Ginger's Heart (a modern fairytale) (13 page)

“Then what?”

“Then I’ll be retired from the Navy at twenty-one.”

“No,” she said. “I mean, college? Work? What comes next for you?”

“Not college. I’ve had enough of takin’ orders for a while.” He shrugged, his expression agitated. “I don’t know, Gin. Can I just get used to bein’ at home first?”

His voice was terse, and, unaccustomed to his being short with her, Ginger sat back in her chair and stared at him in surprise.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

“It’s okay,” she said, giving him a small smile. “I’m really, really glad you’re home.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course.”

“Really, Gin?”

“You’re my best friend, Woodman. Of course I’m—”

“Here we are!” said Miz Sophie, joining them on the porch and handing Woodman’s rucksack to Ginger.

She nodded at Woodman’s mother in thanks before glancing up at him and did a double take at his expression. It was hard and frustrated, annoyed and seeking.
What?
she wondered.
Why’s he so—

Of course.

You’re my best friend.

That’s what.

She couldn’t seem to do anything right tonight. She wore the wrong clothes, made the wrong greeting, asked the wrong questions, and hurt his feelings by slapping him into the friend zone when he wanted more from her. Fine. Time to go. She’d head home in a minute, but not before she made sure he was taking his meds correctly. The nursing student in her couldn’t leave without making certain.

She rifled through the outside pocket, taking out an amber vial of Vicodin and holding it up. “See this?”

Woodman nodded curtly.

“Says ‘Take as needed every four to six hours for pain,’ right?”

He nodded again.

“Are you in pain?”

His eyes were still narrow and hurt when he nodded yet again, but this time he added in a low, frustrated voice, “Yeah, Gin. I’m in pain.”

She almost flinched at the double meaning in his words, but controlled her expression and ignored his innuendo. “Then you should be takin’ one every four to six hours. When did you last have one?”

He shrugged, looking away from her. “I had half of one at four.”

“It’s eight thirty. Take another.” She opened the vial and shook one into her hand, holding it out to him.

He took his time reaching for it, claiming and owning her eyes as his fingers lingered far longer than necessary in her palm. “Fine.”

She watched as he placed the pill on his tongue and chased it with coffee before opening wide to prove it was gone. “Happy now?”

She wasn’t happy.

She wasn’t happy that her friend was in pain, either because of his injury or because she couldn’t give him what he wanted.

She wasn’t happy that Cain was finally home, because it had taken a long time for her to bury the heartache he’d caused her, and his sudden presence in her life was likely to bring it all to the surface again.

No, she wasn’t happy.

“Yes,” she said, standing up to say her good-byes. “I’m happy now.”

***

Ginger had chosen to become a nurse after her grandmother had been transferred to Silver Springs, three years ago—hell, she spent so much time visiting Gran and volunteering there, she already knew the facility inside out and most of the residents by name. When they had first moved Gran to Silver Springs, she seemed to improve. Seemingly cheered by the camaraderie of other seniors (she affectionately called Silver Springs the Old Folks Country Club), she still got around on her own and became very popular in many different social circles at the residence half of the facility. But just last month, Gran had taken two falls, the second worse than the first, and fractured a rib. And while the doctors had grudgingly decided that she didn’t require a wheelchair
quite
yet, she was in significant to severe gait decline, which had affected her spirits. She had to start considering a move to the Silver Springs Care Center across the street, which was little more than a really lovely nursing home with proper hospital facilities.

Between Gran and Woodman, both frustrated by the limitations of their bodies and taking it out on those around them, it promised to be a
terrific
autumn, she thought sourly, then quickly chastised herself for such unkind thoughts. She was able-bodied, healthy and hearty—she had no right to judge Gran, whose traitorous body was giving up on her way too soon, or Woodman, who was retired from a job he loved at twenty-one and would likely be crippled for life.

“I’m just tired,” she muttered, turning into her driveway. “I’ll get into bed, and it’ll all look better in the mornin’.”

But her intentions were thwarted when she saw a lone figure, standing by one of the paddock fences, turn in the spotlight of her headlights and face her car. She couldn’t really make out more than a tall silhouette, but she knew who it was. She knew exactly who it was, and her breath caught as her eyes burned with sudden and tiresome tears. As she braked without thinking, she clenched her fingers around the steering wheel and braced herself to come face to face with heartache after three years apart.

