Cardinal (9 page)

I smile and take it from him. “Thank you. Is it
a get well card?”

He nods. “I asked Uncle Gunnar if we could take
you with us to the aquarium again and he said we couldn’t because you were sick.”
He sits down next to me. “When will you be better?”

“Soon,” I say. I look down at the card. The
front is covered in multi-colored blobs that look like the letter S. They also
have eyes. “Are these seahorses?”

He smiles. “Yep.”

I open the paper and find “Get Well Soon Jen
from Oliver” written in uneven capital letters. On the opposite side of the
page is a blue fish. I can tell it’s a shark by the crooked teeth.

“This is one awesome card,” I say. How sweet is
this kid?  I wrap my arm around Oliver’s shoulders and squeeze. “I feel better
all ready.”

He grins.

“Is this Jaws?” I ask and point to the shark. “He’s
scary.”

“Nope. It’s Bruce from
Finding Nemo.
Have
you seen that movie?”

I shake my head.

“It’s really funny,” he says. He looks at the
woman who brought him. “Can we watch
Finding Nemo
with Jen?” He turns
back to me. “I have the DVD.”

“I don’t know about that,” the woman says. “Your
friend needs her rest.”

Oliver’s face falls.

“Actually,” I say, “we aren’t doing anything
but sitting here. I don’t mind if he wants to watch it. Jules?”

She shrugs. “Sounds good to me. I think we
might even have some popcorn.”

“I’ll go get the movie!”  Oliver jumps up.

“Hold on,” the woman says. “I still have
laundry to take care of upstairs. I’m supposed to be watching you, not these
ladies.”

“You can leave him with us, Mrs. Gibson,” Jules
says. “Go do what you have to do. He’ll be fine here.”

“You’re sure?” she asks. “I don’t want to
impose.”

“Absolutely.”

Oliver leaves with his babysitter to get the
DVD and Jules heads to find popcorn. “I’m making you chicken broth,” she hollers
to me from the kitchen.

Twenty minutes later Oliver returns with the
movie. We hit the lights, get settled on the couch, and press play on the remote.
Oliver sits next to me, sharing the bowl of popcorn with Jules as I now sip
broth instead of tea. The opening scene shows a clownfish couple joking around
at their new sea anemone home. They’re expecting tons of fish babies. It’s cute
and playful, until tragedy strikes.

This is awful
, I think.
We’re not even
ten minutes in.
I shoot Jules a worried look over Oliver’s head. Should he
be watching this?  I know it’s supposed to be a kid’s movie, but come on. Oliver
lost his own mother in real life. “O,” I say. “I thought you said this was
funny.”

“It is,” he says. “Just wait.”

To the kid’s credit, the story does get better
as it progresses. Dory cracks me up, along with the surfer sea turtles. Oliver
giggles uncontrollably at the sea gulls, then again when Nemo’s new friends
attack a little girl named Darla.

By the end of the movie I’m emotionally
invested. I can’t stop myself from tearing up. I glance at Jules and notice she’s
having the same problem. She wipes beneath her eyes as I try to blink my tears
away. Damn Disney movies. Is it their goal to turn people into emotional wrecks? 
I remember when I saw
Bambi
as a kid. I was so scarred that I forbid my
father to hunt that fall. Of course he didn’t listen. When he brought home a
doe I refused to eat the venison in protest.

When the movie ends, I look down at Oliver. He’s
sound asleep against my side. I could have sworn he was awake a second ago,
when he scooted closer to me.

Jules gets up and turns off the TV. She glances
from Oliver to me and whispers, “I’ll go tell Mrs. Gibson the movie is over.”

Oliver looks so peaceful I don’t have the heart
to wake him. “Tell her he’s asleep. I doubt she’ll be able to carry him. We’ll
take him home in the morning.”

“You sure?” Jules asks. “I don’t think you can
stand without moving him.”

