Both Sides Now Page 4

  “What’s got you smiling, gorgeous?”

  I glanced away from the deep turquoise expanse of water, the last long stretch of bridge that signaled we were getting near Marathon. Home. Thank God. Even though we only tended to stay away for two, maybe three, days at a time, it was still too long.

  And to think—once upon a time, I’d wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of this subtropical burg and the craziness it represented. Now I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. With anyone else.

  “Oh, nothing much. We’ve just got a rookie, and he and I had…” What to call it? “An encounter. Poor guy felt like he had to apologize.”

  “Must’ve been a hell of an encounter.”

  “Only to him.”

  And ignored the little inside voice that was whispering “Liar.” I’d worried about Nick last night. Almost as much as I’d worried about Ethan. To say that it caught me by surprise—well, that would be understating it a bit.

  I leaned into Ethan’s touch as he reached beneath my braid to stroke my neck. “Everyone had to be a rookie at some point, sweetheart. Cut the poor son of a bitch some slack.”

  “I did. Like I said, not a big deal. Certainly not to me.”

  “Libby, come on. This is me you’re talking to.” His long fingers massaged gently—he didn’t have the strength for more than gentle, but it felt good, nevertheless, loosening muscles that were perpetually frozen. I sighed and leaned farther back into the seat. Into his touch.

  “Did you…?” His fingers stilled on my neck as his voice trailed off. Not a common occurrence for Ethan who was one of the most verbally decisive people I’d ever met. Pissed me off monumentally when we first met. Almost as much as it turned me on.

  “What?”

  His voice remained soft, his trace accent deepening. “Did you and this new guy get into it because of what happened with us? Because of me?”

  “Oh no, Ethan, no.” I reached back and grabbed his hand in mine, bringing it around and pressing a kiss to the thin fragile skin. “No, mi vida, I promise that wasn’t it at all.”

  “You were pretty upset when you left.”

  “You noticed.” Oh God. I hated that. I tried so hard not to let him see, and he’d already seemed so out of it.

  “Some. I know I hurt you.”

  Afraid of hurting him, I tightened the hand not holding his around the steering wheel, blinking away the suddenly blurry vista in front of me. “Ethan…”

  “I know you’re not pissed about that, Libby. We both know it wasn’t necessarily me, who did that. But I hurt you. Physically, emotionally…and if this guy—”

  “Nick,” I filled in.

  “If this Nick had the bad luck to catch you after that…”

  I shook my head, pressing another kiss against his hand before lowering it to rest on my thigh. “It was his first day, Ethan, and he’s having a hard time dealing. He himself push worry for his wife to the back burner for a couple of hours and freaked. I tried to tell him it was okay, but like I said…rookie, with all the issues and emotions that come with.”

  “Oh, Jesus, guilt complex.”

  “Big time—and he’s Cuban.”

  “Oh, Jesus, Cuban guilt complex.”

  “He seems like a smart guy in spite of that,” I joked, trying to lighten the mood. Ethan did not need to be stressing over this.

  “Smart, huh? I’ll bet he’s good-looking too.”

  God, I loved this man. “I guess. Nan and Marilyn referred to him as fresh meat.”

  “Did they, now?”

  “They did.”

  “Beyond that, what’s Nan think of him?”

  My tales of the waiting room brigade had helped us pass more than a few hours in the hospital. I’d tell Ethan about our dinners and lunches, Nan and Marilyn’s running bets—describe the occasional movie we managed to take in. When I didn’t have a choice, because I’d have to be away for a few hours, I’d have to mention the funerals, even though we never spoke of those in anything more than passing. But being Ethan, he probably knew more than I could or would tell him. How I hated going to them, hated anything that took me away from him, especially the funerals, but I had to go. Had to offer support to the people who helped and supported me.

  I had learned, and it had been through painfully hard experience, that you had to form some sort of camaraderie or run the risk of going out of your mind. I’d tried the independent, don’t-need-anyone-to-lean-on route, and as Nan had pointed out, I had nearly driven myself to a nervous breakdown.

