Page 27 of His Last Shot

I Know

Johnny

“ Y ou have reached Rachel. Sorry, I can’t come to the phone—”

Frustrated, I jam the end button and throw my phone into the car’s console.

She didn’t seriously just use the oldest excuse in the book to cancel this date. A date I have waited months for. A date I knew I wanted from the first time I laid eyes on her at Dexter’s.

I shake my head and yank the truck into drive. Nope. Not happening . I am going to do whatever it takes to get her to talk to me.

Before I know it, my truck is steering its way to her house. There is no way that one, I believe her lame excuse, or two, she gets to shut me out.

I’m going over there to find out what’s going on.

Ten minutes later, the bright lights from my truck illuminate her street as I make my way to her house, my hands tightening around the steering wheel.

Feeling overwhelmed and scattered, I remind myself to keep my composure and give her the benefit of the doubt because this might not be about me at all. Something could be really wrong.

Her dimly lit house comes into view as I pull into the driveway. Warm light spills out from the living room window, so I know she’s here.

Throwing the gear shift into park and killing the engine, I hop out as my boots crunch and stomp on the driveway.

With determination, I walk to her front door, ready for answers.

My mind is blank, fueled only by adrenaline, as I stand here with no idea what to say.

I raise my hand to knock on the bright blue door—

“Go away, Johnny.” Her meek words jolt straight through me as my hand freezes mid-knock. Then, I hear a muffled sniffle. I was right, something’s wrong, and I am not okay with her not being okay. Suddenly, my nerve endings are firing away.

“Rachel, talk to me, please. What’s wrong?” I plead as I lay my hand on the cold aluminum, ears open wide, waiting for her answer.

“I can’t let you see me like this.” Another sniffle. Confusion rings out in my head.

“Like what? Rachel, please. If you need help, let me help you.” God, why won’t she just open the door?! She lets out a long, weary sigh, barely audible due to this enormous slab of metal locked and separating us.

“Johnny, I need to tell you something.” Her voice, weak and shaking, rips me in two, and the terror in her words carries.

She wants to tell me about her RA, I know it.

All I want to do is wrap her in my arms and tell her it’s going to be okay.

That I don’t care. That her RA is only something she has. It’s not who she is.

“Okay. Sure. Open the door and we can talk,” I implore.

Nothing.

A few very long moments pass, and I wish her reply would replace the constant hum of the crickets. The slight chill in the air does nothing to settle the dread in the pit of my stomach. She coughs, then … “I changed my mind. Go away, Johnny, please.”

Nope, not happening.

Ever since I saw her behind the bar that first day, my whole world tilted on its axis. I want this woman in my life. I need her in my life. If she believes I’m walking away this easily, she’s sadly mistaken.

There have been so many women in my past, and not one of them measure up to Rachel. All of them have been steps leading me here. And she needs to know that I am on her side .

It’s her news, her life, so I was waiting for her to tell me. But for whatever reason, a nervous energy churns beneath my skin, urging me forward. She needs to know that I have been there for her these last few months. That I asked her out, multiple times, even knowing.

I rest my forehead on the cool metal and anchor myself. I have no idea if this is going to upset her. But it’s a chance I’m willing to take. “Rachel”—I steady myself—“I know.”

Silence. Well, except for the dang crickets.

Seconds pass, and it’s like hours as I wait for her to respond. Maybe she didn’t hear me.

“Rachel?” I lift my head, staring at the blue door. “Are you still there? I said I know about—”

A sharp click of the lock echoes in the night’s stillness, and I take a step back to watch the doorknob turn. Slowly, the door creaks open but just a sliver, only enough for her eye to peak through the slit. “What do you mean? You know?” she demands in a hush whisper, her lip is trembling.

“I know about your RA.”

She sucks in a breath. “What? H … How? I don’t understand.”

The moment has arrived; it’s time to tell her, though a knot of anxiety tightens in my chest at her reaction.

“The day I met you at the bar. Remember?” She nods and glances at her socked feet, a slight blush grazing her cheeks at the memory.

“I overheard your brother talking to the Oldies but Goodies. It wasn’t my intent to eavesdrop, I swear.

I was coming out of the restroom and heard your brother telling them you had a doctor’s appointment with a new rheumatologist and how nervous you were.

Then Slick asked if your RA was acting up.

I walked away after that because I recognized it for what it was … a private conversation.”

She’s still staring at her big fluffy socks, taking this in. A single tear drops and hits the hardwood floor. She swipes another from her cheek and looks at me again, contemplating. Processing. “I don’t understand. You knew and yet you asked me out, anyway? Like, you kept asking.”

“I did.”

“And you kissed me. Three times.”

“Best kisses of my life.”

“Why, though? I’m damaged. My body works against me and literally hates me. And you’re”—the door opens a tad wider as she waves a hand over my body—“you. You could have anyone. Why me?”

