It couldn't have been the wedding that she really wanted, he imagined, any more than their first one was, when they'd gone to City Hall, in between a quick trip to the grocery store and the inevitable stop at the pet shop. This couldn't have been it either, even if she'd said it was a compromise with her mother and her sisters, immediate family only, in the gazebo on her parents' farm, right before the picnic. He'd heard it a few times, that it was just better this way, better then listening to her mother fuss about china and seating arrangements, and Dani fuss over the menu, and Beth bubble about photos.
Not that he disagreed with any of it, but he didn't buy it, really, that it was really what she wanted, and he didn't by it, when she insisted he didn't need to wear a suit, since she was just wearing her yellow sun dress, and it sounded simple, immediate family only, except that with her, that could still mean half the population of Ohio, as far as he could tell.
Whether she'd meant it or not, though, it was over before he knew it – the simple vows – and it kicked up moments later, the mob arriving from all across the country, and it was all around him all over again, chatty sisters and half deaf uncles, or aunts – he still couldn't always tell – barbecued ribs and hot dogs that Winston would've loved, Frisbees that Gracie would've leaped for like they wouldn't believe and an impromptu flag football game that ended two hours later, in the usual shouting match over the Browns.
It was all pretty predictable, and he just rolled his eyes when her father glared at him, as usual, and he just frowned when her mother piled more broccoli on his plate, again, commenting on how he should set a good example for all the kids around, since he was a doctor, and he just shrugged and nodded when Jenny chewed his ear off about term limits and environmental regulations, because it just wasn't worth fighting over, and he just smirked back at Dani when she flirted, and at Cari when she bragged about Mayo, and he just shifted on his feet impatiently when Beth pulled out her I-PAD and pulled up her latest spy photos from Spain, or Sumatra, or St. Petersburg, or wherever the hell she'd just been.
It all buzzed around him as the afternoon wore down, and he wandered out back toward the paddock for a while, just to clear his head, and he watched the sun sink toward the horizon as one of the horses trotted over curiously, to see if he'd brought anything, and he just smirked again and offered up the rest of his apple, brushing his fingers over the animal's nose as it chewed happily, and he just listened as it finally surrounded him again, the quiet of the falling darkness, the faint ripple of the light wind rustling the grass, the water trickling from the nearby pump, and the first stirrings of the cicadas.
She was standing beside him a moment later, pulling her light sweater around her, and she just ran her fingers through her hair as she greeted the horse like an old friend, and she told him with a relieved sigh that it was finally winding down. He'd expected to hear that from her before, more times than he could count – that it was coming to an end, that they were done – but she was leaning back against the fence, smiling shyly and twirling her ring on her finger and grumbling about Dani's commentary on it.
He'd offered to get it re-set before, when they could afford it, he'd stammered, and it was the one she'd picked out, and she'd said she liked it, and he imagined he was supposed to say something about it again, but he couldn't tell what. She must have noticed it, though, because she assured him again that it was perfect, and her hands were on his face, and her lips were on his, and her hair was glistening in the moonlight, and she was giggling happily again when she finally let him go, and it was starting all over again, the weird fluttering in his stomach, like maybe he'd eaten too much of that damned broccoli.
She probably should have said it just then, she imagined, as she slipped her fingers through his, and tugged him around the paddock, toward the pond near the back barn. It was just three little words, and it was just what people said when they got married, when they kissed someone, the way she'd just kissed him, when they'd got those feelings all over again, like it was their first time, when their legs trembled and their hearts fluttered in their chests and they tingled all over, shivering in a faint summer breeze.
She probably should have said it just then, since it was always there in his eyes, the vague terror and the doubt, the uncertainty, as if she'd be gone in an instant; he wouldn't have believed it, though, since he didn't trust words, and he wouldn't have done more than smirk, since he didn't trust promises or vows, and he wouldn't have known what to do – with his eyes or his hands or his feet or his voice – since it wasn't like him to say it, at least, not in words, and he obviously hadn't heard it much in his whole life.
It wasn't like him at all, and she imagined he just thought it was perfectly obvious, since he dug holes for her weeds in the spring, and armed her with Super Soakers in the summer, and hung her Halloween decorations for her in the fall, even if she did have to hide the candy, and hauled in the tree and strung up the decorative candy canes, even if he did grumble about them not even being edible, and even if he never could remember which end of a candy cane was up.
He probably just thought it was obvious, she reminded herself, and it wasn't like actually saying it changed anything, or wouldn't just make him blush and stammer, anyway, even though he probably needed to hear it more than anyone she'd ever met. He needed it, but that's another reason why she shouldn't say it, either, she reminded herself, and she just tugged his sleeve instead, leading him back to the gazebo, where they settled into the old porch swing she'd played on as a child.