  Maybe that’s what I was trying to save Nick from. If he was anything like me, he was going to need saving from himself more than anything else.

  Okay, not if he was like me. Again, I recalled that lost expression I’d seen in his dark eyes—the haunted look I recognized so readily because I’d faced it all too often in my own mirror.

  “I think she likes him.”

  “Good. Maybe you’ll get to be friends, gorgeous. That’d be nice for you.”

  Ethan’s voice was sleepy; the words slurred. I resisted the temptation to remind him that we were only a few miles from home—that even now I could see the palm trees and sandy borders of the island drawing closer. Any sleep he could get was sleep he needed. Even if it was only a few minutes’ worth, it would help give him that little bit more strength he needed to keep fighting. To get better. So all I said was, “Yeah, I guess it would.”

  Nick

  September 12

  Carefully, I eased the door to her room open, then stood there, staring.

  “Kath, what the hell are you doing?”

  “What does it look like I’m doing, Nicky?”

  “But…” She’d felt like shit after her treatment yesterday. She was getting another one as we spoke, the I.V. taped to her hand. Yet—

  “I can’t believe you’re working. Now?”

  In a reassuringly familiar habit, she reached up and twisted a strand of hair around her finger as she continued staring at her laptop’s screen. “Come on, Nick. Dr. Aguirre said the best therapy would be for me to keep life as normal as possible.”

  “Within reason, babe.” And the first round of treatments a couple weeks ago had left her so miserable, so completely drained, even though she toughed it out and tried to play it cool. I didn’t want her playing it cool. I was all for having her taking it as easy as possible. I even beat her to packing my bag before this trip—didn’t want her doing so much as that little bit. She’d bitched—told me I was being silly. Didn’t much care. She wasn’t infallible, for God’s sake.

  “I’m in bed,” she countered. “With my laptop. I’m not even on the phone or texting, for Christ’s sake. And I need to get this proposal done. Events don’t plan themselves, you know.”

  “You have assistants, Kath. As in, they’re supposed to assist.”

  “And they will. As soon as I give them directions as to how I expect things to be done.”

  I leaned a hip against the mattress, curling my fingers into the blanket, then uncurling them, one by one, forcing myself to keep them flat, trying for relaxed. Details were her forte—even more so than mine. She’d notice if I was too tense. “How long have they worked with you?”

  She finally looked up, but not at me—more off into the distance as she thought. “Karin’s been with me for five years, Jorge for three.” She returned her attention to the screen.

  “And you don’t think they know enough of what you expect by now that they couldn’t handle this on their own?”

  “If it was something minor, yes, but this is slated to be one of the biggest charity events of the Palm Beach social season. If we get it right, the foundation this benefits could earn upward of half a million dollars from this one party. Could you even imagine? The kind of events we’d get hired to plan in the wake of something like that?”

  Okay, I got that it was important and a lot of professional cred was on the line, but this was her health we were talking about here. The stress of planning a major l
eague event was exhausting on a good day. “What about one of the other senior planners? Can’t they help out, work with Karin and Jorge on your behalf?”

  “It was given to me.”

  “That was before you got—” I bit the word off before it could escape.

  “Being sick shouldn’t matter.” She glanced up from the screen again, red splotches marring her otherwise pale face. “If you had a top prospect to check out, would you trust it to one of the more junior guys?”

  “Yes.” Because I’d done just that this week, passing a trip on to one of the more junior guys in the organization because Kath needed me here.

  A short, hard sound that was somewhere between a snort and a laugh escaped her as she shook her head. “No you wouldn’t. I know you and—”

  All of a sudden, the bed was drenched as Kath lurched forward, streams of vomit covering the blankets and her computer, hot drops splattering across my arm and the front of my shirt.

  “Oh shit!” I scrambled for the call button, jabbing at it as I tried to reach for Kath with my other hand, trying to support her head as she kept choking and spluttering. But as I leaned in, I stepped in some vomit and slipped, my hand landing square on her chest. A split second later, I staggered back, her scream reverberating in my ears.