I nod. “If you prop his feet up I think he’ll
slide down on his side.”

Jules moves Oliver’s legs and my idea works. He
snuggles down into the couch cushions on his own. Jules finds a blanket for him
while I stand and carefully stretch. I think about moving to my own bed, but
don’t want to leave the kid all alone. What if he wakes up in the middle of the
night and freaks out when he’s not in his room?

“I’m going to sleep out here,” I tell Jules. “I
don’t want him to wake up and get scared.”

“As long as you’re comfortable.” She gives me a
warning look. “I don’t need you busting a stitch.”

She leaves to inform Mrs. Gibson of our plan
and I head to the bathroom for another pain pill. After I drink half a glass of
water, I crawl beneath the blanket I’ve been under all day and stretch my legs
behind Oliver. Our heads are at opposite ends of the couch, so I can see his
face when I lift my head off the pillow. By the time Jules comes back, I’m barely
coherent. Pain medication, a healing body, and emotional cartoons don’t mix. I’m
exhausted.

“Good night,” she whispers from the hallway. “Let
me know if you need anything.”

I wave with a floppy hand. “’Night.”

~~~~~

Around three a.m. something wakes me. I open
one eye and look at the clock before lifting my head to check on Oliver. He’s
still asleep. I hear a door close and assume Pete is home. Slowly, I move from
my side to my back to get comfortable, then close my eyes again.

Moments later, I can see light behind my
eyelids. They flutter open. A shadow is standing over me, illuminated from behind.
It takes a few good blinks to focus, and I realize it’s Latson. He must have
turned on the kitchen light. He wears an odd expression; one I can’t place.

“What are you doing here?” I rasp in a sleepy
voice. “Where’s Pete?”

“In his room.” He crouches down. “I came to get
Oliver so you can go to bed.”

“He’s fine. Don’t wake him.”

Latson shakes his head. “The kid would sleep
through an earthquake. Let me get him out of your way.”

“He’s not a problem,” I say, but it’s too late.
Latson stands and scoops up his nephew, cradling him against his chest. The kid
doesn’t even twitch.

He takes a few steps, then looks over his
shoulder. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

“Why?”

He doesn’t answer. He leaves the apartment with
Oliver and I’m left alone in the living room. I consider ignoring him and going
to bed, but for some reason I don’t. I’m curious to see what he wants.

I’m almost asleep again by the time he returns.
When I hear the door open, my eyes meet his. He doesn’t say anything. Instead,
he walks over to me and moves the blanket. Then, he slides one arm under my
knees and the other around my waist.

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

He picks me up. “Helping you. You just had
surgery.”

“I can walk,” I protest, but wrap my arms
around his neck anyway.

He looks straight ahead as he carries me down
the hallway. I notice the muscles in his jaw tense, like he wants to say
something but he’s holding back. My guess is he doesn’t want to be near me
after our last conversation, but feels obligated because I spent time with
Oliver. I try to relieve his conscience. “This really isn’t necessary.”

We reach my room and he sets me on the bed. He
reaches for the covers and pulls them back. “Get in.”

I roll my eyes, but do as I’m told. Once I
bring the blankets to my chin, he starts to leave.

“Hey.” I stop him. “Does this mean you’re speaking
to me again?”

He turns around with a resigned sigh. “That depends.
Do you want me to speak to you?”

I prop myself on my elbow. “I shouldn’t because
you were an ass the other day. Just so you know, I did ask Jules about you, but
only because of the way you acted. I had no idea about any of it.”

He looks at the floor, then back at me. “And?”

“Yes, I want you to talk to me. And no, I won’t
be quitting my job.”

His eyes lock on mine. He looks surprised,