She leaned back into his chest, slid her arms around him, and listened to the breeze rustling the grass and the cicadas coming to life, as fire flies lit up around them, and candles danced in the distance, as the last of the deserts were being polished off, and conversations wound down, and she remembered the things she'd imagined in that gazebo, when her and her sisters gathered there, watching the stars.
She giggled again, then, at how much it would scandalize them all – if she did it right there in the gazebo, on her parents farm. It would probably give her father a heart attack, though, she remembered, and send her mother into shock, and it would light up the family grapevine – since she wasn't just the go to chick in trauma, here, and they'd always think of her as April the perfect daughter, the responsible one who'd never do anything like that, since that was really more Beth's thing, or Jenny's, and they all had their specific slots in the family, even if Jenny was out of order alphabetically.
It was just one night, anyway, she reminded herself, and it wasn't like she hadn't found plenty of ways to say it, too, even if she didn't spoil him, exactly, no matter what Beth and Dani said, and it wasn't like he'd be able to talk, anyway, she thought with a smirk, gently slipping a Snickers bar into his fingers as she kissed him again, and just rolling her eyes again as the eager unwrapping of the candy bar mingled in with the cicadas and the rustling grass and the steady rhythm of his heart, beating beneath her ear as she drew more closely into him.
It was never going to work, she decided, on a drizzly Wednesday two months later. They'd been looking since they returned from Ohio, for a house they could actually agree on, though he didn't want a big yard, with all the freaking mowing, and she didn't want sleek or modern, and he didn't want long drive ways to shovel, and she hated country kitchens, and he hated split levels, and she wanted someplace cozy and traditional, and he wanted something big, with room for his trophies.
It had to suit the whole family, too, she reminded the bewildered, frustrated realtor – jabbing her elbow into Alex's ribs while he rolled his eyes - as she pulled out her cell phone and showed the poor woman the slide show of her menagerie. It needed a place for a big television, too, he insisted, ignoring April's muttering about radioactive fruit. She wanted a nice pantry, also, April added, daring him with her eyes to say anything about her organizing system, and he wanted a garage for his car, he added, cutting April off before she could mention anything about the practicality of convertibles in Seattle.
It went back and forth for another month, and it was never going to work, April thought, as she trudged up the pathway to see the next listing, because she liked colonials and he liked four-squares and she'd always imagined clapboard and he liked sturdy brick – as if they were buying a bunker or a bomb shelter, she once griped to the realtor, while Alex was out of earshot – and it wasn't much from the front, the house they'd just entered, but it had worn wood floors and acres of millwork and a stone fireplace in the kitchen and a finished basement with a flat screen and big, sunny bedrooms and a yard with trees for the hammock and she knew it the minute she laid eyes on it, it was their home.
It would take some convincing, she was sure, maybe even some manipulation, or an out-right bribe, and she was readying her strategy – and fingering the emergency Snickers stash in her purse - when he popped up from the finished lower level, nodding approvingly about the exposed brick walls and the cushy carpeting. It figured, she imagined, as she walked through the house with him again – the late afternoon light pouring in through the windows – that what would sell it to him would be a sea of blue green shag carpet – probably out of style even on Mars – and the dented paneling in the fourth bedroom, framing the windowsill which would be the perfect place, he insisted, for his dusty trophies.
She could already picture it, too, when she went down to the finished lower level to check for herself, the hideous, over stuffed sectional he'd want, to go with his giant television; a row of DVDs, including all 87 sequels to Attack of the Killer Cucumbers; Iowa wrestling banners plastered on the wall, as if the shabby exposed brick surrounding the huge fire place wasn't bad enough; dirty glasses on the coffee table, along with the inevitable cheese doodle crumbs; she could already see all of it, and Alex plopped right in the middle of it, snoring on the couch while Sadie sprawled beside him.
She could already picture the rest of it, too, as she wandered back up the stairs, dishes piled in the sink and fruit and cans and cereal stacked carelessly, as if he didn't even know the alphabet; the gold fish crackers floating in Noah and Nadine's bowl, because he'd never get it – that cannibal jokes just weren't that funny; the Super Soakers in the garage – in case the neighborhood was over- run with marauding 8 year olds, and towering stacks of sloppily folded towels balanced precariously in the second upstairs bath, and not even sorted by color or thread count; the faded tee shirts hung carefully in the closet, as if they weren't on the verge of unraveling completely, and his collection of magic decoder rings.
