The Man Who Can't Be Moved

Emma-Leigh's POV

I have officially taken my first step on a career path.

After hours of pouring through the course catalogues from both Penn State and the University of Pittsburgh and circling everything and anything that I was remotely interested in -only to have Peyton shake her head in dismay at what she calls my ‘scatterbrainedness’ and then give me a lecture on ‘getting my shit together’- I have decided that I’m going to apply to the latter; a four year course in paediatric physiotherapy that will allow me to work with infants and children with acquired brain injuries, chromosomal and genetic defects and moderate to severe disabilities. I’ve always loved children; there’d been a time in high school when I’d mulled over both nursing and teaching and a brief moment when I’d considered going to community college in order to get a diploma in Early Childhood Education so that I could open up my own daycare centre in Sault Ste Marie. I have a soft spot for special needs kids; in school I was always the first -and usually the only one- to befriend the kids in the resource room and treat them as if they were valuable members of society. My grandpa -Papa, as Tyler and I have called him since we were little- had been drilling ‘treat others how you would want to be treated’ into mine and Tyler’s heads since we were just little kids; he had high standards he expected us to live up to and we’d always done our best to make him proud of us. He’d also been more like a father to us than the man who’d actually helped create our lives; grandpa was the one that would always take us to early morning hockey practices, fishing and camping trips and a two week vacation to Disney World when Tyler had graduated from grade eight.

Taking a course and delving into a career that would allow me to do something productive and honourable -at least in my grandpa’s eyes- would hopefully alleviate some of the strain and repair some of the damage I’d done to our relationship. While he didn’t disagree with me marrying young or jumping head first into a serious commitment with a man I barely knew, he’d been extremely disappointed in me for handling things the way I’d had; he’d been thoroughly disgusted that I’d treated Sidney the way I’d had when it had been -in Papa’s words- ‘pretty damn obvious that the sun rose and set on your as far as he was concerned’. Grandpa had been furious when word had gotten back to him; he’d immediately gotten on a plane and had flown to Pittsburgh to confront both Max and I about what had gone down and to ‘see if this new guy measured up’ according to his standards. The meeting -held the night before I was scheduled to leave for my stay in Montreal- had been intense and emotional and Papa had raked us both over the goals and had shown us no mercy. He was horrified by what we’d done; he’d thought the least we could have done was get our hands off of each other until I broke things off with Sidney and then keep our newfound relationship quiet and low key until the majority of the ‘sting’ went away.

“But what’s done is done,” he’d said after his long winded rant. “It’s happened and you can’t turn back the clock no matter how bad either of you want to. People screw up; it’s human nature. But you…” he’d narrowed his eyes and fixed a steely glare on my new boyfriend. “…if you so as much ruffle a hair on my granddaughter’s head, I will completely fuck you up. I’m a retired iron worker, son. I even dabbled in construction when I was a much younger man. I know how to wield power tools and mix cement. And you can best be sure that when I’m through with you, you’ll be scattered all over the Alleghany River.”

Papa is the only member of my family -other than my brother and even that took a lot of courage and willpower on my part to repair things between us- that I keep in constant contact with. He calls me regularly and sends me daily emails -sixty five percent of them are totally off colour or completely dirty and he usually writes in the subject header ‘Max’s eyes only’ while the other thirty five are tales of whatever fishing and hunting expedition he recently went on or what women he’s charming down at the seniors’ recreation centre. He was also the lone Kennedy that had attended my ‘graduation’ ceremony from the mental health rehab facility; he’d even shown up in a brand new suit and immaculately polished shoes with a dozen long stemmed roses on one arm and a lady friend on the other.

Yet things have never been the same between us since I’d handled the situation with Sid the way I’d had; I always feel as if I need to prove to Papa that I’m not a poor excuse for a human being. I want him to look at me with pride and respect again and I want him to love me and cherish me the way he’d had before I’d made such a mess out of my personal life and hurt someone so incredibly special in the process. The first step in proving to Papa that I’m not a lost cause is to go back to school; get a degree in something that he feels is noble and worthy.