maybe a little relieved. “Okay,” he says. He backs toward the door with a hint
of a smile. “Goodnight, Jen.”

“Goodnight.”

He disappears down the hallway, and I carefully
roll on my side to bury myself in the sheets. I’m glad we cleared the air. It reminds
of my cardinal rule, to do what makes me happy. As my mind drifts, I recall Latson’s
goodbye and compare it to his goodnight.

I much prefer the latter.

“What?  Your first day didn’t kill you, so
you’re back for more?”

I look up at Carter as I pull the cork out of a
bottle of merlot. It makes a loud
pop
. “Of course. You know I couldn’t go
another day without seeing your handsome face.”

He grins. “You fit in here so well.”

I wink.

“Seriously, though.” He leans over the bar. “That
was some pretty freaky shit last week. Are you sure you’re okay?”

I nod. “I’m good as new, minus one unnecessary
organ.”
And a few pounds,
I mentally add. My appetite definitely took a
hit after surgery.

Carter raises his hand over the bar top. “Well,
I’m glad you made it.”

“Me, too.” I give him a high five.

“Did I hear the word organ?” Gwen appears at my
side. “What are you two talking about?”

“Unnecessary things, like gallbladders,” I
explain.

“And kidneys,” Carter chimes in. “You can live
with one kidney.”

“And lungs,” I add, but then frown. “You can
live with one lung, right?”

“I think so. I know you can survive with a
partial liver,” Carter says. “My uncle only has half of his.”

Gwen looks over her shoulder. “I know I could
make it with half of this ass,” she complains.

I laugh as I glance at her butt. “I don’t think
your ass is an organ.”

She ignores me. “Do you think I could get some
of my butt fat sucked out and injected into my boobs?”

“You don’t want that,” I say and adjust my own.
“Trust me. Some days I wish I could downsize these babies.”

Gwen frowns. “Your boobs are perfect.” She
looks at Carter. “Aren’t they perfect?”

He tries to hide his smile. “They look nice
from here.”

My expression twists, but not from
embarrassment. “His opinion doesn’t count. Men think all boobs are perfect. It’s
ingrained in their psyche.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Carter interrupts. “I beg to
differ. All breasts are not made equal. Just like all asses are not the same. Gwen,
here, happens to have a very nice ass.”

“Thank you.” She smiles.

“But, I see where she’s coming from about her
chest. Guys want a handful, or at least I do, and hers isn’t –”

“Hey!”  Gwen cuts him off by throwing a bar towel
at his face. “Not nice!”

“Yeah.” I glare.

“I’m just agreeing with her.” Carter steps back.
“She’s the one who said she wanted to inject fat into other parts of her body.”

“I’m
allowed
to say that,” she huffs. “Not
you.”

“I thought you wanted someone on your side,” he
protests. “According to Jen all guys like all boobs. What I’m trying to say is
– wait a minute.” He stops.

“What you’re trying to say,” I finish for him,
“is guys like boobs, period. They may have preferences, but they’ll take what
they can get. Hence, men think all boobs are perfect.” I reach over the bar and
sarcastically pat his arm. “Thanks for proving my point.”

He looks speechless.

I turn to Gwen. “You, my friend, are stunning. Never
forget it. There are plenty of men who will appreciate your body and not just
settle for it. The hard part is finding one who wants your heart
and
your assets.”

Gwen’s expression softens. “I knew there was a
reason I liked you.” She hugs me. Then, she faces Carter. “You’re lucky we’re
friends. Here’s some advice: the next time a girl criticizes her body, just
tell her she’s hot and leave it at that.”

Carter blinks. “How’d we even get on this
subject?”

“We started to talk about unnecessary organs,”
I say.

“Whose organs are unnecessary?”

I look over to watch Latson approach the bar. This
is the first time I’ve seen him since Oliver fell asleep with me on the couch. He’s
wearing another new t-shirt today. This one is red and says
I’m lost. Please
take me home with you.
