Worth the Risk

"Can I use your bathroom?" I asked.

"Of course. It's the first door on the left down the hall."

I went into the bathroom and flipped on the light, closing the door behind me. When I examined my reflection in the mirror, I couldn't help but cringe. My eyes were still flat, almost lifeless, and my hair was a mess. My mouth tasted horrible.

I relieved myself and then washed my hands. Before I went back to the kitchen, I took a couple of steadying breaths, wishing I could stay in the bathroom until Mr. Emerson left for work, but I knew that wasn't an option.

A fluffy cheese omelet waited for me on a plate in the kitchen. Mr. Emerson had made himself one as well, and while he drank a cup of coffee, he'd poured a glass of orange juice for me. "Please, sit," he said, gesturing to the chair across from him.

I sank into the chair, placing a napkin in my lap. "Thank you," I said, staring down at the plate. "This looks wonderful."

As Mr. Emerson watched me from the other end of the table, I picked up my fork and took a bite. "Excellent," I told him, and he smiled.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Kind of fuzzy, like I could go back to sleep."

"That's to be expected." He took a sip of coffee.

I started to take another bite of food, but then hesitated. "Mr. Emerson, why didn't you just get my dad when you found me in my yard last night?"

Mr. Emerson's gaze locked with mine. "You've been through enough, Annie, and so have your parents. Like you said, you were having a rough night, and there was no need for me to make it worse."

I felt unshed tears burning my eyes. "I am so sorry about this. I promise I won't be a problem for you anymore."

He put down his fork and leaned toward me. "Please, call me Craig. And Annie, you're not a problem; you haven't imposed on me in any way. Remember what I said before, about my door being open? I meant that."

I only nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Craig seemed to understand, and we finished our meal in silence. When I stood to clear the table, he got up from his chair and waved me off. "I can take care of this," he said. "I just put everything in the dishwasher."

I looked down at my old sneakers, aware of how close he was to me. "I'm going to head home so you can finish getting ready for work," I told him. "Thank you again. For everything."

In my peripheral vision, I saw him reach for me, and I didn't shy away like I would have before. His hand rested on my shoulder. "It's going to be okay, Annie." I nodded again, and he walked me to the front door. "Try to get some more rest."

"I will." Once I was outside on the porch, the cool morning air cleared my head, and I gave Craig a small wave. "Have a good day at work."

He smiled warmly. "I will certainly try, but Mondays are a bitch."

I laughed and made my way down the porch steps, holding onto the railing. "Bye, Craig."

"Bye, Annie." The door closed softly, and I looked around, relieved that none of our neighbors was outside at the moment. Then I headed to my house, circling around to the back door. A wave of relief washed over me when I found it still unlocked; Dad hadn't checked it before he went to bed last night.

In the kitchen, I glanced at Dad's work schedule. He had to be back at the hospital later that afternoon, but right now, he and Mom were sleeping in their room.

I went to my own room, closing the door behind me. After climbing into bed and pulling the covers to my chin, I stared out the window at the clear sky. A ray of sunlight worked its way into the room and slanted across my bedspread. I rested my hand in its warmth. It reminded me of the feel of Craig's palm on my shoulder. Finally I let my eyes close and slipped into a dreamless sleep.

***

It was noon when I woke again. I planned to stay in bed until Dad left for work, but he opened the door to my room and poked his head inside. "Stephanie called," he told me. "She said she tried your cell phone, but your voice mailbox is full, and she couldn't leave a message."

I groaned and pressed a hand to my forehead. The last thing I wanted to do was talk to my former boss. I'd loved working for Stephanie, and she was extremely understanding when I had to turn in my notice, but the idea of trying to carry on a conversation with her was agonizing.

My other friends had finally stopped coming by the house to check on me, since Mom and I never answered the door. When Dad was home, he had to tell them I wasn't up for visitors. I didn't bother to check my phone for messages anymore, but I figured their calls had stopped as well. Stephanie, however, was persistent.

"What did you tell her?" I asked Dad.

"That you were sleeping, and you'd call her back. Which would be a good idea. She sounds worried about you." I just nodded, and Dad let out a soft sigh. "Well, I'm heading to the hospital. I won't be home till late, so I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay." I waited for him to leave, and then I got out of bed and went to the bathroom for another shower. I still felt relaxed from the pills, but I didn't want to sleep anymore. After I dried off and wrapped the towel around my wet hair, I brushed and flossed my teeth.