  “Don’t touch me!”

  Vaguely I registered a crash, then a pair of nurses were there, one of them supporting Kath, easing her up while the other demanded, “What’s going on?”

  I stared helplessly at Kath, hunched, arms crossed over her chest, still heaving but at least not throwing up anymore, thank God. I was a different story, fighting to maintain control while sucking down air and trying not to choke at the sour acid smell. My eyes watered as I watched her swaying back and forth, the ends of her hair wet and sticking to her cheeks.

  “She got sick.”

  I swallowed even harder, bitter bile flooding my mouth as I noticed how much hair was left behind on the pillow, the long, dark red strands swirling against the white pillowcase, like some fucked up modern art painting.

  Her head lifted, dark blue eyes wild and slightly unfocused. “Because you made me!” She shook her head again, then picked up the puke-spattered computer and threw it at me. Instinctively, I reached out to try to save it, but my hands were wet, the machine was wet, my reflexes were fucked—it slid right through my grasp and landed on the floor by my feet where it split nearly in half, spluttering and hissing. “You wouldn’t leave me alone. All that work ruined because of you, Nick. Get out! Get out! Just leave me alone. Leave me alone…”

  Oh God… she was crying. I hadn’t seen her cry since… I couldn’t remember when. She hadn’t cried when I asked her to marry me or at our wedding. Not when she got the diagnosis, or when they’d told her how bad it was, or what her options were, or what it might mean for our future. She hadn’t cried before or after the surgery.

  The last time I think I saw Kath cry—

  Shit, I couldn’t remember.

  I extended a hand, reaching for her. “Kath—”

  “Go away!”

  “Mr. Azarias, you’d better leave. We’ve got to get her calmed down and cleaned up and…” The nurse’s touch was gentle as she turned me away, her voice just as gentle. “I think it might go easier if you’re not here. Sometimes it’s like that. It’s not you—it’s the meds. They provoke different reactions in different people. We’ll page Dr. Aguirre and let him know.”

  She kept talking, her voice soft, the words soothing and calming, and before I knew it, we were in the hallway. Dazed, I looked around the brightly lit corridor, at the pale green walls and white tile floors—at the people walking back and forth. Vaguely, I registered the sounds of conversation, and the crackle from speakers as a disembodied voice made an announcement calling for a doctor. I was standing there with the distinct sensation of having been full-body checked into the ice; the kind of thing where one second you were staring up at the overhead lights, trainers and teammates hovering over you—next thing you knew, you were sitting on the bench with no clue how you’d gotten there. And wanting nothing more than to go back into the game—no matter how much you hurt, because you had to help the team. Couldn’t let them down.

  I had to help Kath. Had to be with her, didn’t I? But as I reached for the door handle, the nurse’s hand grasped my wrist, her hold soft, but as effective as a pair of handcuffs.

  “No.”

  “But…” I stared from her to the door and back, focusing on the name tag pinned to her pale blue scrub jacket. “Cory… I need—”

  “No you don’t, Nick.” That use of my first name made me stop cold. Made me drop my hand to my side as she patted my arm, knowing she’d won this round.

  “It’s not you, honey,” she repeated. “A lot of the patients…they feel like they’ve got to keep control of something. And we’ve got to do our best to let them have that—or at the very least, the illusion.”

  My mouth opened and closed, like I wanted to say something—to ask, what about the rest of us? The ones who weren’t patients? What were we supposed to do?

  Far as I could tell, we were supposed to nod and mumble some sort of inanity and turn and walk away because it was for the best. What I was supposed to do after that, I had no idea.

  What was I supposed to do now?

  Jesus, but I hated this feeling. The aimlessness…the inescapable sensation of being lost. Not in some deep, metaphorical sort of way, just…lost. In the traditional geographical way. Because I was so fucking angry—at myself, at what had happened, and yeah, even at Kath—that I hadn’t paid a damn bit of attention to which way I turned out of the parking garage. Hadn’t paid attention to the streets or what direction I was going until I found myself across the bay, with downtown looming ahead.

