The Look of Love: A Novel (28 page)

Please take care of yourself,

Josh

When she reads his words, Katie bursts into tears all over again. How can he be so very cold? How can he treat her like a business transaction? They were in such deep love. They planned a life together. And for Josh to just get up one morning and leave, without so much as an explanation or even a good-bye?

Of course, he met a woman. Katie is sure of it. He was so good with her, sexually. He knew how her body worked, and he played it with precision, like an instrument he’d mastered with virtuoso skill. She imagines him touching someone else now and her stomach turns. Of course he’s touching someone else. Josh needs that. Just as she does.

When the phone rings, she almost doesn’t answer it, except it’s her hairstylist friend Mary, who’s about to have her baby. Maybe she needs help. Katie reaches for the phone. “Hi, Mary,” she says, collecting herself.

“You OK?” Mary asks.

“You’re the one I should be concerned about,” Katie says. “Are you in labor?”

“Yes,” Mary says. “At least, I will be soon. I’m at the hospital. They’re inducing.”

“Oh, wow. You must be so excited.”

“I am,” Mary says. “But that’s not why I’m calling. Honey, I . . . I have some news for you.”

Katie’s heart beats faster. It’s about Josh; she can feel it. In a moment, Mary will tell her that she saw him at a restaurant with another woman. Or maybe the other woman came into the salon, and Mary foiled her hair and listened as she talked about Josh, unaware of the connection between Mary and Katie.

She braces herself. “What is it?” she says cautiously.

Mary takes a deep breath. “I saw him, Katie. I saw Josh.”

“You did?” Katie exclaims. “Where?”

“Here, at the hospital.”

“What do you mean, at the hospital?”

“After I filled out paperwork at reception, they had an orderly pick me up in a wheelchair,” Mary continues. “We got on an elevator, headed for the fifth floor, but we stopped on the third to let some other people on, and I saw Josh in the distance. I just caught a glimpse of his face down the hallway. He was sitting in a chair beside the nurses’ station.”

“Are you sure it was him?” Katie gasps. “Maybe it was just someone who looked like him.”

“No,” Mary says. “It was him. He recognized me too. Our eyes met, just before the elevator doors closed. I would’ve stopped to talk to him for you, but I had to get hooked up to this damn Pitocin drip.”

“I—I—” Katie stammers. “I don’t know what to say. Why would he be at the hospital?”

“Maybe he’s visiting someone here.”

“Maybe,” Katie says. “But I’m coming down there. Right now. What floor did you say?”

“Third floor.”

As she races out the door to her car, Katie doesn’t think of anything. Not readying the house for the real estate agent tomorrow. Not locking her front door. Not even her cell phone, which she leaves on the coffee table. All she can think of is Josh, and now that she knows where he is, in this moment, despite the painful circumstances, all she knows is that she must go to him. She must see him.

She parks her car in a physician parking spot on the first floor of the parking garage, knowing that the price of a steep parking ticket will pale in comparison to missing Josh today. What if he already left? What if he’s here to see someone? Another woman? Katie runs to the elevator and jams her finger on the Up button.
Third floor. Third floor. Third floor.
Her heart beats wildly as the elevator jerks upward.

“Can I help you?” a mousy-looking nurse at the desk asks.

“Yes,” Katie says, out of breath. “There was someone here about a half hour ago. A man. His name is Josh Parker. You see, my friend called me from the hospital and she thought she saw him here, right down—”

“And are you a visitor?”

“I’m his wife. He was here?”

The nurse’s eyes dart around her desk nervously. “Ma’am, I’ve been told that—”

“My God,” Katie cries. “Josh is a patient?” She scours the whiteboard behind the nurse’s desk with frantic eyes until they lock onto “Parker/Room #319.” She takes a step back. “What floor is this?”

“Third,” the nurse says.

“No, no, I mean, what floor is this? Oncology? What?”

“This is the rehabilitation wing.”

“Rehabilitation?”

“Yes, it’s where patients who have undergone traumatic brain injury or paralysis are taken for recovery.”

“Paralysis?” Katie looks right, then left, then runs down the hallway until she sees a sign that reads “319.” She doesn’t knock, nor does she turn around when she hears the nurse calling out behind her. “Miss, you can’t go in there. It’s against our policy.”

Katie opens the door and pulls back the curtain. And there is Josh. Her Josh. There is stubble on his chin, and his face is much thinner now. But his green eyes, those eyes she loves, are just as she remembers. And when they meet hers, it touches her in a place deep inside. Her legs feel weak as she rushes to the bed where Josh is lying. She doesn’t deny her urge to run to him, to wrap her arms around his shoulders and kiss him with the love she still feels, that she will always feel.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she says. She is both exhilarated and angry. “Why did you go dark? Why?”

“Sir, is everything all right?” Katie turns to the door. It’s the mousy-looking nurse from the desk. “If you’d like, we can—”

“It’s fine,” Josh says.

The nurse stares at Katie for a long moment, then nods and closes the door.

When they are alone again, Josh looks out the window. Katie watches as the light hits his eyes, which are moist with fresh tears.

“Josh, please,” she cries. “Talk to me. What happened? Please . . .”

He’s silent for a long moment; then he turns to face her. “I was going out to get you coffee, but also to meet with a landscape architect. I wanted to surprise you with those raised vegetable beds you’re always talking about.”

She nods. “The blonde,” she says to herself.

“I was leaving the café, walking past a construction site, where they’re retrofitting an old building.” He swallows hard. “I didn’t see the scaffolding fall until it was too late.” Tears spill from his lids. “Katie, it was too late. It pinned my legs. I was out for twenty-four hours, and when I woke up, they told me.” He looks out the window again.

