Color of Loneliness (17 page)

He despises doing those damn exercises, but the pain has been intense lately so he’ll try just about anything. “Yeah,” he says before he lets out a long, deep contented moan.

“How’s your pain level? The same? Any better?” she asks.

“A little better. Mm,” he says, groaning happily, his eyes closed and all of the muscles in his body relaxed.

“Wonderful. How’s your stress level been?”

Dylan grunts. “Not as bad.”

“Good. Just remember if you can keep your stress level down that’ll help with the pain.”

“Kind of hard to do that with the psychos I run into.”

“What do you mean?”

“I dunno,” he mumbles. “I’m working on this house – the one I was working on when I found Jim – and the woman introduced me to her friend who then proceeded to have the balls to chew my ass out over shit that wasn’t even my problem. It pissed me off.”

“What did she say?”

“A bunch of shit about how I should’ve stayed around for her friend after Jim died. I’m not a fucking grief counselor. Then she had the nerve to tell me that I needed to look out for her friend. Do I look like a damn babysitter to you?”

Elaina laughs lightly. “Definitely not. Sounds like you run into some unusual people.”

“You have no idea.”

Elaina pats him gently on the back. “You can sit up now.”

She walks over to her desk, her magnolia print flowered dress swirling around her shins. “Your neck and back looked much better today. Keep doing those exercises, and I’ll see you in a couple of days, okay,
mi querido
?”

Dylan nods and mutters, “Thanks,” before he heads out to his truck.

* * *

The next day, Myra tosses her paper plate into the trash and grabs a bottle of water from the refrigerator. Chewing on her thumbnail, she nonchalantly glances out of the kitchen window and sees a ladder propped up against the front of the garage. Leaning against the window to get a better look, she spies Dylan on top of the garage roof taking measurements. The garage’s steep slope makes her nervous as she watches him; she hopes he doesn’t slip off.

Taking a sip of her water, she chokes when Dylan disappears. Straight through the roof. Dropping the water bottle on the floor, she runs to the back door as fast as she can, darting outside in just her socks. The wet ground immediately soaks them. She runs to the open side door of the garage, ignoring the pain in her feet from running on the gravel.

“
Fuck,
” he roars as she steps inside. Dylan lies in a pile of scattered, rotted wood and shingles right smack dab on top of the hood of her car. Stunned, she stands there frozen, her mouth hanging open.

Snapping out of her stupor, she runs around to the side of the car. “Oh my God,” she mumbles breathlessly as she takes in his disheveled appearance. “Are you hurt?” she asks as she reaches her hand out towards him.

“Fuck,” he yells again. “Goddamn roof,” he bellows as he starts to try to move off the hood.

“Wait. Don’t move. Are you hurt anywhere?”

“Of course I’m hurt. I fell through a fucking roof. Are you stupid?”

Myra frowns surprised that something as simple as a few words could cut her so deeply. “No, I meant do you think anything is, is broken?” she stutters. She wants to help him but has no idea what to do. Her thin body trembles as she stands there in the freezing garage with no coat on in her wet socks.

“How would I know?” he growls. “Damn it.” As he slides off the hood, shingles and wood hit the concrete floor of the garage making loud snapping and pinging noises. Her stomach churns when she sees the condition of her car. Her graduation gift. The gift from her dad and Grampie that means so much to her.

“Let me help,” she says as she reaches for his arm to steady him, trying not to step on any of the debris on the floor.

He clutches his back in pain. “Shit, my back. This is all I fucking need,” he yells angrily.

“Let’s go inside and I’ll take a look at it,” she says as she tugs on his arm.

“I don’t need your fucking help,” he shouts as he rips his arm away.

“I just, I want to make sure you’re okay,” she stammers.

“Get back in the house,” he shouts, his eyes scanning her from head to toe. “You don’t even have a coat or shoes on for fuck’s sake.”