She could picture it all, as she peeked out a window over-looking the yard, their hammock and the bird feeders and the Frisbees he tossed to Gracie and Tobey, and maybe a swing set, someday, and she could hear it all, too, when he came up behind her, mentioning excitedly that the current owners might even leave the enormous couch in the finished basement if they offered them the right price for it.
She just barely resisted it, the impulse to tell him that the right price for it wasn't one plug nickel, since it was obscenely brown plaid and impossibly over stuffed and its current owners couldn't possibly move it out of the house anyway – without removing at least one side of the building – and it certainly wasn't a selling point at all that it sort of went with the sea of blue green carpeting spreading across the floor.
It sort of went with it, all right – the rustic greenish brown plaid – like a ship wrecked vessel tangled in a web of creeping sea weed, and she almost added it this time, too – that he should probably have his eyes checked – but she just smiled and nodded, because at least it would stay down stairs, and at least she wouldn't have to listen to it anymore, about how he'd never liked that geometric print rug, and about how the zoo was too hard on the furniture, because really… what damage could they do to it, and how would they even notice it, anyway, amid the eye crossing plaid.
She couldn't listen to it anymore, when he eagerly admired the brick exterior, and they filled out the paper work on the spot, and it would all be perfectly organized, the move, and it would be a great house for the whole family, and she watched the following week, clip board in hand, as he hefted the last two boxes into the front door. It took an hour or so to get everybody settled, and they went out again later that day for a grocery store run and to pick up some take out, and it was a great omen, she insisted the next morning, as she rushed into the kitchen to retrieve some treats, that the stray black and white cat that had wandered into the yard when she was putting out pecans for the squirrels was friendly.
It wasn't what he was expecting, because he'd like the exterior immediately – with the sturdy red brick and the massive front porch – and that was usually it, he either liked the inside or the outside but not both. It looked like it could withstand a hurricane or a tornado, no problem, and he figured that would seal it, that the inside would be too cramped or too old fashioned or too musty or too yellow.
It was nothing like that, though, which was a damn good thing, since he caught it the first time they walked into what the realtor called the family room – the look on April's face. He'd seen it before, every freaking time she baby sat a homeless fish or a forlorn cactus or an abandoned rodent or a weed with a mineral deficiency – and he knew what it meant – and he knew it wasn't going anywhere the minute she saw the bay window, and he knew from her expression that they weren't going anywhere, either.
He just followed her into the kitchen after that, and watched her push the curtains over the window aside, and peek out into the yard, and he could see it already, the weeds lining the windowsill, and the fish plopped on the little shelf near the built in hutch, and the cactus perched by the stove. He could see the rest of it, too, the pantry lined wall to wall, with feline delight and over-priced dog food and seeds and nuts and hamster hay and minerals for the weeds and the little umbrella she used for the cactus when it wasn't in growing season, and only needed partial light.
He can see it all, as he follows her upstairs, the neurotically labeled linen closet with the neatly ironed sheets, as if they'd even notice wrinkles when they slept; the bath towels sorted, as far as he could tell, by country of origin, as if anything else mattered as long as they were clean; her strawberry shampoo in the shower and the silly giraffes stashed on the dresser and the goofy books she still read sitting on her night stand, next to her hand cream and her lip balm and her de-ionized water.
He sees it all clearly, when he peers over her shoulder at the over-sized glass enclosed shower in the main bedroom's bath, and she must see it, too – them doing it there before leaving for work – since she jabs him in the ribs with a smirk and a frown, and tells him to behave. He sees it all clearly, because she says it with an edge to her voice – and a glint in her eye – which tells him she doesn't mean it at all.
He sees it all clearly, as he surveys the back yard, room for the dogs and a landing strip for the birds and squirrels galore; space for her picnics and pathways that could stand some new weeds and big old trees for the hammock he could already see – swaying softly in the breeze, as she lay wrapped in his arms.
He could already see it, her hair falling in soft waves, framing her face in the fading sunlight; he could already see it, as she ran her fingers over the sturdy porch railing, her plans already forming – for hanging skeletons and over-stuffed spiders and motorized witches and those stupid plastic candy canes that weren't even freaking edible, and that should've at least been labeled 'this end up.'
It was her own fault, and she should've seen it coming, since she'd been to Iowa many times, often enough to know it was possibly the flattest place on the planet, and it wasn't like he'd ever left the state, until he ended up in Seattle, and it wasn't like he'd had much time for recreation, during his residency, and it wasn't like he'd done it in high school or college, since he was so busy wrestling.