“Oh, Josh,” Katie says through tears. “They told you what?”

He swallows hard. “I’m paralyzed, Katie. From the waist down. I can’t walk. I can’t . . .”

She buries her face in his chest. She feels his arms touch her back lightly, and her neck erupts in goose bumps. “Why didn’t you call me?” she cries. “Why didn’t you tell me? I thought you’d left me for another woman. I thought you hated me.”

He frowns. “I wanted you to hate me. I wanted you to hate me enough to move on, to find someone who could love you the way I can’t.”

She shakes her head and wipes the tears from her cheeks. “Did the accident paralyze your heart? Did it take away your mind?”

Josh looks away, but Katie presses on. “Did it? Did it?”

“No,” he says, “but, Katie, I can’t . . . God, I’ll never be able to make love to you again. I’ll never be able to—”

“And you thought that I would walk away from you because of that?” She shakes her head.

“That’s just it,” he says. “I knew you wouldn’t. But how could I enslave you to a life of platonic love? A life where I could not make you scream with pleasure the way you deserve? I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bear it.”

Katie walks to the window and stands in silence as the tears stream down her cheeks. “No,” she finally says, turning around. “No, you’re wrong, Josh Parker. You’re so damn wrong.”

She climbs onto the bed and straddles his limp body. “Yes, we had it good in that department. Oh, honey, we had it so good. But here’s what you’re forgetting.” She looks deep into his eyes. She wants to be sure he sees her, feels her, hears everything she has to say. “Our love is deeper than physical. Don’t you see that? Don’t you know that? You must know that.”

A tear streams down his handsome face, and she flicks it away with her finger, then reaches for his hands. Weaving her fingers into his, she grins mischievously. “Your hands still work, don’t they?”

He nods, looking up at her through his tears. “You’d really want to be with me for the rest of my life? You really think you could be truly happy?”

“Baby,” Katie says, leaning closer to him, “I wouldn’t be happy with anyone
but
you.” She kisses his lips and then nestles beside him in the bed. “Tell me you’re not giving up on our love.”

He turns to face her again. “Oh, Katie,” he cries. “Forgive me. I was just so afraid.”

“You don’t have to be anymore,” she says, pressing her nose against his. “I’m here. I’m never going. I’ll always love you. Even if your face was maimed, or if you developed a case of late-in-life Tourette’s and cursed at me every five minutes.” She shakes her head and points to his chest. “It’s what’s in here that I love. It’s you.” She wipes a tear from her eye. “Always.”

“Always,” Josh says, pressing his cheek against her shoulder. “Always.”

I yawn and drop my gaze to the next line. Just one more to go and then this strange journey is complete. Well,
complete
is hardly the word. My own story has no ending. I think of Cam, and my heart flutters. I collect myself quickly. He isn’t the one. If he were, it would have worked out. If he were, he would be here.

I think of Lo instead and smile to myself, before writing “Ludus” on the line above her name. Oh, the game of love. If anyone can play it and keep the upper hand, it is Lo. But will she ever be happy? I think about her and Grant now. Though I saw the look of hesitation in her eyes earlier at the flower shop, they are supposed to be on a plane bound for Paris now. Or are they? I turn to the page and begin writing.

220 Boat Street #2

Lo opens her eyes before sunrise and reaches for her phone, as she always does when she wakes up. She scrolls through the list of texts that have popped in overnight and in the wee hours of the morning from the various men in her life. Conor, the surgeon. Jake, the sommelier. Ryan, the Australian with green eyes and stubble on his chin. They know she’s off the market, and yet they continue to reach out.

And then there’s Grant. They’re supposed to fly out this morning for Paris. First class and a pair of champagne flutes.

She sits up in bed and peers out the porthole window in her bedroom. The lake is gray and choppy, and she can feel her houseboat swaying ever so slightly in the wind. Didn’t she hear something on TV last night about the possibility of a Christmas Day windstorm? She knows she should get up and shower and pack for Paris. Grant will be here to pick her up soon. But instead, she settles back in bed and lets her head sink deeper into her pillow. She thinks about her life, and men. And she realizes there has never not been a man in her life. She has always had someone. But why? What’s wrong with being alone?

Lo puts on her robe and climbs down the ladder to her living room. She knows the answer, but she’s afraid to admit it. So she makes a cup of coffee instead and sinks into her couch, where she scrolls through her texts. Conor wants to see her tomorrow night. Jake can’t stop thinking about her, still, even after months since they dated. And Grant says he’ll be over in two hours to pick her up. Her heart lurches in her chest.

She sets her coffee cup down and picks up her phone. There’s momentum building inside her, and her heart beats faster as she dials Grant’s number. He’s broken her heart. He’s broken her. For the first time ever, she was willing to give herself to a man completely—body, mind, soul. But, most telling, heart. And he waffled. He was dishonest about his intentions, about his situation at home. He carried on with Lo and kept playing house with someone else, with no real intention of making any changes. Even in the weeks following Katie’s wedding, when his wife combed through phone records and exposed her husband’s affair with Lo, Grant still did not leave, or formulate any plan or exit strategy. Instead he smoothed things over at home and begged Lo for more time.

But she doesn’t want to give him any more time. He’s taken so much already and made promises she knows he won’t keep. And now Lo has an angry woman to deal with. She received a nasty e-mail just this morning from Grant’s wife, Jennifer. The things she wrote hurt, yes, but they’re true. And Lo might have written the same words had she been in Jennifer’s shoes.