  What the hell. I just went with the flow of traffic, chuckling as I picked one car, then another to follow; shifting lanes at the last second if another car caught my eye. Neglecting to signal and laughing out loud as horns blared.

  Finally, tiring of playing follow the leader, I eased off on the next exit ramp, blinking as I finally began registering my surroundings. Followed by an eerie sense of recognition. For once I was grateful that traffic was heavy, so I was able to just slowly cruise, taking in the gaudy billboards, the advertisements splashed across the backs of the bus stop benches, the storefronts with small knots of people gathered around open, bar-style windows. Didn’t have to look any closer to know they were likely drinking small cups of that hot, caffeine jolt known as Cuban coffee and chasing it down with glasses of ice water. Maybe ordering a media noche or sandwich cubano to go.

  I rolled down my windows and just took it all in. The shouted Spanish, the salsa competing with the reggaetón from other passing cars—the windows displaying big gaudy-ass quinceañera dresses next to mercados that probably had everything from frozen croquetas to thick candles in glass pillars with some saint printed on the side to Compay Segundo CDs.

  Go figure. Totally lost, and I had up and found myself in Little Havana.

  All of a sudden, I was overwhelmed by this urge to get out of the car and out of an environment that seemed every bit as sterile as that green hospital corridor. I wanted to breathe real air and hear the sounds and feel the September sun soak into my skin and make me sweat. I wanted to feel it all. Spotting a space along the street, I pulled in and parked.

  I walked along the brick paved sidewalks, pausing to look in the occasional window and read the Spanish-language flyers taped to many of them advertising some festival or new restaurant, until shouts, followed by an unmistakable clicking and rattling sound, drew me toward a corner park. The closer I got, however, the more the smells overrode the sounds, slamming me right in the gut with visceral recognition. As I found myself enveloped in the rich aroma of fresh Cuban coffee combined with the deep, smoky scent of a good cigar I was once again five years old, sitting on my father’s lap as he played dominoes with his brothers and cousins, just passing the time on a Sunday aft
ernoon.

  “Makes you wish you were a kid again, doesn’t it?”

  Looking over my shoulder, I saw a guy, probably a good ten years older than me, sitting on a bench and watching the action. For a second I was pissed at having had the memory yanked away before I was ready to let it go, but another deep breath, another glance back into the park, and it was back—that feeling of…I don’t know. Something reassuring, maybe? So I was able to look back over my shoulder with a half smile and a nod.

  “Yeah, actually.”

  “In there it’s simpler.” He nodded toward the tables filled with old men in snowy white undershirts and pastel-hued guayaberas, shuffling the tiled domino pieces while they chewed on cigars, occasionally pulling them from their mouths and using them to emphasize whatever point they were arguing. Loudly.

  God, it was so…home.

  “It’s all so uncomplicated,” he continued in a slightly accented voice. “Even if the circumstances that brought them here are beyond complicated.” Then he shook his head and laughed. “Perdoname. I’m waxing poetic again. Must be the heat.”

  “No, it’s okay, really. Kind of feeling that waxing poetic thing myself.”

  Standing, he leaned forward, extending his hand. “You’re very kind, Mr.—?”

  “Nick. Nick Azarias.” I shook his hand.

  “Mucho gusto, Nick. I’m Tico Martinez.” He nodded at the bench. “You look hot. Sit for a moment?”

  Oh yeah it was hot­—in the way that only South Florida in the middle of September could be—shirt sticking to my back, head feeling like it was on fire. Sitting, especially on a tree-shaded bench, sounded damned good. While I settled onto the bench, still bemused at having found myself in what seemed like a bizarre parallel universe, Tico walked a few feet to one of the open-windowed storefronts, returning with a pair of Cokes, straws sticking out of the open cans.

  “The women in there, they all think we’re still children finding joy in sucking the carbonation through the straws. I let them believe it—they pretend not to see me throw the straws away.” Which he did, while past his shoulder I saw a scary viejita briefly scowl at his back before turning away to deal with another customer.