She should have seen it coming, because she'd asked him about it before she booked the reservations for their belated honeymoon, if he could actually ski. He'd just smirked and said "yeah, of course," which she only remembered half way to the resort probably meant – "how hard could it be, I'm a wrestler" – and it was too late to turn around by then, since she'd have no way to explain it, except that she was fairly sure she'd end up a widow, in his pig headed attempts to prove that he could do it.
It was worse than she imagined, and it all drew to a screeching halt with a thunderous thud, and she'd mention it eventually, that unless he'd wrestled on skis, it was an entirely different sport, and that it really wasn't the norm, for beginners to try actual ski jumps. She'd mention that eventually, but she still winces and grimaces as she pokes delicately at it, the huge blue and black bruise ringing his right hip, and rapidly spreading clear across his ass.
It's not just a bone bruise either, she insists again, pressing her fingers into his purpling flesh, it's a mid- line stress fracture between S4 and S5, and a deep fascia injury, and it's not like he shouldn't know that, since he's a doctor, and it's not like she's just exaggerating – since she is the go to chick for trauma – and she doesn't add just then that a wipe out like his would definitely fall under her specialty.
He'd ignored it the first time she said it, though, as he struggled to stand and limped heavily back to the lodge, and he brushed it off again as he dragged up the stairs to their room, and he just grumbled and groaned as he dropped onto the bed, and he probably would've just pushed her hands away, if he'd been able to actually move without wincing, and he'd never have picked up the phone – or let the lodge doctor do his or her job – by himself, which left it to her, to exchange a few eye rolls with the doctor on call, and go down to his cramped office to retrieve the pain meds herself.
It happens all the time, he assures her, although the pain meds won't work on his ego. It's not serious, just painful, she agrees, and he knows it as well as she does as she returns to their room, and she just shoves the pills at him with a glass of water, since it's just going to stiffen and ache more without the anti-inflammatories, and it's not going to be a fun ride home, anyway.
He's out cold by the time she returns from her shower, and she can finally examine it more closely but it still turns up the same diagnosis. She's seen it before, more times than she can count – since trauma and testosterone just seem to go together, like peanut butter and jelly – and she just rolls her eyes again and grabs the cream the doctor gave her from her night-stand and begins smoothing it into his skin, as the still expanding bruise creeps halfway down his leg and spreads up along toward his ribs.
It takes her thirty minutes, maybe more, to work through every inch of it, carefully untangling each muscle fiber, and she glances away occasionally, to the snow-flakes dancing in the moonlight outside their window, and the flickering flames in the corner fire place, and she just smirks and shakes her head, because it was her idea – a romantic honeymoon at a ski lodge – and she should've known it right from the start, that the gauzy photographs of the fire places in the brochure were totally false advertising.
She tried to imagine it, too, what she'd say to Dani and Beth, when they asked her if she'd taken any pictures, and she wondered what they'd think of it, really, as her fingers continued to work with a wicked smirk; she wondered what they'd think, really, if she grabbed her cell phone right then, and sent them some pictures of his still bruising ass.
She'd never hear the end of it, though, she was sure, and it would probably just make Dani's flirting with him worse, she imagined, smirking again as she traced her hands over his body, and it was probably just safer to put the cap back on the bottle, since she'd need it again in a few hours, if he wasn't going to stiffen up completely, and to bundle the bulky blankets around him, since she'd basically cut him out of his clothes, and to just accept it, that they wouldn't be needing any cool whip that evening.
She shook her head again, leaned back in her pillow and picked up her book from the nightstand. She'd started it months before, and it had given her the idea in the first place, about the romantic honeymoon at a ski lodge, and she imagined she'd just have to read about it, instead, and to hope that nobody ever asked her about it, about how it was on her honeymoon, which she'd spent beside a roaring fireplace, kneading anti-inflammatory cream into her husband's fractured ass.
It wasn't that bad, he insisted the next morning, staggering to the shower as he tried to loosen it up. It wasn't that bad, he grumbled, hunched awkwardly against the tiles as the steaming water washed over him; it was just a bruise, he insisted, crawling back into the bed with a groan; he just needed to move around some, he reminded himself, wincing as the bed shifted slightly beneath April's weight.
He'd done it before, he insisted, as she pressed another handful of pills into his hand; he'd just walked it off, he repeated, right before a huge tournament in high school, as she sank her warm fingers into his back again; he'd never even taken anything for it, he added smugly, sinking back into a pleasant haze; he'd been fine the next day, he insisted, as her hands found a familiar rhythm, and his cramped muscles melted into her touch, and the crushing ache gave way to wave after wave of… something else entirely… as he drifted off to sleep ,again, with a deep, contented moan.