In my bedroom, I chose a pair of fairly new jeans and a long-sleeved sweater, soft under my fingers. I pulled on thick socks and my favorite boots, then ran a brush through my still-wet hair and put it back in a neat ponytail. Looking at myself in the mirror, I thought I appeared presentable, put-together. Maybe a little like my former self, before the accident.

Mom was nowhere in sight when I walked through the house to the front door. It was another beautiful early spring day, and the trees swayed in a gentle breeze. I walked over to Craig's house and around to his back porch, hidden from view of any nosy neighbors. I knew he wouldn't be home for a good while yet, but I didn't have anything else to do, so I sat down in one of the chairs and waited.

I heard his car pull into the drive at half past six. It was growing dark, and I sat up, watching him park the car in the garage behind the house. Then he started toward the back porch, and I climbed to my feet.

"Well, hello there," he said when he saw me, an easy smile on his lips.

"Hi," I said, suddenly shy.

He stood at the bottom of the porch steps and gazed up at me. I found myself thinking how handsome he looked in his suit and tie, briefcase clutched in his hand. "You look rested."

I couldn't help but snicker. "That's one way of putting it. You were right—I slept a lot today." I cleared my throat and tugged at my ponytail self-consciously. "And now I feel like I owe you an explanation, Mr.—I mean, Craig."

"You don't owe me any explanation, but you're welcome to come inside and have dinner with me."

"I'd like that," I told him.

Craig bounded up the steps and unlocked the back door. "I hope you're okay with sandwiches. I'm not much of a cook."

"You make a killer omelet," I said. "Best I ever had."

"Why, thank you, my dear," he replied, and I felt a warmth deep in my belly.

In the kitchen, he shrugged out of his suit jacket and washed his hands at the sink, while I offered to set the table. After pouring two glasses of ice water for us, I watched him pile cold cuts onto slices of bread.

"How was work?" I asked him.

He glanced over at me and smiled. "Just fine. No major crises, so it was good for a Monday."

Once we took our seats at the table, I fidgeted with my napkin. Finally I started to speak. "We've been neighbors for a long time, and you know I wasn't always like this." I waved a hand at myself. "I went to college, made good grades, and for six months after I graduated last May, I was employed as a social worker." Craig nodded, encouraging me to go on.

I looked around the room, out the window, trying to find the right words. "Every day, I had to steel myself for what I might see and hear at my job, and even in the short time I was there, I saw and heard some horrible things. But I told myself I was helping people, and that mattered to me most. The pay was awful, and all I could afford was a crummy efficiency apartment, but I was supporting myself, and I thought I could always go back to school for a graduate degree later on. Or maybe I'd just stay in social work. Maybe I'd be strong enough not to get burned out. I really believed I could handle any situation that came my way." I shook my head and laughed bitterly. "Little did I know."

"You lost your brother, Annie. You're grieving. That doesn't mean you're weak," Craig told me, his voice gentle.

The room felt hot, and I pulled at the sleeves of my sweater. "Everyone loved Matt. He was the kindest, funniest, warmest person I ever knew. He wanted to be a doctor—an oncologist. Every day, I think of how many people he could have helped if he'd lived."

"Annie..." Craig said, reaching for my hand. I let him grasp it, but now that I'd started talking, it was as if I couldn't stop.

"He was just twenty," I whispered. "He was home from college on winter break, and I was so happy to see him. We were going to the mall to do some Christmas shopping, and then we planned to see a movie." My breathing grew faster, and my eyes darted around the room, as if I could find a way to escape the memories in my head. Craig stroked my knuckles with his fingertips.

"Later, after the crash when we were at the hospital, my mother asked me what Matt and I were doing just before he pulled out onto the highway. She said he was such a good driver. And then she asked if I was distracting him." I pressed a hand to my chest. "I wasn't. I know I wasn't, Craig. Matt was driving, and I remember I was looking down at my phone, checking on movie show times. I was about to tell him we could make the movie starting at seven-fifteen, and then... the SUV hit our car." I shuddered. "I'll never forget the sound of the impact. It was so loud—I felt like my brain had come loose and was rattling in my head. I was banged up a bit, and the other driver was okay, but Matt, oh god, Matt was..."

