Coming in from the Cold (13 page)

Unfortunately, he overcorrected. And now, even bearing down like a tank at the next turn, he swung it wide. That’s how things always unraveled—one misaligned turn led to an even bigger one. Each mistake raised the stakes for the next one, leading to even bigger corrections.

Just like real life.

He was about four feet further to skiers’ left than he’d planned to be when the second jump came into view. And just like J.P. had said, it was chewed all to hell. But it was far too late to change course. All he could do was watch the lip come for him, the ice yanking his skis apart as he launched.

Flung clumsily into the air, his weight too far back on his hips, Dane windmilled his arms to try for a better position. But the universe wasn’t having it. He landed one ski perfectly. And the other one caught a sickening edge as it came down off-kilter, snapping the ski from the binding at the first pressure he put on it.

And then came the inevitable terror of flying down the hill in little more than a body stocking, nothing but goggles and a helmet to protect himself. He edged his remaining ski as best he could, dumping maybe twenty miles per hour before it, too, gave out under pressure. His body flew on past, flinging Dane chest first into the netting.

It might have been okay, if he’d landed facing the sky. But the full two hundred pounds of him landed on his right knee. There was no telltale pop of ligaments separating. Only a sudden pain, and then a strange snowy numbness in his leg.

The first person to reach him was a gate judge. “
Va tutto bene
?” the man asked.
Are you all right?

Hell no. He was not.

* * *

He must have blacked out, because the next thing he noticed was a man shining a light in his eyes while yammering away in Italian. He was strapped down to something. The sled? He raised his head. He was on a stretcher at the bottom of the hill. There seemed to be a hundred people standing around.

Must be bad. “Coach?”

“Kid,” it was Coach’s voice. “You got your bell rung.”

Dane stared up at Coach, but unfortunately there were two of him. “That all?”

“Not sure,” Coach hedged. “You told them the pain in your right leg was a nine.”

Christ.

“Danger, dude. I’m so sorry.” It was a new voice.

Dane looked up to find a blurry version of J.P. standing over him. “The fuck you are,” Dane muttered. “This works in your favor.”

“
Jesus
, dude. That’s harsh.” Both J.P.s were shaking their heads. “Hang in there.”

There was another burst of Italian chatter and Dane felt himself lifted. His body was jostled in the air. A shot of fire ripped down his leg. Dane gasped and closed his eyes.

Willow’s phone buzzed while she was at work. Callie’s text read:
Did you read the sports page today?

Willow, who never read the sports page, replied:
Why
?

Callie’s answer was:
Read it. And then call me
.

The headline made Willow gasp. “Olympian Danger Hollister’s Season Ends Early With Broken Knee In Italy.”

She dialed Callie at home. “It’s going to sound vain, but I feel responsible,” she said.

“Willow, it can only be your fault if you flew to Italy and pushed him off the hill. Which would not have been a bad plan.”

“You always snap me out of it, Callie.” Still, his brother died, and now his leg was broken. And she’d told him she was pregnant, all in the same week.

“Well, guess who is flying in for surgery tonight? They’re putting two screws into his tibia. The way the entire ortho unit is running around, you’d think the queen was coming to dine.”

“No way! Do you think you’ll be assigned to him?” Callie worked as an inpatient hospitalist at a hospital across the river in New Hampshire.

“I hope not. In fact, no way. If Asshole Baby Daddy’s file falls in my hands I’ll swap him for another patient.”

Willow laughed. “That’s very loyal of you. But you don’t have to do that.”

“Seriously. It would be just too tempting to forget to order his pain meds.”

“You always make me smile.”

* * *

A day later Willow got one more text:
Asshole assigned to my asshole ex
.

To which she replied:
How fitting
.

Willow did her best not to think about Dane after that. What she really needed to do was distance herself from him and figure out her own life. Telling him had been a real error. She couldn’t stop hearing him say,
you really are a fuckup.
And feeling like one was not a good frame of mind, not for someone who needed to make a big decision.