It'd be fine, he mumbled again many hours later, his eyes fluttering open as she tugged the blankets more closely around him, just as their room service arrived. It was soup, he noticed immediately - and pecan pancakes, his favorites, and the hot chocolate she'd promised him – days before, he thought, though he was foggy and vague on the details, and tired and hungry, and fairly sure he'd been run over by a snow mobile, or trampled by a mob of run-away reindeer.
His head clears with the scent of the soup, though, and the maple syrup was the thickest he'd ever seen, and the pancakes were thick and fluffy, and the lodge had every movie channel he'd ever heard of, and even some he hadn't. The next round of pain meds had kicked in again, too, after they'd eaten, and the anti-inflammatory stuff she was working into his back again made him warm and drowsy and it was so freaking hypnotic he almost missed it, the soft circles she was working into his muscles, and the way her fingers traced gently over his spine, whenever she changed direction.
He could just be imagining it, he thought idly, as she worked her fingers into his spine, and it could just be the meds messing with his mind, he reminded himself, as she slid her hands rhythmically along his side; it might even have been the pancakes, which made him feel warm and heavy and drowsy and impossibly relaxed, as he just unfurled lazily; it might have been any of those things, until it was her hands sliding slowly back up along his body, and her lips pressed repeatedly into his skin, again and again, as she kissed along his spine, and her hair spilling over his shoulders as she nuzzled into his neck.
It might have been any of those things – his mind or his meds or the pancake syrup – until it was her arms pulling him gently closer, and her body curling leisurely around his, until it was all silky skin and the scent of strawberries and familiar curves he knew by heart, even if he was a little hazy.
It might have been any of those things, but it was still there hours later, still wrapped around him, and it just burrowed in closer, when he brushed his lips to her hair, and it just started all over again when she stirred – her fingers and her lips, chasing out the sharp ache – and it was there the next time he woke, too, to another batch of pancakes, and whatever it was he imagined he could get used to it – the feeling that rippled through him with her, even if his first shot at skiing had knocked him totally on his ass.
The trip back from the lodge wasn't nearly as bad as she'd imagined, mainly because he'd been out cold the whole time, sprawled awkwardly across the back seat, and she almost said it, again, that it was a good thing they'd taken her infinitely more practical jeep – since that had been a point of discussion before they'd left, but he wouldn't have heard her anyway, so it could wait.
It was probably a good thing, too, she thought the next day, that he'd already called ahead, and asked for another week off, since he was still struggling to walk, from the "minor" bruise, which was a fracture no matter he said, and hazy from the pain meds that weren't "bothering" him, and showed no signs of moving from his beloved couch, where he was watching a "documentary" about mutant seaweed.
She might have said it, too, that seaweed just couldn't run that far up on dry land, but he'd just make some comment about her green tea, then, and she'd almost given up on his basic science education. It was just as well, she imagined, as she grabbed her keys and popped into her car, since at least he was aware that he'd never be able to stand through a surgery at the moment, even if he could clear his head.
It was just as well, she imagined, as she hang her coat up in her locker, amid the chatter around her, since she'd considered bringing him in for an x-ray herself, but it's not like that would matter, if he saw it for himself, and it's not like it would heal any differently, since that was just a matter of time, and she just rolled her eyes as she imagined it, what the giggling young nurses would say about it if they were setting him up for the scans, and got a good long look at it for themselves.
It would be fine, anyway, she imagined as she settled back into her work routine, and at least he was letting it heal, and he'd be safe on the hideous, ship wrecked couch – even if the rabid seaweed he'd been watching before she left looked suspiciously like the shag carpet, which would explain a lot, actually - and she just smiled and nodded and said "it was great," when they'd asked her about her honeymoon, and she just smirked, again, when they asked her if she'd taken any pictures.
She'd never send them, though, the photos she'd taken of it – just as a joke - she reminded herself a few days later, not even just to her sisters, even if he was impossible when he was "not bored," and intractable when he was "not even sore," even if was still struggling with the steps, and infuriating when he was "not frustrated," though it was plainly taking longer to heal then he expected – since it "wasn't freaking fractured," and it occurred to her, as she watched him hobble out of the shower with a sharp grimace, that it was the bullet all over again, and that was a secret, too.
She'd never send them, though, since it wasn't any of Dani's business, why most of her honeymoon photos were of giant spruce trees and winter flowers and squirrels playing the snow, and it wasn't like she actually wanted to talk about it, about whether they did it in the hot tub, or in the steam room or on the snow mobile – or on the ski lift - like Dani'd done with Neil, before she'd dumped him at Aspen the second time, or the third, after she'd caught him with the red headed model/ski instructor, doing it right there in the pro shop, between the snow boot bindings and the magazine rack.