Motivated by nothing but love, I step to get closer to her.

All I want to do is push wide open this huge blue door and encase her in my arms. But I won’t invade her space until she invites me in.

Nervous tension rises in my stomach. “You really want to know why?” She shrugs, her eyes back on her socks again.

God, I hate what this disease has done to her self-esteem.

It’s time to let her know why I’m here on her doorstep, the weight of my feelings for her heavy on my chest. “Because you’re you.

” I tilt my head to the sky, trying to collect my thoughts.

Everything I’ve felt about this woman is bubbling to the surface.

“When you smile, there is nothing simple about the movement of your lips. Your grin travels clear to your eyes, making them shine. It changes the color of your cheeks, and the laugh that usually follows causes your nose to crinkle. The whole thing is a marvel to watch, and it is so genuine. Yet, I know every person who is fortunate enough to get a smile from you deserves it because nothing about you is fake.”

I inch forward some more, and she opens the door wider, gradually letting me in.

Physically and emotionally. Quickly, I scan her body.

She couldn’t look more adorable if she tried.

An oversized zip-up Pittsburgh sweatshirt with shorts and socks.

Reaching through the crack in the door and placing my finger beneath her chin, I gently lift her face towards mine, her skin soft.

I need her eyes on me while I describe the incredible woman standing in front of me. Because I’m not sure any man ever has.

Their loss is hopefully my gain.

Our eyes lock. The tranquility of the night suspends, breathing, flowing. “You are so much more than a pretty face.” She shakes her head and tries to break away again, but I hold firm. “I’m serious. I have never met a woman as cool as you.” A mock chuckle erupts from her like, ‘Yeah, okay. ’

I continue. “It’s true. You have substance and a story, one I hope you will share with me some day.

You are so strong. I can’t imagine what you have gone through.

You show up every day for your uncle, who I’m not sure even deserves it.

” I pause as her expression goes flat with this statement, yet she studies me, taking in my entire face.

“You are smart. So smart. The medical field is lacking at the moment because you aren’t in it.

And if you ever decide to go to nursing school, I will cheer you on every step of the way.

Hell, I’ll even wear a uniform with a skirt if that will help change your mind. ”

The smile I love so much appears. It’s small but pure as her eyes shine slightly. “Will you have pom-poms?” she asks.

“Obviously.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

“Good. So, is that a bet?”

“Yes, that is most definitely a bet.” And this is a bet I’m happy to lose.

The door swings fully open, revealing her inches from me, yet I hesitate on the porch, silently requesting her permission to enter.

As I wait, I take in more of her appearance.

Her face is free of makeup, and she’s been crying.

Hard. Blotchy face, puffy eyes; dried tears stain her cheeks.

It’s obvious she was crying way before I got here. Yet, she’s never been more beautiful.

It’s her hair, though, that I zero in on. Wet, shiny strands hang limply from her shoulders. That’s when it hits me. She really was washing her hair. But why cancel our date for that?

I reach out and slide my fingers under a wet strand. “Rachel, I could go on and on about how wonderful you are, but … I need to know. Why did you cancel our date? Please, be honest with me. Now that the truth is out there, you can tell me anything. No judgement.”

Gradually, she steps out of the way and motions for me to come inside.

Thank goodness!

She shuts the door, taking a second to compose herself.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I needed to wash my hair.

I collided with my brother at work. He was holding a pitcher of beer, and it went everywhere.

My hair was down, and so it took the brunt of it, together with my clothes.

I didn’t want to show for our date smelling like Bud Light.

But also, I’m having a flare-up today. When that happens”—her left hand goes straight to her right elbow and rubs—“I have a very hard time raising my shoulders and bending my elbows. Which makes it hard—”

“To wash your hair,” I finish for her. My gut clenches with the rising tide of guilt as I berate myself for having any sort of anger toward her for canceling. I peer at the floor, taking in this new and private side of her life.

“My brother will do it for me when he’s here. But he’s working, and my sister-in-law is out of town. I thought I could do it myself, but as you can see”—she points to her head—“I failed.”

An idea strikes me like a lightning bolt. “Let me wash your hair for you.”

She jolts back in shock. “What?”

“My mom was a hairdresser, and I used to help during summer break. I would wash her clients’ hair. The older ladies loved me.”

She laughs, followed by a small snort as her hand flies to her mouth. “What’s so funny?” I ask.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes, still giggling. “A vision of a younger Johnny working in a hair salon just popped into my head, and, well, it’s a vision, that’s for sure.”

After we both calm down, I plead with her. “I promise to tell you all about it, but please, Rachel. Let me help you.”

“I don’t know…” She turns away, wrapping her arms around her body. She’s still so guarded. It’s heartbreaking.

“I’ve been told that I do a mean scalp massage.”

This catches her attention, and I’m met with a smile. This one changing the color of her cheeks.

“Okay.”