He raised his hand in greeting, crossing in front of her car to come say hello, and though it vaguely occurred to her to hit the gas and run him over, she decided that homicide would only make a bad night worse, so she pulled up the emergency brake and rolled down the window instead.

And—
Lord Jesus, Mother Mary, and all the saints in heaven
—he’d somehow gotten even better-looking while he was gone. Her lips parted, and a soft, whimpering sound escaped from her throat, but she prayed he didn’t hear it. If anything, he looked a little unsettled himself to be in her presence again. As he strolled over to her car and rested his hands on the windowsill, she clamped her lips shut and tried desperately for a cool expression. She had no idea if she succeeded, because she was so distracted by the throbbing of her pulse in her ears.

She might have murmured “Welcome home,” but she couldn’t be sure.

“Hey, princess.”

Princess.

Her heart, brimming with too much emotion to bear, thundered at the sound of his voice saying the beloved old nickname. She tried not to smile, working hard to scowl instead. Cutesy nicknames would only make her fall again, and falling for a pig like Cain was a recipe for more heartbreak. She’d already had her fill, thank you very much.

“Ginger’s good.”

“Yes, she is,” he drawled, smirking at her.

Out of nowhere, fury erupted within her.

Unbelievable.

You stood me up for a dance three years ago without so much as an apology, and now you have the gall to flirt with me?
She scoffed, looking down at the emergency brake, tempted to release it and speed away.

“Some things never change.”

“How d’you mean?”

Looking up, she nailed him with a look that conveyed all the hurt still wallowing around in her heart. “Still the shallow flirt, huh?”

Wincing, he lifted his hands from her windowsill and stepped away from the car, having the audacity to look hurt. He swiped at his lower lip—
which only served to make her stare at it and remind her of how it felt moving on hers, damn him!
—with his thumb before putting his hands on his hips.

“Still mad, huh?”

Her lungs tightened, and the tears burning her eyes doubled, but damn if she’d let him see how much his flippant comment hurt. It was the first he’d ever acknowledged standing her up, and apparently there was no apology forthcoming.

Yes!
she wanted to cry.
Yes, I’m still mad. Yes, I’m still hurt. Yes, you broke my heart. And yes, you made me insecure about the way I kissed. And yes, if Woodman hadn’t taken me to the goddamned dance . . . Woodman . . . Woodman.

“Just saw Woodman,” she blurted out, looking up at Cain and blinking back the tears. Woodman was mad at her, and Cain was still a jackass, and all she wanted was to zoom away from him, race into Gran’s old cottage and hurl herself onto her bed for a nice, long cry. But she had too much dignity to run away, so she lifted her chin and opted for polite conversation instead. “Thanks for bringin’ him home.”

Cain shrugged, his teasing expression sobering. “I’d do anythin’ for him.”

“Me too,” she said, the words coming easily.

Their eyes met, and for a moment—just for a split second—she thought she saw more than smirky flippancy there. She saw regret and wonder and longing and so many other soft and wonderful things, she held her breath. His hand moved from his hip, toward her face, and, holding his eyes, she tracked his fingers in her peripheral vision, leaning just slightly toward him so he could touch her face. Her whole body trembled as her eyes fluttered closed, and she remembered how it felt for him to palm her cheek, to kiss her, to—

The squeaking noise of the side-view mirror being adjusted made her eyes whip open in time to see him rake his fingers through his hair and grin at his reflection.

“How do I look?” he asked, winking at her.

I’m officially the most pathetic person on the earth, and I hate myself.

She released her breath in a quiet hiss of disgust.

“Like you’re ready to raise Cain,” she snapped, relieved when anger reared its head again, shoving hurt, and despicable hope, aside. It wasn’t hard to look pissed at him. She felt pissed enough at herself to make it genuine.

He chuckled. “I’ve changed. My troublemakin’ days are behind me, darlin’. I protect and serve now.”

“I’d sooner trust a fox with a chicken.”

“Yup. Still mad as a wet hen,” he said smoothly, grinning at her.

