Danielle Steel - The Kiss

“Yes, there was. There still is. Look at us now. We've been talking for hours. I still love you, Bill. Can't we give it another chance?”

“I don't have anything left to give,” he said honestly. “I love you too, but I ran out of gas. I'll always love you, but if we tried again, I think it would turn out the same way. If I go back to work, I'll be gone, you'll be pissed, you'll be doing your own thing again,” he didn't spell it out, but they both knew what he meant. She'd be having affairs. “And if I can't go back to work, I'd be sitting around the house moping while you lead your life, and this time I'd be pissed. I'm better off on my own. And so are you, until you find the right guy.”

“You were the right guy,” she said, looking sad. She couldn't tell him he was wrong. But she felt bad leaving him on his own.

“Maybe I was, and maybe I wasn't. If I had been, it would have worked better than it did.”

“I was stupid then. I've grown up.”

“We both have. So let's be grown-up about this.” She didn't say anything for a minute, and then sighed. She could tell he'd made up his mind. And once he did, Bill never changed course. That was just the way he was.

“What about Isabelle?” Cynthia asked then.

“What about her?” Bill didn't want to talk about her with Cynthia. “There's nothing to say.”

“Why not?” Cynthia was surprised. He had been so obviously in love with her, it was hard to believe he was willing to let that go too. She wondered if he was depressed.

“She's married. I'm here. That's where it ends.”

“It's not like you to give up that easily. Why are you doing that? She can't be happy with that iceberg I saw in London. He looks like a real son of a bitch.”

“He is. But she has a very sick kid. I told you that. She can't leave Forrester, she thinks it would be too traumatic for the boy, and she can't provide for him. Believe me, Cyn, it's complicated. And besides, it's a moot point. I'm not going to inflict my problems on her on top of it. She deserves better than that. And so do you.”

Cynthia looked at him carefully. “Is that why you wanted a divorce?” She was horrified at the thought.

“In part,” he answered honestly, “but we have other reasons too. I did it for myself. And I'm going to stay away from her, for her sake. Unless they can work a miracle here.”

“You know what they told you in London,” she chided him, “that's not going to happen. You're not going to walk out of here on Rollerblades, Bill. Don't do that to yourself. Don't expect too much.”

“I'm not. I figure whatever I get will be an improvement. I'm just saying that as long as I am like this, I'm out of her life.”

“Does she know that?” Cynthia looked upset for him. It was a terrible reason to leave someone you loved, worse by far than the reasons why he wanted a divorce. And in some ways, she thought he was right to want a divorce, although she wouldn't have admitted it to him. If he'd have been willing to come back to her, she'd have taken him in a flash. But she knew only too well how indifferent she'd been to him for years. She only realized now fully what a great deal she'd had. And it was too late for them. “Does she know why you're ending it?” She felt sorry for them.

Bill shook his head. “She doesn't even know I am ending it. But you can only keep something alive at this distance, without seeing each other, for so long. We'll drift apart eventually. I'm going to be here for a long time. She has her own life. She'll get over it.”

“I'm not so sure. It sounds like she doesn't have much else in her life. And more importantly, will you get over it? And why should you? If she's half the human being I suspect she is if you're so crazy about her, she's not going to give a damn what state you're in. You're better than most guys standing on two feet.” It was exactly what Helena had said to him. “That's not what love is all about.”

“Maybe not. But it's who I am. I will never do that to her. She's not leaving Forrester anyway. She can't.” It didn't sound like a happy situation to Cynthia, and Bill was quiet for a long time after she left. Why was it that everyone was so insistent that it didn't matter if he was in a wheelchair permanently? It mattered to him. And he knew that, in the long run, it would matter to Isabelle. He refused to go down that path, with her or anyone else, no matter what Cynthia said. She had no idea what it was like. And he knew damn well that she could never have put up with it. She would have wound up hating him in the end for all that he wasn't and could no longer be or do. And he would never do that to Isabelle, not even if it meant lying to her and telling her he no longer cared. He was determined not to go back to see her in Paris if he couldn't walk off the plane. And as Cynthia had reminded him, there was almost no hope of that. If he had wanted that, he should have gone to Lourdes.

As time went on, the weeks at the rehab center went incredibly quickly for Bill. He was so busy, so tired, working so hard at all his therapies, that he hardly had time to come up for air.

Bill liked most of the therapists he worked with, they were bright and energetic and young, for the most part, and cared deeply about their patients. He was impressed with them right from the first. There was only one that he was unsure about, and he was unhappy when he was assigned to her. She was a sex therapist named Linda Harcourt, and he told her the first time they met that he had no interest in discussing therapy with her.

“Why not?” she asked, looking at him calmly from across her desk. She was a striking-looking woman, with good looks and an intelligent face, about his age. “Are you planning to give up sex?” she asked with a smile. “Or is everything okay?” He thought about lying to her, but something about the honesty in her eyes stopped him. He didn't want to talk to her about his nonexistent sex life, but something about the way she watched him told him she would think less of him if he ran away. And he couldn't think of a single reason why he should care what she thought of him, but for some unknown reason, he did. She was a person who commanded attention and respect. She seemed like a no-nonsense kind of woman, and at the same time, like the other therapists at the hospital, she seemed caring and warm. “I see on your chart that you're married,” she said easily, “do you think your wife would like to speak to me?” She was almost certain that his sexual function had been affected by his injuries, and if he didn't want to discuss it with her, maybe his wife would. It was not unusual for men to feel cautious about speaking to her about their sexual issues at first. Sometimes talking to their wives, when they had them, was a gentler way in. But Bill was quick to shake his head.

“I'm getting a divorce,” he said simply, closing that door firmly in her face.

“That's interesting. Was the accident part of that decision?” Bill looked away, didn't answer for a minute, and then shook his head again.

“Not really. We should have done it years ago. The accident just kind of brought things to a head.”

And then the doctor became a little more direct. “Have you had intercourse since the accident, or tried to?” she asked so noncommittally that he was surprised himself when he answered her.

“Yes.” There was no hint of how it had gone in the single word.

Her voice was gentle but not overly sympathetic. She was practical and down to earth, and there was nothing to suggest pity in her face. “How was it?”

“How was it for me?” He laughed at the old saw, and she smiled. It was what men usually said, particularly when it hadn't worked. She knew then what he would say next. “It wasn't, actually.”