It wasn't like that, she wanted to mutter through gritted teeth, as the call became all about Dani again, anyway, and whether she should move back in with Neil, again, and whether Cari should change her hair color, and Beth should start looking to settle down, and Jenny should take a class or a trip - or just more tranquilizers – to meet her dream guy.
It wasn't like that, April thought, shaking her head, since Cari's hair was her business and Beth loved traveling more than anything, no matter what she said, and Dani would never be happy with just one guy, any more than Neil would ever stick with one woman, and the whole dream guy thing was a crock.
It wasn't like that, April thought, with another smirk, but she just listened anyway, because Dani just wanted to talk, and it wasn't really about Cari's hair or Beth's schedule or Jenny's love life at all, any more then it was about whether she and Alex did it in the car on the way up to the lodge. It wasn't like that at all, she imagined, since Dani was permanently frustrated with Neil, and Beth was really just into her job – when push came to shove – despite her perpetual flirting, and Cari was more focused on her residency, and Jenny would find the right guy, her meds notwithstanding, once she stopped trying to save the world all by herself, and just slowed the hell down to breathe a little.
It wasn't like that at all, she imagined, as she listened more closely, and it bubbled below the surface the minute she thought about it, that Dani envied Cari's career, which actually helped people, and she envied Jenny's passion, which wasn't flighty at all, and she maybe even envied…her… a little, even if she wasn't blonde and busty and sauntering through an exotic, exciting life in New York City.
She'd heard it before, an off-hand remark or two from Alex, about how they were just jealous, and it never made sense, because she was Invisible April, who was good at keeping her sisters on schedule and keeping their rooms organized, and Dani was the life of every party, and Beth was bubbly and popular, and Cari was brilliant, and Jenny would stand up for herself against anybody in a heartbeat.
It hadn't made sense, and she'd figured he was just grumbling about them because they were chicks and therefore annoying, but it simmered for days afterward, and she wondered if maybe that was why they were always calling her for advice, and she wondered if maybe that wasn't even scarier, since it wasn't just bizarre things they asked her – or at least, Dani – like whether she'd ever done it in a grain silo.
It came out of nowhere, Amber's job offer, at a hospital in Los Angeles. They'd pay her to continue her schooling while she worked, and she'd be a nurse practitioner, eventually, and she wanted to know what to do with the house in Iowa, since she sure as hell wasn't staying in that hell hole now that she had a ticket out, too. It blew through his phone like a tornado – a gust of chick rage – and she'd hung up before he could sputter back that they'd have to figure something out.
It made no fucking sense, anyway, the crap about the house, since it wasn't worth a plug nickel, and it wasn't like she'd ever liked it anymore then he did, and it wasn't like Aaron or his mother were ever going back. It made no fucking sense anyway, since it wasn't like he could just up and haul over to Iowa at a moment's notice, and it wasn't like she'd ever mentioned to him that she was planning on leaving, and it wasn't like they could find a psychiatric facility on the west coast to take them all that quickly, and it wasn't like she didn't freaking know that, since she already worked in a hospital.
It was pay back, he got that, and her making another of her freaking points, about everything he'd ever done or hadn't done for his family, and it pissed him off royally, and he seethed and growled for days, as he finally tracked down a facility on the outskirts of Los Angeles that would take his mother and Aaron, and he didn't even call her – just sent a terse text – when he contacted a real estate agent in Iowa to sell the old place, and he just tossed the small empty box aside, when Amber mailed him her old keys and a note announcing that she was already en route to her new job.
That left it to him, and he had the facilities arrange transport, for his mother and Aaron, and he told the realtor just to clear out the house, and sell it as is, and he drove down two weeks later to see to it that they were settling in, Aaron and his mother, and he didn't give it a second thought, he didn't, that she hadn't even sent him a forwarding address, or told him where she'd be working.
It didn't matter, anyway, he insisted, and he just scowled and drove faster, when April assured him that Amber would come around, and he just fidgeted in the Quickie Mart, waiting to pay for his soda and donuts and Surf Board key chain, and he just stared stoically and picked at his fingers as he heard it all again, a new crew of social workers and witch doctors and counselors promising that they were both doing fucking fine, even if they'd just been uprooted from the only stability they'd had in years.
At least it was a shorter trip now, April thought, though she knew better than to say it, and it was just a matter of time, she insisted to herself – probably – before Amber would come around, and at least call again, and it would all simmer down soon, she whispered to Winston, who just stared forlornly after Alex after he walked out of the room, since no cheeses doodles had been forthcoming, though Winston had waited patiently beside him the whole evening.