It was a clever retort, and if she wasn’t so hurt and turned-on and angry and confused, she might have giggled and given him credit for it. Instead she took a deep breath and turned away from him. No doubt he was on the way to the distillery to chase some tail, and she had a date with her bed.

But after two such disastrous reunions with two people who’d meant so much to her once upon a time, she could barely keep her tears at bay.

“Welcome home, Cain,” she whispered. Then, before she could embarrass herself, she raised the window and pulled her car forward without looking back.

“You are an idiot,” she mumbled, parking beside Gran’s vintage Ford pickup and slamming her door shut before stomping into the cottage that still smelled comfortingly of Gran.

She was even more of an idiot if she thought she could ignore Cain while he was home. They’d spoken for all of two minutes, but it had proved several devastating truths that Ginger wasn’t anxious to acknowledge:

One, she had never gotten over Cain.

And two, given the chance, he could break her heart into a million jagged splinters all over again.

Walking wearily upstairs to bed, she wiped the wetness from her cheeks and whispered into the darkness, “Be strong, Virginia Laire McHuid.
Don’t you dare
give him that chance.”

~ Woodman ~

He hadn’t seen the accident coming. That was the thing that haunted Woodman the most. One minute he was standing on the flight deck guiding a jet into position. The next, his ankle was being crushed from behind by a forklift. In his nightmares, he could feel the metal ripping his skin and splintering his bone, and he was trapped, and utterly fucking helpless to do anything to save himself.

Twenty seconds.

That’s how long it took for Woodman’s life to change forever.

He’d gone into shock fairly quickly, and he barely remembered the helicopter ride from Barcelona to Morón de la Frontera. By the time he was airlifted to Germany, he was so out of it on painkillers, he didn’t wake up until his leg had already undergone surgery.

He had hated relying on the help of others. He hated that he couldn’t take a piss in the hospital without calling a nurse to help him out of bed. He couldn’t drive. He was in a wheelchair for weeks, and now he was dependent on crutches. It was the helplessness that bothered him the most. Around everyone, that is, but Cain.

Something about Cain made it feel okay—maybe it was that Cain was family, and family is allowed to see you at your worst, at your most vulnerable. Or maybe his brashness—the way he continued to treat Woodman like his injury was temporary and anything was still possible, made him feel like the world hadn’t, actually, ended. But it was even more than that. After the abject horror of what had happened to his leg and foot, the trauma of the surgeries, and the slow but certain realization that his life would never, ever be the same again, he’d felt terrifyingly alone in the world. Until Cain walked into his room at the Landstuhl Medical Center.

The doctors and nurses had been clinically concerned about his treatment, of course. But Cain? The second he walked into Woodman’s room was the second Woodman finally felt comfort. Because despite their emotional estrangement throughout their adolescence, when the shit hit the fan, Cain showed up. And seeing Cain’s face felt like more than coming home. It felt like, well, it felt like undiluted comfort.

Lying in a hospital bed in terrible pain, Woodman had had some time to think about his relationship with his cousin, reframing it and making a conscious decision to be a better custodian of it. It was no wonder he’d often compared their relationship with that of brothers—as the sons of identical twin sisters, Woodman and Cain were, genetically speaking, half brothers. But the cruel reality of that comparison was that Sophie, Woodman’s mother, had married a banker, whose chief pleasure in life, aside from making money, was to please her. Sarah, on the other hand, had fallen for a dark-haired, blue-eyed foreigner who’d gotten her pregnant before they could decide if they even liked each other. Throw in the differences of culture, income, and language, and the marriages produced two very, very different children.

Life wasn’t a challenge for Woodman. He knew he was good-looking, decent grades came easy, and the entire community of Apple Valley seemed to regard him as some godlike golden boy. But Cain? From a young age, Cain had acted out, likely to get attention from his unhappy parents, and had been labeled a troublemaker by the third grade. And like a self-fulfilling prophesy, that’s exactly who Cain became for the good people of Apple Valley: their own little poisonous apple—beautiful on the outside but rotten to the core.

The Dub Twins. One light, one dark. One good, one bad.