Although the statement is loaded with innuendo, I think
about how I met Oliver and smile.

“Don’t get these two started,” Carter warns as Latson
stops in front of us. “I’ll be outside with Pete.”

Latson looks confused as Carter walks away. “He
said something stupid, didn’t he?”

“He knows better now,” Gwen says.

I grab another bottle of wine. Torque opens
soon and we still have things to prep.

“Jen,” Latson says my name. “I want to show you
something. C’mere.” He gestures for me to follow him.

“Are you sure?  I still have set up to do.”

“I’ve got it,” Gwen says. “It’s not much.”              

I set the wine down and, due to my healing torso,
slowly duck beneath the bar. “I’ll be right back.”

She shoots me a knowing look. “Take your time.”

I catch up to Latson’s side as he walks. “What’s
going on?”

“Just something I thought you’d be interested
in.” He points at his shirt. “Did you see?”

“Yes,” I laugh. “How apropos.”

“I thought you might like it.” He smiles.

We make it to the stage in the corner of the
bar. It’s set up for tonight’s performance. Only a stool and a mic sit under
the main spotlight, and a few guitars sit on stands in front of the house
speakers. I trail behind Latson as he takes the stairs to the top of the stage.
He walks over to one the guitars and pulls it off its stand. He turns around and
holds it in front of him with two hands. “Do you know what this is?”

My eyes comb over the instrument. It’s metallic
mint green and rosewood, with a cream-colored pickguard and maple neck.

Holy shit. There’s no denying that shape.

“That’s a vintage ’59 Fender Strat,” I whisper.

He looks impressed. “You know your guitars.”

I silently nod. Fender is an American rock icon.
My fingers tingle at the thought of touching the strings. “Whose is it?”

Latson shrugs. “It’s mine.”

“You’re kidding.”

He shakes his head.

“Are you playing tonight?”

“Hell, no,” he laughs. “Dean is. We played
together in the Sin days. He’s been working on some new stuff and asked to
borrow a few things. Well, actually, his van broke down and his equipment is
stuck somewhere on 94.”

“That sucks. I hope he didn’t leave anything
like that on the side of the road.”

“No, nothing like this.” Latson lifts the
guitar, looks it over, and then holds it out to me. “Want to try?”

Hell yes, I want to try!  But, it’s a $2500
guitar. And that’s if it’s brand-new-to-look-vintage. If it’s really fifty-five
years old, it cost thousands more. I take a step back. “I don’t want to break
it.”

Latson sighs. “You won’t break it.”

“How do you know I even play?”

“I saw your acoustic when I picked up Oliver
the other night.” He closes the short distance between us. “I know Pete and
Jules don’t own a guitar. C’mon. You know you want to.”

He flashes his panty-melting one dimple smile. Coupled
with the instrument he’s holding, it’s too much. Way too much. I need a
distraction. “Let me see it.” I hold out my hands.

Satisfied, he gives it to me. As I pull the
guitar strap over my head, I swear I feel dizzy. I’m holding a freaking vintage
Fender Strat. The angels should start singing any minute.

He gestures toward the stool and I take a seat.
I set the guitar across my leg and try to get comfortable. “Any requests?” I
joke.

He flips a pick at me and, surprisingly, I
catch it. “Impress me,” he teases back.

Oh, lord. Okay. I’m holding a Fender. I should
probably break out some Clapton. He’s notorious for using a Strat. I rifle
through songs in my mind. What wouldn’t Latson expect?

Ah ha. I grin.

I position my fingers and effortlessly play the
opening chords to “Enter Sandman.”

“Metallica?” Latson looks suspicious. “You
don’t strike me as a metal head.”

“I’m not,” I admit, “but I can appreciate good
songwriting.” I tilt my head and think about what else to play until the song it
took me the longest to learn jumps to the forefront of my mind.

I only intend to play through the first few
lines of “Freebird” but, before I know it, one note morphs into the next. Latson