It would settle down and it did, over the next week or so, and another month passed, and then another, and it all faded into the buzz of surgeries and performance reviews and hospital re-organizations and a vicious battle over who should be the new Chief of Surgery, and it just dropped right into her lap, the invitation to replace Owen as head of the Trauma unit, since he would be the next Chief.
It was the last thing she expected, the last thing she'd ever anticipated – and she wasn't entirely sure she wanted it – but it was the opportunity of a lifetime, and it wasn't like she could turn it down. It would mean more responsibility, and more money, more cool surgeries, and more administrative headaches, more time spent at the hospital, and a stellar line on her resume, and it was a lot to take in all at once.
She heard about it immediately, as the grapevines churned up again, local and international – it was awesome, Cari chimed in, as if it was like that for April, too, as if her career were everything to her; it would give her a chance to make policy, Jenny said approvingly, as if she'd prefer that over surgery; it would make Alex jealous of her, Dani warned – as if Alex hadn't already bought celebratory basketball tickets for them; it would be exhausting, Beth pointed out, as she sat jet lagged and flight delayed in an airport somewhere between Bangkok and Belfast… or maybe the Bahamas… even she wasn't sure.
It bubbled through the hospital, too, about how everyone had expected it, about how no one had seen it coming, about how her husband must have had something on Owen – or Yang – about how it would mean big changes in the emergency room, about how it would be the same old, same old, about how she probably got it because they needed more women Attendings, about how she got it because she was doing it with Owen – in the Ambulance Bay, and the copy room, and the Skills Lab – about how she must be completely worn out, since she does it with Karev, too – in the on call rooms, and the Path lab, and the nursery, right in those rocking chairs.
It traveled faster than the speed of light, and it was making her head spin, as her first day as Head of Trauma approached, and it was making her toss and turn at night, as she ran all her plans over and over in her mind, and it made her vaguely queasy, her first few days, and it almost freaked her out during the first major accident on her watch – an industrial explosion, with at least forty victims, some they were still searching for a day later – and it kept her at the hospital for three days straight – and it ran through her mind as she finally dropped into a bunk, asleep before she was completely horizontal.
She woke hours later, groggy and disoriented, and unsure if it was day or night, and she almost startled at the arm wrapped around her, until the faint hint of chocolate and freshly fallen leaves brought her to her senses. She turned around toward him, tugging him closer as he sighed quietly, and listening to him breathe. It would put them right back on the grapevine, she imagined, brushing her lips across his hair as he stirred lazily. It would make for quite a story, too, she imagined, if they did it right then and there, since she was still loud and shrieky, and it wasn't like they could keep it quiet.
It would be all over the hospital in a heartbeat, she imagined, smirking at his familiar sleepy smile, as he stretched lazily and nuzzled into her neck. It would be all over, she figured, gently running her hands down his back, since she was still grabby, too – that she'd done it with Karev, and maybe even Yang and Hunt, too – for hours, and that they'd finally figured it out – why Karev had been limping painfully, back when he returned from their honeymoon, and that maybe it had been her all along, the one that had them doing it in the Atrium and the lap pool and the morgue and OR-3.
It was asking for trouble, he knew. But basketball season was over, and it was the first decent weather they'd had in weeks, and it had been a six month whirlwind since she'd taken the job, and it was starting to bug her, obviously, since she hadn't asked him to rearrange the weeds in the yard, and she hadn't been filling the bird feeders as regularly – and the freaking moochers were definitely chirping their complaints – and it wasn't like it was any more expensive than tickets to the Arena.
It was asking for trouble, and he almost changed his mind when they first walked through the gates, since it occurred to him that this might give her ideas, too, that she'd start picturing their yard again, and all the projects she still hadn't gotten to, and that she might want to add in a pen for a herd of zebras, or a pool for some homeless hippos, or a play-ground for some giraffes.
It would be a close call, too, judging from the way she cooed at the elephants, as she tossed them some low fat peanuts, and shrieked back at the moneys – which, okay, that sounded familiar, and kind of hot, even if she was doing it outside, in a crowded zoo, in plain day light – and stared starry eyed up at the giraffes that loped right over her, as if they might have heard how much she spoiled the dogs, and were getting ideas of their own.
It would just figure, he imagined, that she'd want to go home with a panda or a python or a puma. But she settled for a stuffed wolf from the gift shop, and a giraffe key chain with a bendy neck, and it just sort of settled into place again as she slipped her hand into his, and giggled that she'd loved it – the whole trip – and tugged him back toward the big cat display, which she swore reminded her of Sadie, though he didn't see it at all.