So Willow went to yoga class, and in Child’s Pose tried to open her heart to the possibilities. She’d begun reading adoption websites in her spare time. There were many families standing ready to adopt. Willow knew this. But she had grown up knowing that her parents didn’t love her enough to keep her, and she had vowed many times over never to do that to a child.

And now here she was, considering that very thing.

Willow put her forehead on the yoga mat and tried to center her flailing soul. The decision would not be rushed.

* * *

But even breathing exercises could not prepare her for the shock of seeing a certain green Jeep climb her driveway two days later. At the kitchen window, she froze as the driver’s side door opened. Coach stepped out, and she heaved a sigh of relief. But of course it was Coach. Men with broken legs did not drive Jeeps.

Willow had begun writing out her shopping list when she heard raised voices.

“I can’t stay here.”

Willow’s neck prickled with recognition. She tiptoed to the kitchen window.

“Get out of the fucking Jeep, Dane!” Coach had opened the tailgate and was addressing someone in the back. “I’m not carrying you up your flight of stairs on Main Street just because you’re a stubborn son of a bitch.”

Whatever Dane said next, Willow didn’t hear it. But Coach leaned a set of crutches against the tailgate and then stormed off toward the apartment. And then absolutely nothing at all happened for a few minutes. When Dane’s coach reappeared, Willow made herself back away from the window. She stared, sightlessly, at her shopping list until low voices receded slowly past her door. Then she hopped back over to the window for one glimpse of Dane leaning heavily on his coach, hopping slowly along on one foot toward the apartment. His head was down, his shoulders bent.

He looked beaten.

Two more days passed before Willow saw either Dane or Coach. She worked extra hours at the insurance agency, and she met Callie for yoga. The pregnancy began to announce itself in a few subtle ways. She was suddenly exhausted all the time, falling into bed at nine o’clock and sleeping like the dead.

Then one morning, as Willow was just about to climb into her truck to go to work, Coach had come outside to speak to her.

“Morning,” she said, her keys in her hand.

“Good morning,” he echoed, an apologetic look on his face. “I was hoping I could ask you a little favor.”

“Sure,” she said, shifting from foot to foot. “I should have already asked if you two had everything you need.”

“I’ve got him on the pull-out sofa,” Coach said. “It’s fine. But today I’m supposed to drive up to the Burke Mountain School for a meeting. Would you mind just putting your head in this afternoon, asking him if he needs anything? I never did get around to getting a landline put in,” he said. “But I think I should.”

Willow swallowed. “Sure. I can do that.”

“He looks a little out of it this morning. I just worry that he’ll fall or something. Shit. Don’t tell him I said that.”

“Um, okay,” Willow had agreed. “If you need me to.”

“I’d feel better if somebody checked on him. And I’m sure he’ll be happy to see a face that isn’t mine.”

Don’t bet on it,
Willow thought. At least it settled one question she’d had on her mind—Coach clearly had no clue about her pregnancy and Dane’s harsh opinion of it. “It would be my pleasure,” she lied.

* * *

A couple of hours later, Willow found herself tapping lightly on the apartment’s door. When nobody answered, she knocked again.

She heard only silence from inside. Given their recent fiery conversation, she knew full well that he wouldn’t want anything to do with her. But what if he
had
fallen down?

Willow turned the knob and pushed the door open. She was startled to see Dane’s eyes trained on her from where he lay on the pull-out couch. His expression was unreadable. She stepped all the way in and closed the door behind her. “Hi,” she said with caution. The way he stared at her was unnerving. “Coach asked me to make sure you have everything you need.”

He closed his eyes for a second, and then opened them. Today they were the color of a stormy sea. “You’re not real,” he said, his voice hoarse.

The hair stood up on the back of Willow’s neck. “Sorry?”

He swallowed thickly. “You’re not here,” he said.

“Dane?” she took a couple of steps closer. His lips looked unnaturally dry and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. Tentatively, she reached down and put her hand on his brow. “Oh, my God.” He was burning up.

His big arm came up off the bed then, clamping down on her hand, pinning her hand to his head. “Not supposed to do this,” he said.

“Do what?” she whispered, her mind reeling. She had to call someone. His fever must be off the charts.