Except that the good people of Apple Valley, who clearly loved the traditional fairy-tale roles of prince and villain, didn’t actually know Cain at all outside of the inflated stories of his antics. They didn’t know that there was nothing rotten, nothing poisonous at his core. They didn’t know that he’d jump in front of a train for someone he loved. They didn’t know that the risks he took were just a bid for the attention he’d missed from his folks. They didn’t know that the endless succession of women he bedded was likely an attempt to feel connected to, or loved by, someone. And they definitely didn’t know that the princess of their little kingdom had been in love with him since she was a little girl.

But Woodman knew all these things.

He knew them, and he mulled them over incessantly as he lay on his back for hours and hours on end, bleary from pain meds, unable to process the far-reaching, permanent consequences of his injuries and desperately missing home.

Was Cain the better man?

Woodman’s brain insisted that he wasn’t. He was uncouth, bad mannered, irreverent, impertinent, and irresponsible, with a mouth like a sailor before he’d
become
a sailor, and a dick that had seen so much indiscriminate action, it’s a wonder it still worked. But Woodman’s heart knew the truth: at his core, Cain’s impulsiveness meant that he wouldn’t consider his own safety before preserving that of someone he loved. And at
his
core, Woodman knew that he might make the same decision, but it wouldn’t come from the same visceral, instinctive place from which Cain’s actions were born. There would be a split second of thought, of weighing, of judgment. And it was that split second that gave Woodman his answer to the question. They were both good men, but Cain’s nature—the very nature that led him to make such bad decisions born from emotion instead of reason—also made him the purer hearted of the cousins, the better raw material, however crude in his present form.

But Woodman wasn’t accustomed to taking second place to Cain, so even though he acknowledged these thoughts, he guarded against them, far more comfortable in the traditional roles they’d come to embody throughout their lives: the golden boy and the blue-eyed devil. In fact, the only other person who seemed to recognize Cain’s true worth was the princess. Ginger.

In the rose garden of Woodman’s life, Ginger, of all people, was the unexpected thorn.

Because the golden boy, the fair-haired son, the prince, was supposed to win the princess. Not the villain. Not the devil. The prince, damn it. And yet, no matter how much he tried to be everything she wanted, it was Cain who owned her heart. Woodman was her second choice, though he longed, with every fiber of his being, to be her first.

Ginger had always been a part of his plan—the
best
part of his plan—especially because it was so easy to love her. She was beautiful, strong, and sassy—the perfect lady one minute, an unexpected minx the next. Woodman had adored her forever, and the most painful anguish of his life was that she loved him back, but not in the way he wanted.

He’d been hopeful on the night of her homecoming dance that they were turning a corner. She’d been so hurt by Cain. She was so angry with him. Woodman knew her long-held feelings for Cain were in turmoil, possibly even in jeopardy, and taking advantage of that elemental change, he’d kissed her. And for him, it had been a game changer, a life changer: that she would give him permission to kiss her meant that, whether he was first or second in her heart, he had a chance. And he’d live for that chance until he became her
only
choice.

And all things considered? His odds hadn’t looked so bad before the accident. She wrote to him faithfully—funny, colorful anecdotes from home that kept him connected to Apple Valley and, more importantly, to her. And she always signed her letters
Love, Ginger
. He’d taken leave several times to go home, and though he was always glad to see his parents, his real purpose in visiting was to see her. Over time, she asked about Cain less and less, until she didn’t ask about him at all anymore. Woodman knew how badly Cain had hurt her by kissing her and standing her up for the homecoming dance. Cain had broken her heart, and Woodman had been there to cushion the blow.

Instead of losing intimacy with Ginger during his three years in the military, between letters and visits home, he felt closer to her than ever. And that chance to win her, to be her choice, suddenly seemed stronger than ever. In his mind, he imagined he’d finish his four years and return home, seguing to the active Reserves and getting a job at the local fire department. She’d be finishing college at that point, which would give them just enough time to become reacquainted before he popped the question. And hopefully, by then, her childhood infatuation with Cain would be over, and Woodman would be—finally, finally, finally—Ginger McHuid’s first and forever choice.

It was a good and solid plan . . . until a forklift crushed his foot, changing the course of his entire life.

