Kathleen Creighton - The Top Gun's Return

She didn't expect anyone to answer. She expected voice mail, or a recording instructing her to dial her party's extension, or press one for this or that option. Instead, after three rings, she heard a vaguely familiar voice say briskly, "Cory Pearson."

"It looks worse than it is," Tristan muttered, squirming under Jessie's unwavering gaze. She hadn't said a word to him, yet, just stood there in the doorway of his E.R. cubicle with her hands tucked in the pockets of her smock and looked at him. He'd expected her to be upset-angry, or crying, maybe-but as far as he could tell, she wasn't any of those things. He couldn't read her at all. Once he'd been able to, like a book. But now he couldn't. He'd have better luck trying to figure out what a stranger was thinking.

But then, he reminded himself, that's what she was now. A stranger.

She came toward him, her face calm…almost serene, and he found himself experiencing rather childish twinges of pique. He'd been in a motorcycle accident, for God's sake, she ought to be a little bit upset. Then he was instantly ashamed of himself. What she ought to do, he told himself, is kick your butt.

"You look like you tried to break up a cat-fight." She reached out to carefully finger the hair back from his forehead, uncovering one of his more spectacular contusions. She examined the neat and tidy little bandages that held it together, then let the hair fall back over it. Her touch felt cool…impersonal. Something inside him squalled in protest of that, like a child with a skinned knee. "So…what happened?"

"Ah, some idiot cut me off. Didn't have time to stop, so I opted to ditch…so to speak." His lips twitched themselves into a smile. Sort of. "Still have my flying reflexes, anyway."

Her eyes were quiet and dark. "What shape is the bike in?"

He made a face, as if he'd felt a twinge of pain-which he had. His brand-new bike. Jeez. "I don't know. Didn't look too bad, what I saw of it before they carted me off, anyway. Damn, " he added mournfully.

"You were lucky," she said in a shaking voice. He saw her throat move with her swallow, and remorse wrapped him in its clammy blanket.

"I've had a hell of a lot worse," he growled, and when her eyes flicked toward him, glossy with pain, he wanted to throttle himself. He must be more shaken-up than he realized, to have said something that dumb.

"Well," she said stiffly, "I guess I wouldn't know about that." Her mouth had a wounded look, and he felt dismal and misunderstood. She didn't have a clue what he was doing for her. What he was saving her from by not telling her how it had been for him. Probably, he thought, with a cold gray sense of futility, she never would.

"So," he said, "when are they gonna let me out of here?"

She took a lifting breath, like a mark of punctuation, accepting the change of subject with what he was certain was relief. Like turning our backs on the damned elephant in the room, he thought. So be it.

"You're gonna have to ask the doctor about that," she said, cool and impersonal again, looking past him with her hands in the pockets of her smock. "They've got you scheduled for X rays…some other tests…just to make sure you haven't got any internal injuries…" And he saw the way her throat kept rippling, and how tight her mouth looked, and he realized she wasn't as unmoved as she'd tried to appear.

His feelings for her welled up in him like a pot boiling over-nothing he could do to stop it. He called softly to her, and his voice made a gravelly sound. "Jessie-honey." He held out a hand and she hung back from him for a long, angry moment, as if touching him was about the last thing she wanted to do. "Come on, Jess-please…" his torn, wretched voice pleaded, and she gave in with a breathy whimper of defeat. As she let him take her hand he could see her fighting back tears. He reeled her in so he could get his hand around the back of her neck, then closed his eyes and with a gusty sigh, pulled her close and tucked her face into the curve of his neck and shoulder. "Honey, I'm all right…I'm okay. "

He could feel her nod. He could feel, too, the deep-down tremors that rippled through her every now and then. He rubbed the back of her neck gently, wishing he could immerse his hands in the warm, sweet-smelling softness of her hair. But she had it twisted up and fastened to the back of her head with some kind of clip, and he had to be content with savoring the velvety textures of skin and fine down on her nape, instead. "I am, you know. I'm gonna be fine," he said.

"I know." She pulled away from him and straightened up, delicately touching at her eyes with her fingertips like someone trying not to smear mascara, though it was obvious even to him she wasn't wearing any. She took a restorative breath. "I have to get back upstairs. When they're done with you here, have somebody call me, okay? I can take off early, whenever you're ready to go home."

"Yeah, I will." She nodded, hesitated, then leaned down to kiss him, a light, sweet brush of lips still damp and salty from tears she hadn't let him see her shed. She straightened again, and was on her way out of the cubicle when he remembered something. "Jess?" She turned, eyebrows lifted. "Don't tell Sammi June."

Her lips curved in a way that let him know she hadn't forgiven him yet, by a long shot. "Too late," she said, on a little grace note of satisfaction, and left him.

Tristan groaned, then settled back to endure another long day of waiting, of staring at a hospital ceiling and listening to the sounds of other people's crises. He didn't mind the pain he was in, so much; he'd learned to welcome pain for the message it carried, which was the assurance that he was still alive. In addition to that, he considered this particular pain justice, penance for the emotional pain he was causing Jess. He wished to God he could tell her he'd make it up to her, somehow, but the truth was, he didn't know how he ever could.

Sometime later, he didn't know how much, but probably midafternoon-he'd been to X ray and then dozed some while he waited for the lab work to come back-he heard a light tapping on the glass of his cubicle. He opened his eyes, then pushed himself hastily into a more upright position.

"God, you look awful," Cory Pearson said, pushing away from the door and coming toward him. "What did you do to yourself?"

"Ah…shoot. Looks a lot worse than it is." Well, hell, it was a good line the first time-might as well use it again. Tristan held out a hand for Cory to shake, then winced; some of the worst cuts were on his hands and arms-probably from trying to break his fall. "What're you doing here?"

Cory shrugged and looked guilty. "Ah, well. I was in Atlanta, actually. Taping a segment for CNN-follow-up stuff. You know-how does it feel, readjusting to life after being a POW? Since I was so close, I thought I'd-"

"She called you, didn't she?"

"Yeah." Cory's smile was only a little guilty. "The rest of it's true, though. About being in Atlanta-that's how I got here so quick. Your wife got me on my cell phone. And about the taping." He pulled a stool with rollers on its legs close to Tristan's bedside and sat on it. "Hell, you know, you're the one who should be doing this thing, not me. I was only there for four months. You're the one with the adjustments-make a helluva story." His eyes gleamed with a reporter's fervor.

Tristan snorted and looked away, shifting restlessly under the blood-spotted sheet. Cory watched him in silence for a few moments, then said, "So."

Tristan shot him a look, anger flaring. "So what?"

"So, how're you doing?" Tristan shrugged, and after a pause, Cory said quietly, "If you don't mind my saying so-and even if you do-you don't look like you're doing all that well."