Myra stares at him for a moment. “You, you…
jerk!
You’re so mean,” she yells before she stomps her sock-covered foot on the hard concrete for emphasis. “You got hurt on my property so either you come in and let me take a look at you or… or… I’ll call Porter and have an ambulance sent over here and make them take you to the hospital.” She stares at him defiantly with her fists clenched at her sides.

Dylan glares back at her, his steely eyes looking like he wants to maim her in some terrible way.

“Fine,” he says with his lip snarled.

Myra pulls in a shaky breath, feeling a little frightened and a little bit liberated.

“Do you want to hold onto my arm?” she asks, knowing the answer to the question before it even leaves her lips.

His rage-filled eyes bore into her causing her to cower back an inch or two. “No,” he says. She flinches at the coldness in his voice.

Giving her a smart-ass smirk, he flings his hand dramatically in the direction of the door for her to walk ahead of him.

Once in the kitchen, she pulls out a chair. “Here. Sit,” she says. With her heart beating hard and her body trembling, she stumbles down the hallway towards the bathroom. A lump forms in her throat when she thinks about her car. But she can’t think about that right now. She needs to focus on Dylan. Rummaging under the cabinet, she pulls out a first-aid kit along with some peroxide and cotton balls. Her hands shake so much that she drops the cotton balls on the floor.

Back in the kitchen, she sets everything on the table before grabbing a clean dish towel out of the drawer and wetting it.

“Take your coat off,” she says in an unsteady voice as she keeps her back to him at the sink. Taking in some deep breaths, she closes her eyes, willing her nerves to calm down. From behind her, she can hear him standing and removing his coat.

She turns and instantly feels a pang when she sees the scratches on his beautiful face. He has a small one on his forehead and an abrasion on his left cheek. Myra moves to his side, and takes the wet towel and cleans his face gingerly, her hands trembling. Standing so close to him makes her breathing difficult. She can feel his eyes on her, watching her intently, making her feel self-conscience, but she doesn’t dare make eye contact for fear that she might pass out or do something equally embarrassing. Instead, she keeps her eyes trained on the scratches.

Once she cleans his face and rinses the towel in the sink, she pulls up a chair next to him, picks up his hand and places it gently in her lap. Myra carefully cleans the small nicks and cuts, irritated that her hands won’t quit shaking and her heart won’t stop pounding. Moving his clean hand back into his lap, she replaces it with the other, making sure to carefully clean each abrasion. She can’t help but admire how large his hands are. They are laborer’s hands, though, as she sees the rough callouses on them from the work that he does.

Leaning over to the table, she grabs the peroxide and a cotton ball, wetting it slightly. Standing and moving closer to him, she allows herself one small glance at his eyes. The anger has vanished. His brow furrows slightly and his soft eyes stare intently into hers for a moment before his gaze drifts slowly to her lips. Her stomach quivers and flips before she quickly looks down at the cotton ball. Lifting her unstable hand, she tenderly disinfects the scratches on his face. She tries to keep her eyes on the cotton ball, but for just a moment, her gaze darts to his slightly parted lips and she shivers.

Sitting back down in the chair, she attends to each of his hands, taking care to clean each wound thoroughly, adding a couple of bandages to the worst scratches.

She clears her throat, her hands anxiously and needlessly straightening the items on the table. “Can you turn around? I’d like to see your back,” she says.

“I’m fine,” he says before sighing and looking down at his hands in his lap.

“No, you’re not. Turn around, please.”

He looks up at her for a moment, his eyes flashing with protest, but stands anyway and slowly turns around. Myra carefully lifts his flannel shirt. She gasps when she sees a six-inch raised area of already bruising skin on his lower back with multiple scrapes and abrasions surrounding it.

“You’re going to be sore,” she says. Dylan holds his shirt up while she cleans the scratches with peroxide. She tries not to notice his strong, lean muscles but can’t help admiring them. She adds a couple of bandages to the worst-looking areas before she steps back.