I let out a wail, and Craig came around the table to kneel beside me. He took me in his arms, and I sobbed, my face pressed against his shirt.

"It was an accident, Annie," he said, stroking my hair. "You didn't distract him. He made a mistake, and I'm so fucking sorry that the mistake took his life, but it's not your fault."

I didn't know if I'd ever believe the words he spoke, but I went limp with relief at hearing them.

"I wish it had been me," I revealed to him. "Every minute of every day of my life, I wish I were dead, and that Matt was still alive."

"It's common for survivors of an accident to feel guilt," Craig said, still holding me to him, "but you can't keep torturing yourself this way, sweetheart. Matt never would have wanted that. He loved you, and your parents love you. They don't blame you—they're just trying to cope with their own grief."

I lifted my head to look at him. "I know Matt would have hated to see me like this, and at first, I told myself I'd keep going, because that's what he would have wanted. When I quit my job last December, I promised myself I'd go back to work this June. I'd give myself six months to get my life together. I know I can't just sit in my parents' house forever, but I'm so goddamn depressed, Craig, or I'm eaten up with anxiety. It's hard to function enough to do simple things, and I'm terrified to drive now. What am I going to do?"

Craig brushed a tear from my cheek. "You're going to take it one day at a time. It's early April now, and I think your plan to wait until June is a good one. In the meantime, you take small steps."

"I don't even know where to start."

Craig stood and returned to his chair. "You know," he said, "I'm a big homebody. After being at work all day, I don't feel like going out much in the evenings, but I certainly wouldn't mind your company here, and I don't think it would hurt you to get out of your house for a bit each day. How about we start there? Then, we can work on you feeling more comfortable driving. We'll take it slow."

I stared at him in disbelief. "Why would you want to spend so much time helping me? You're busy with work, and..."

He held up a hand. "Maybe I like you, Annie." He smiled at the look of surprise on my face. "Maybe I thought about you at work today, and wondered how you were doing. Maybe I hoped I would see you again soon." I lowered my head, wishing I hadn't pulled my hair back; I wanted to hide behind it so he couldn't see my cheeks flush. "I'm sorry," Craig went on. "Have I upset you?"

I looked up quickly. "No! I'm glad you said it. I was afraid you were offering to help me out of pity, or obligation. I just dropped into your life yesterday."

Craig looked down at the table. "There were many nights when I watched you walk around your back yard, and I wanted to talk to you, make sure you were okay. But Christ, I didn't know what to say. So I just sat on my porch and waited until you finally grew tired and went inside. I was relieved that I came across you on the road yesterday. It gave me a chance to speak to you."

I didn't know how to respond, and he still wouldn't look at me. "I remember you at Matt's funeral," I finally said. "I remember when you came over to speak to my parents, and you hugged them. Then you turned to me, and without a word, you put your arms around me." My voice wavered, and I grew quiet for a few seconds. Craig raised his head and searched my face. "When you hugged me, it was the first time since Matt died that I... felt like I was still alive."

Something in his eyes made me feel like I'd revealed too much, and I focused on the plate before me. Picking up my sandwich, I took a big bite and concentrated on the simple tasks of chewing and swallowing. "This is really good," I told Craig.

He grinned. "I'm glad you like it. This is the extent of what I can make in the kitchen."

I took a sip of water, not sure if I should share the idea I had with him. "I can make a few things. Lasagna, beef stew, stuff like that. Maybe I could make a grocery list for you, and then I could fix dinner for us."

"I'd love that," Craig said. "I'm pretty damn sick of omelets and sandwiches. And oh god, the frozen dinners." He grimaced.

I giggled, covering my mouth with my hand, and he laughed with me. "So tell me about your day," I said.

"It'll put you to sleep," he warned.

"Hey, I'm well rested, remember?"

I listened attentively as he talked about work, and I found myself wanting to know more and more about him, but I didn't want to pry and make him uncomfortable. I figured he'd share more about himself with me in his own time.

After dinner, we went into the living room, and I spotted an old record player. "Wow, how old is that?" I asked, pointing at it.

"Almost as old as me, so... ancient, but it still works," Craig replied.

"You're far from ancient," I told him.