doesn’t stop me and his presence fades the longer I play. The spotlight shining
on the stage is warm and bright, making the bar fall into darkness and my skin
feel like I’m under the sun. I close my eyes and forget where I am; it’s as if
the only things that exist are me, the guitar, and the music. I’m not ashamed
to say I’d stay forever in this spot if I could.

Despite my trance, halfway through the song, a metal
chair scrapes against the floor and the sound pulls me back to reality. My
hands still and my eyes spring open.

“Sorry,” I mutter to Latson. “I got carried
away.”

He’s looking at me like I’ve sprouted a third
eye.

“Are you okay?”

“That was Skynyrd,” he says like he can’t
believe it.

“Um, yeah.” I start to hand him his guitar. “Thanks
for letting me play. She’s awesome.”

“No.” He pushes it back into my hands. “Keep
going.”

“With “Freebird”?”

“With whatever,” he says. “I like watching
you.”

I raise an eyebrow, to keep my heart from
racing. “You’re the rock star. Shouldn’t you be the one performing?”

He gives me a self-deprecating smile and
doesn’t answer. He crosses his arms. “So?  What else you got?  Who’s your
favorite to play?”

My face lights up and reveals my crush. “That’s
easy. Eddie.”

“Vedder?”

“No. Not Pearl Jam
.
Ed.”

“Sheeran?” Latson’s mouth twists around his
name. “Really?”

“What’s wrong with Ed?” I defend my pretend
boyfriend. “He’s talented. He writes his own songs, he collaborates with other
musicians, he –”

“He’s a pansy,” Latson goads me.

My mouth falls open. “He is not.”

“Yes, he is.”

“He’s romantic!  Not that you would know
anything about that
.”
My eyes bore into his. He can’t mess with my Ed
and get away with it.

“What did you say?” Latson steps closer and towers
over me.

“You heard me. Garage band ex-rock stars don’t
know anything about romance.”

I can see the wheels turning in his head. One
side of his mouth quirks up. “That’s what I thought you said.”

He steps back and rolls his neck, as if trying
to relax. “Enough about Ed. What else do you like to play?”

“Besides my music
boyfriend’s
songs?” I
stress the word.

He begrudgingly nods.

I readjust the guitar on my lap, then take a
breath. I play the chorus of the new song I’ve been working on. The Fender must
inspire me, because the next few chords I’ve been struggling with appear in my
head. Yes!  Finally. I play it one more time before I stop.

“Who was that?” Latson asks.

I smile. “Elliott.”

“Who?”

I stand and remove the strap from around my
neck. “Me. Jen Elliott.”

“You wrote that?”

I nod.

Pounding footsteps pull my attention to the
right as someone bounds up the stairs. “I need to know you,” he says and makes
his way toward me. He holds out his hand. “Dean McCarthy.”

I take in his rugged looks. Mussed hair, five
o’clock shadow. He must not have had time to get ready with the van breaking
down. I tentatively shake his hand. “Jen.”

“Is she new talent?” Dean asks Latson.

“Maybe,” Latson answers. “I just heard her
play.”

“No. I was goofing around. Latson was nice
enough to let me hold a classic.” I hand him his guitar. “Thank you.”

“How long have you been playing?” Dean asks.

“Since I was nineteen.” That’s when I inherited
my brother Josh’s guitar. He didn’t want it anymore, and I couldn’t let him
give it away.  I had always wanted to play, but he never had the patience to
teach me. Plus, God forbid I touched his stuff.

“You’re a natural,” Dean says.

“Thanks.”

People wandering in the front doors of Torque
distract me.

“Shit!” I push past Latson. “I left Gwen alone and
got stuck dicking around with you.” I still haven’t forgiven him for the Ed
comment.

“It was good for me, too,” he says.

Smart ass.
I don’t bother with the
stairs and hop off the stage despite my almost-healed incisions. It’s only a
short drop. “I have to get to work. Nice to meet you, Dean.”

“You, too,” he says.

I speed walk to the bar and crawl underneath. “I’m
sorry, Gwen.”