“You should probably get a tetanus shot,” she says.

Dylan turns and stares down at her, making her feel small and tiny. “I’ve already had one. Stay here,” he says in a hoarse voice. Frowning, Myra looks up at him before he abruptly walks out of the kitchen.

He comes back a moment later with her Grammie’s blanket from the couch. He drapes it around her shoulders. “You have to be fucking freezing,” he mumbles. Wrapped up in tending to his injuries, she ignored the shivers traveling through her body from head to toe... until now.

She nods at him. “Thank you,” she whispers as she pulls the blanket closer around her.

He runs his hand through his hair and looks back down at her. “I have liability insurance so don’t worry. It’ll cover the damages. Do you need your car tonight? Or can we take care of everything in the morning?”

“Tomorrow’s fine.”

He nods. “I’m gonna head home if you don’t mind. I’ll be back in the morning.”

“Take off as much time as you need.”

“I’ll be fine by tomorrow,” he says stubbornly before he slips his coat back on and starts walking towards the back door. Just as his fingers touch the doorknob, he turns, his eyes searching hers. “Thanks, uh…” he mutters, pausing.

“Yes?”

He stares at her for a long moment before he shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“You’re welcome,” she says simply with a nod.

* * *

Dylan walks gingerly out to his truck, wincing with each step. He can’t believe he fell through the damn roof. He had no idea how fucking rotted it was. A groan slips from his lips as he pulls himself up into his truck. As he backs out of the driveway, he twists in his seat, trying to relieve the pressure on his aching back.

“Shit,” Dylan mutters about halfway home when he remembers that he left his tool bucket sitting outside of Myra’s house. He also left his drill and a few other expensive tools inside of the garage. He figures he can just retrieve them all tomorrow, but then decides to turn around and go back because he has a lot of money tied up in those damn tools and anyone could just walk off with them.

Pulling back into Myra’s driveway, he decides not to bother her. He’ll just grab his tools and get the fuck home.

When he steps inside the still-open side door to the garage, he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning towards it, he frowns when he sees Myra curled up in a ball next to the car’s tire with the blanket still wrapped around her. She has tears streaming down her face.

“What the hell? What are you doing in here?” he shouts, confused and angered by the sight of her sitting on the cold garage floor freezing to death.

She says nothing, just continues crying, like she doesn’t even hear him.

“Are you crying over your fucking car? I told you my insurance would cover it.”

Myra pulls up the edge of the blanket and wipes her face with it.

He runs his fingers through his hair tugging angrily on the ends. “You need to get back in your house. It’ll get fixed, all right?”

Not looking up, Myra nods, tears continuing to silently run down her cheeks.

He glares down at her, trying to figure out what the hell to do next. He waits for her to get up, move, or do something, but she just sits there. “Are you going back in the house or what?” he demands.

Myra shakes her head.

“Why the fuck not? It’s freezing out here,” he rages, incensed over her stupidity.

She buries her face in the blanket.

“You know what? I don’t give a shit. Do what you wanna do. I’m outta here,” he mumbles, grabbing his tools and stomping out of the garage.

Dylan storms back to his truck, unable to get Myra’s sad, tear-streaked face out of his mind. He slams the tool bucket into the bed of the truck and opens the door, leaning heavily against it. Pulling in a deep breath, he finally climbs in, slams the door extra hard, and sits, staring at the garage and holding tight to the steering wheel.

He wants to leave. The woman should’ve gone back inside like he told her to. Dylan can’t understand why the hell she’d sit there crying over a damn car. But he has enough problems of his own without trying to figure out hers; besides, he doesn’t even know her.

But then he remembers how she tenderly cared for him in the kitchen.

Slamming his hand against the steering wheel, he winces in pain. “This is a bunch of bullshit,” he yells. With a snarl on his face and against his better judgment, he slowly gets out of the truck and makes his way back into the garage with his fists clenched tightly at his sides.