing in her bag for her keys.

“Nice place,” I said, following.

“Thanks. My uncle owns a bunch of properties and lets us stay here for free.”

“Must be nice.”

She smirked over her shoulder at me. “It is.”

When she opened the door, I was even more surprised. The house was gorgeous — dark hardwood, crisp, white walls, what looked like it might have been original crown molding. The property had to be worth a couple million at least, a mind-blowing amount of money in my world. After living for seventeen years in the same apartment — and in a different apartment my entire life before that — living in this sort of luxury felt mythical.
 

I closed the door and locked it behind me as Annika set her bag on the hall table and kicked off her shoes. She looked exhausted.

“I’m exhausted,” she said, and I smiled.
 

“Get some rest. I’ll wake you up in two hours.”

She nodded and headed for the stairs.
 

“Which room is yours?” I asked.

“Top of the stairs, next to the bathroom. Help yourself to anything in the fridge, and most of my paperbacks are on the bookshelf in the living room. Or you can watch TV, whatever.”

“Thanks.”

She paused with her hand on the rail, her face soft. “No, thank you. I really do appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Even if I didn’t actually want your help,” she added with a smile.

“That’s me. Helping out even when it’s unsolicited. What can I say? I’m a hero like that.”

She snorted and rolled her eyes, the sound crass and very unrefined. I loved it.
 

“Sleep tight, Annika.”

She smiled. “Thanks, Joel.” And then she turned and walked up the stairs.

Not even going to deny that I watched until she was out of sight.

I sighed and turned for the living room, taking stock. All the furniture was a mixture of modern and vintage, an eclectic collection. I’d figured her place would be sterile, clean and white, no color, but this place was soft and colorful without being loud. It looked lived in, comfortable. I remembered her saying that her cousin and her daughter lived with her. I wondered how old the little girl was until I saw a stuffed bunny on the couch. I couldn’t help but pick it up, the soft, wide corduroy a creamy grey, its button eyes stitched on and pink velvet ears worn with love.
 

I set it back down and looked around for the bookshelf, making my way over to kneel in front of the rows and rows of books. They were full of classics, a lot of hardbacks, from Ayn Rand to Dickens. But on their own shelf held standing by agate bookends, the swirl of the stone geometric and organic, stood her collection of hardback Jane Austen novels. I trailed my fingers over the spines, which were stamped in gold or silver with the titles.
Pride and Prejudice
was the one I knew everyone went for, but I decided on
Persuasion,
curious about a book that touched her, that shaped her.

I glanced at my watch and noted the time, settling into the couch to read, trying not to think about her sleeping just upstairs.
 

A very fat, very old calico appeared silently next to my legs, peering up at me with yellow eyes. Patches of orange and black were surrounded by white fur, and it had a black stripe on its face through its eye, which made it look like the Scarface of cats.

“Hey, there.”

It gave me a single
meow
and blinked, watching me.

I reached down and scratched its jaw, rubbing my thumb against its ear, and it leaned in. “Wonder what your name is.”

Meow
, it said in response. I smiled and leaned back, and the cat hopped up, stretched out next to me, and went to sleep, purring.

I chuckled, comforted by the warm presence, and cracked open the book.

Hours went by, and I reveled in the absolute quiet, the city seeming far away from where I sat in Annika’s living room, insulated in the brownstone. I’d woken her once a few hours before — she was nestled in her bed with the curtains drawn, her face slack and soft. She looked like a girl like that, the hardness gone, her hair out of its tight bun and spread across her pillow like spun gold.