Now, instead of returning home as a hearty and healthy choice for the rest of her life, he was returning as a twenty-one-year-old retiree, an invalid, a young man with an old man’s gait, who would likely be plagued by pain and physical problems for the rest of his life. If he were a horse, he’d have already been shot.

“Almost home now,” said Cain, who was sitting beside him, driving Woodman home to what felt like an uncertain fate—especially where Ginger was concerned. “You awake?”

He’d been awake for a while, musing about his life, trying to keep his fears at bay. “I’m awake.”

“Well, cheer up, son!” said Cain. “Your momma’s about to fuss all over you!”

Woodman tilted his neck to the side and gave Cain a dry look. “All things equal, I’d just as soon be back in barracks with you.”

Cain matched Woodman’s look, rolling his eyes. “With a bunch of smelly, sweaty squids? Bite your tongue, Woodman.”

“I can’t fuckin’ walk, Cain. No better than a goddamn toddler.”

Without warning, on a dark road about a mile outside of town, Cain pulled the car over abruptly, yanked up the emergency brake, and turned to face him.

“Shut. The Fuck. Up.”

“You don’t get it. You don’t—”

“You’re the best man I know, Josiah.”

Woodman inhaled sharply. Cain was one of the only people in Woodman’s life who used his given name, and when he did—in instances such as this—it lent a raw closeness to the exchange.

No,
he thought.
You
are.

But he squelched the notion as quickly as he always did, turning to look at his cousin, desperately needing the pep talk he was about to get.

“And I do. I
do
fuckin’ get it. Part of your life is over.” Cain snapped his fingers. “In the blink of an eye, it was gone. But Josiah? You are the same man who tore his ACL and was
still
voted co-captain of the goddamn football team! I was never even voted captain of my own jerkin’ off squad.”

“Oh, really?” asked Woodman. “You lost that one?”

Cain’s face shifted from serious to cocky. “Tied it up with Mary-Louise Walker.”

In spite of himself, Woodman chuckled, but his laughter tapered off as he stared out the window at the cheerful lights of his hometown in the valley below.

“I was so close,” he said softly, almost more to himself than to Cain.
I was so close to having her, and now . . .

“What? To havin’ it all?” asked Cain, slapping Woodman on the thigh of his good leg. “Believe me, Josiah. You’re still goin’ to have it all. You’re the golden boy, son. The best man. If there is anyone on the face of the earth whose life I could safely predict would turn out a success, no matter what, it would be yours. So chin up, huh? You’re goin’ home. A whole new life is just beginnin’! And it’s goin’ to be great. I just know it!”

Woodman nodded gratefully at his cousin, and Cain released the emergency brake and pulled back onto the road.

The golden boy with a shattered leg.

The
second-
best man who still longed for the elusive hand of the princess.

The twenty-one-year-old cripple whose life had changed too swiftly to ever feel safe or predictable again.

Woodman’s fingers curled into the seat on either side of his hips as they pulled into town. Whatever life was beginning, its success and greatness depended on one person and one person alone, and Woodman silently prayed that his destiny was woven into the beatings of her heart.

***

He didn’t know that his mother had called Miz Magnolia until Ginger arrived, out of nowhere, standing in the patio doorway.

“Woodman,” she said, her voice warm and lush, as welcome as summer rain and the sweetest music he’d ever heard. “Woodman, it’s so good to . . .”

Her smile was huge, hurting him with longing just as much as it made his veins throb with pleasure. Sadly it only lasted a moment. Her eyes widened as she scanned his face and frowned.

“Where are your meds?”

“Hello to you too, Gin.”

“Hello, Woodman. Where are your meds?”

Just as he’d feared, she saw him as a patient right out of the gate. He concealed his disappointment by rolling his eyes. “Upstairs somewhere.”

Ginger turned to his mother. “Miz Sophie, would you be an angel and bring Josiah his meds?”

In addition to Cain, Ginger also used his given name from time to time, but almost always when she was scolding him, which he absolutely loved.

“You’re not takin’ them like you’re supposed to.”

He was so glad to see her, he grinned at her, shaking his head back and forth.

“Gin, for the love of God, would you just come sit by me and let me kiss you hello? Take off the nursin’ hat for one minute and welcome me home, dang it.”