"I turned fifty this year. I've gone gray."

"I think you look distinguished," I said, daring a glance at him. Then I nodded at the record player. "Would you play something for me?"

"Sure."

I sat down on the sofa and watched Craig open the door of a small cabinet beneath the record player. He flipped through some albums, then withdrew one and carefully removed the record from the cover and inner sleeve. I closed my eyes and settled back against the cushions.

The record began to play, and I listened to the soothing sound of a guitar, followed by a man's rich voice, singing about loss and loneliness.

"Who is that?" I asked, opening my eyes.

"Gordon Lightfoot," Craig said, sitting next to me. "Before your time, kiddo."

I smirked. "Very funny. I know who Gordon Lightfoot is, but I haven't heard this song before."

Craig raised his eyebrows and gave me a playful smile. "Well, I'm impressed. This one is 'Does Your Mother Know.' My parents listened to this record all the time when I was growing up, and this was my favorite song. It brings back good memories."

"It's beautiful." The music soared and filled the room, and I felt something stir in my chest. When the song ended, I asked Craig to play it again. He grinned and walked over to the turntable to reposition the needle.

After he sat down beside me again, I turned to face him. "So do your parents live nearby?"

"No, they live in Florida. I get down there to see them a couple of times a year."

I nodded and hesitated before asking my next question. "And how's Noah?"

Craig's smile faded, and I wished I hadn't brought up his son. "He's fine. He lives out in Seattle now, and he seems to like it there. We talk on the phone every week or so." Craig looked down and sighed. "Our relationship has been strained since his mom and I divorced."

"I'm sorry," I said quietly.

"Me, too," he said. "I wish things had turned out differently. The divorce was inevitable, but I'd hoped Natalie and I could stay civil for Noah's sake." His eyes met mine. "I know there were plenty of rumors flying around this neighborhood when Natalie moved out. People said I cheated, or she cheated. But that wasn't it." I didn't speak, just waited patiently for him to continue.

"A couple of years before we moved here," Craig went on, "Natalie was diagnosed with breast cancer. The doctors caught it early, and after surgery and treatment, she was in remission with a great prognosis. But she told me that she'd stared death in the face, and it changed her. Not long afterward, she started going to church. It was like there was an emptiness inside her, and she needed to fill it. I was fine with that, but then she started wanting me to go to church with her. I said no, and then it seemed like we were constantly fighting, and I realized it wasn't just about church.

"She told Noah that I drank too much, and before we split up, I probably was drinking a lot. Just in the evenings when I came home. It was a coping mechanism, albeit a bad one. And she told him I cheated on her, which isn't true. But Noah and Natalie were always close, and even when I tried to explain to him that he didn't know the whole story, he took her side, and I understand that. Things aren't the same between us, though."

I chewed on my bottom lip, working up the nerve to ask my next question. "Have you dated anyone... since the divorce?"

He shrugged. "I've been out with a few women, but I guess I'm gun-shy now. And Christ, dating is a nightmare. I forgot how awkward it is. Or maybe it's just gotten more awkward nowadays. When I was younger—your age—it seemed like fun."

"I've had a few boyfriends," I said. "Nothing serious. But you're right—it's not easy getting to know someone."

Craig got up and went to the turntable to play another song. Then he held out a hand to me. "Come on, dance with me," he said. His eyes were warm and inviting.

I shook my head quickly. "I'm a horrible dancer—no rhythm."

"Oh, I bet you have rhythm," he murmured, and the way he spoke made me blush. "Besides, this is a slow song. All you have to do is hold onto me and sway a bit." I tried to protest, but he winked at me. "Come on," he said, and I couldn't tell him no. Sighing, I took his hand and allowed him to pull me to my feet.

We stood in his living room, and as he held me, I slipped my arms around his neck, resting my face against his chest. "Now isn't this nice?" he whispered, and I smiled.

"Yes, very," I told him, nestling into his embrace. It felt so good to be held close, and when Craig lowered his lips to my hair, I couldn't hold back a moan of contentment.

The song ended, and we drew apart. I cleared my throat, shifting nervously as I stood just a couple of feet from him. "I guess I should head on home," I said.

"Okay," Craig said softly. He walked me to the door, and before I stepped out onto the porch, I kissed him on the cheek.