Whatever it was it blew over, and she was her again a few weeks later, chattering about Halloween decorations and dusting off fabric witches and the plastic ghosts – and rolling her eyes when he teased Winston and Tobey and Gracie with the skeletons in her closet – and it started all over again, the quest to find where she hid her candy stash, and to avoid being roped into costume wearing, just so they could give the neighborhood's junior beggars a "true Halloween experience," which was silly, if you thought about it, since it was a totally fake holiday to begin with, even if the food was good.
It spilled over into Thanksgiving, too, when they made the awkward trek down to Los Angeles – for a terse family meal at the psychiatric facility, since Amber had finally surfaced, and agreed to come, too – and it was tense and prickly and it made him vaguely nauseous, and it didn't matter at all, it didn't, if she wouldn't look him in the eyes, and it was a relief, at least, that he didn't have to hear it from the staff that time, that his mother and Aaron were doing fine, as if the medical bands on their wrists and the alarms on the doors and the pills they took by the handful were beside the freaking point.
It turned him beet red, too, on their ride back – since it was nothing like what April was used to, with her perfectly annoying family, and it wasn't like there was any way to get used to it, really – or if there was, he'd never found it – and he still wondered sometimes if it would be the last straw for her, if it would drive her away, that it probably lurked in him somewhere, too, simmering just below the surface.
Not that he'd blame her, if she couldn't hack it, since it was the only thing he'd ever counted on, really, the only thing he could ever trust for sure – that it would all blow up in his face, whatever it was – and that it would always end badly, with slit wrists or a sheet of paper slipped into his locker or a phone call from out of nowhere, telling him that it all had broken out again, and that it was all his fucking fault.
It was something she'd have to get used to, she thought with a giggle, watching out the window as Alex dragged the ladder from the garage, and hauled the giant decorative candy canes across the yard, and scowled as he studied them, as if it wasn't perfectly obvious which way they were supposed to be hung. It didn't matter, though, she reminded herself, as long as he lined the porch roof with them, and she ran her hand over the pie tin lid with a wicked smirk, because sure it was the season of peace and joy and love and lights and all, but he'd always been more susceptible to out-right bribes, and it even seemed to turn him on, sometimes, the deviousness, as long as it came with key lime pie and cool whip.
Not that she should think that way, she reminded herself sternly as she returned to her list, planning every last detail of their visit to Ohio the next week. She still wanted to pick up some perfume for Beth, and she always brought Jenny a package of Seattle's Best coffee, and she'd have to make arrangements with the kennel, again, and with Mrs. Neely across the street, for everybody else, and she needed to make sure her department ran smoothly, since holidays were a busy season for them, too.
She hated that, and it never failed, the car wrecks and the sled accidents and the icy slips and falls, and she hated it even more when she had to tell them that there was nothing she could do, and she hated it the most when she had to look into their eyes, and to tell them that their child had lost too much blood, or that their husband had too much brain damage, or that their wife had had a massive stroke or a heart attack, and that it was time to say good bye.
It's why people always doubted she was cut out for trauma surgery, she imagined, that it still kept her awake some nights – the looks on their faces, the terror in their eyes, the shock and the horror as her words penetrated their brains – and it's maybe why it didn't matter so much that she was tongue tied sometimes, since really, what was there to say, when a seven year old on his way to meet Santa Claus ended up in the morgue instead, a crinkled wish list still stuffed in the jacket with his bagged effects.
It was inevitable, she reminded herself sternly, and it was part of the job, and it was just at the tail end of an eighteen hour shift – since a flu bug had left the hospital short-handed - and it was manageable, because she'd done it before, and it was her job, and she was the go to chick in trauma, and it might have gone fine, she might have gotten through it, if she hadn't seen the boy's mother pull that list from his pocket, and smooth it out on the table, and if she hadn't read the first line, about how it was the main thing he'd wanted, a calico kitten named Max – which was already waiting for him, at his aunt's.
It was all downhill from there, and once it started it just wouldn't stop, and it was tears and regrets and pictures, and it was a long story, she told Alex, when she returned home the next evening, tears rolling down her face as she toted in a familiar cat carrier and some treats and a quivering bundle of calico fur with huge green eyes, as he just stared incredulously.
She admitted it, too, that she'd sort of promised – "no new additions" – and she admitted it, that they'd agreed the inn was full, but it was near Christmas, and he was homeless, and it wasn't like he took up much room, and he'd probably get along with Sadie – who she'd always thought could use a sibling – and sure the timing wasn't ideal, but it wasn't like Max could help that. It all poured out again after that, the sobbing mother and the distraught aunt and the crinkled list in the little dead boy's pocket, and it just didn't stop until she shoved the kitten into Alex's hands, imploring him with her glistening eyes.