“Touch her,” he said. “Not allowed.” He folded his big hand over hers and held on.

“Dane,” she whispered, her heart racing. Willow slipped her hand out from under his. “I have to make a phone call,” she said.

But Dane wasn’t having it. With surprising speed, he grabbed her other hand instead. “No.” His fingers around hers were hot and dry. His blue eyes stared up at her, vulnerable.

“Dane,” she said firmly. “Let me make the call, and I’ll come back.”

In answer, he only held on tighter. She could probably just wrench her hand away, but she was afraid of his reaction. If he got upset and began flailing around, what would happen? Would a feverish person be mindful of his own broken knee?

She would try reverse psychology. Willow sat on the edge of the bed and put her free hand onto his, which gripped her. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He squeezed her hands as his eyes fluttered closed. Willow waited a minute or so, wondering how she’d gotten herself involved. She would call Coach first. If he didn’t answer, she’d call Callie. Dane’s eyes didn’t open again, so Willow counted to ten and then tried to slip her hands out of his.

“No,” he said, holding on, his eyes still shut.

Willow sighed. She looked down at his big hand wrapped around hers. In her dreams, he came to her, these hands reaching out to hold her, to apologize. But the only version of Dane who wanted her nearby was the one rendered temporarily insane by fever. “Dane,” she tried. “I thought you weren’t supposed to touch me.”

His eyes flew open and then fluttered closed again. “Not real,” he said with a sigh. “S’okay.”

“Good to know.” Willow listened to the old clock on the wall tick and wondered what she should do.

“Can’t have you,” he whispered. His face creased with pain. “Not ever.”

Her neck prickled again. “Why?” she whispered. Or maybe she just thought the word. And maybe he didn’t even know what he was saying.

Why did everything have to be such a tangled mess?

Willow watched his face. His jaw relaxed, his forehead became smooth. With his face peaceful, he reminded her of a Renaissance painting—all masculine lines and draped fabric. His chest rose and fell under the sheet. After a few more minutes, his grasp on her hand went slack. She slipped away, tiptoed for the door and ran back to her house.

* * *

Coach did not answer his phone, which was hardly surprising. She had only a vague idea of where Burke was, but she knew it was in northern Vermont, where the mobile phone coverage was even spottier than it was here.

Tracking Callie down was something that often took time. So Willow called the main hospital number and asked them to page her. “Is this an emergency?” the receptionist asked.

“As a matter of fact, it is.”

Willow’s phone rang a few minutes later. “What’s the matter?” Callie asked, breathless. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Willow said. “But Dane has a high fever.”

“How high?”

“No idea,” Willow sighed. “But Coach asked me to check on him, and his forehead is like a radiator. Also, he says I’m not real.”

“Crap,” Callie said. “Postsurgical infections can be nasty. I don’t suppose you looked at the incision?”

“No,” Willow said. “I called you instead.”

There was a silence while her friend thought it through. “Of course you can’t move him. He can’t crutch out to the car like that, if he’s insensible and thinks you’re his dead aunt Zelda.”

“Trust me, he’s not getting up to go anywhere.”

“I think you have to call 9-1-1, Willow. If he has a staph infection, it could kill him. If your gut says his fever is high…”

“It is. I always thought ‘burning up with fever’ was a cliché. I don’t anymore.”

“Okay. Then put him on a bus and send him our way.”

* * *

Willow called 9-1-1 and asked them to send an ambulance. Then she left a message for Coach. Finally, she carried her cordless phone back to the apartment, having no idea whether or not it would work back there. When she opened the door, Dane’s eyes were still closed, but he was trembling.

She went into the little bathroom and wet the hand towel with cold water. After wringing it out, she placed it over his forehead.

“Christ,” he said suddenly.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

His hands were shaking with fever, and it frightened her. She picked both of them up just to make it stop. Willow held his hands in her lap and watched the clock.

It took fifteen minutes until she heard tires in the driveway, and Willow reminded herself never to have a heart attack in rural Vermont. She ran to the door, waving to the two EMTs who would otherwise have knocked on her kitchen door.