And I’m doing it for Max as well; he wants me to go back to school and get my degree because he feels as if he’s thrown a massive monkey into my entire life. He doesn’t want to feel as if I’m abandoning something I’ve always dreamed about just because I’d fallen in love with him and decided to delve into marriage and I hate that he thinks that he’s somehow single handily responsible for the mess that us being together has created. If going back to school is what makes him happy, than it’s the least I can do; I want him to proud of me and I don’t want him to feel as if I’d given up on my education simply because I’d become his wife. After everything that he’s sacrificed for me, getting my degree seems like the perfect way of repaying him. Or at least showing him how much I appreciate everything he’d done and everything he’d given up.

Now it’s just a matter of applying; I’ve decided on the course and now all I have to do is put pen to paper and drop off the finished application. I’ve done this song and dance twice before; first when I’d chosen to head to London to study at Western because it was the one university I’d applied to that was furthest from one, and second when I’d decide to take up Penn State’s offer to play hockey for them while completing my degree.

And we all know how that went.

Sighing heavily, I push my glasses up onto my forehead and pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. All of the educational decisions and the worry about finances -Peyton thinks I’m insane for even thinking about the latter and constantly reminds me how much Max clears a year and how little our expenses are compared to cash coming into the house- is giving me a massive headache. I haven’t been sleeping well since my husband left on his road trip -I’d thought I’d be able to deal with ‘empty bed syndrome’ considering we’d already been apart for so long- and despite my love for anything and everything paranormal, I’m finding it difficult spending nights alone in a place that used to be a funeral home. I can’t stop thinking about how people were once stored in my basement; I swear I’ve even been hit coming down the stairs with the sudden smell of embalming fluid and that I’ve run into legit cold spots where the air seems at least fifteen degrees cooler.

Max’s admission yesterday via long distance phone call that he’d been injured during practice and was being sent home early to rest his bad shoulder has just added to my anxiety. I’m concerned about both his short and long term well being; I’ve already made an emergency appointment with the surgeon scheduled to do his operation in June and because of insane paranoia regarding flying I can’t stop worrying about him and fearing the worst is going to happen and that I’m going to be left a grieving widow before I even really get used to being a wife in the first place.

I shove all the thoughts of doom and gloom to the back burner and slipping my glasses back down onto my nose, cast a glance down at the delicate pearl encrusted pink gold bangle watch perched upon my wrist. I’d left the house an hour and a half before Max’s flight was scheduled to land; I’d thought that roads would be horrific because of the near incessant string of snowstorms that have turned the city into a virtual Armageddon, only to find that the drive to Pittsburgh International had been remarkably smooth sailing. I’ve spent the last forty minutes attempting to kill time by the various beauty and fashion magazines and tabloids that I’d picked up when I’d stopped for gas, only to open In Style and find myself confronted by full page spreads of ex girlfriends (if anyone that Max had previously been involved with can be referred to as a girlfriend) of both my husband and my former…well what Sid had been at the bitter end. It certainly deflates your ego when both women are drop dead gorgeous; when Kathy Leutner is showing off those killer curves in nothing more than a pair of Abercrombie and Fitch Daisy Dukes and Noot Seear (who in their right fucking mind goes by Noot when their real name Renata sound so ethnic and sexy to begin with) is being declared the modelling industry’s possible ‘new shining star/super model’.

It honestly makes me want to go home and eat a couple of gallons of ice cream out of sheer rebellion and then phone Jenny Craig in the morning out of guilt. I’ve never been a small girl; it’s impossibly to be considered model material when you’re only five foot two and the time I’d spent on the ice and in the gym keeping in shape for hockey (all of which is slowly deteriorating now that I’ve turned into a lazy ass bitch) had made my shape more athletic and shapely instead of excessively skinny with my hip and shoulder bones protruding. I’d always vowed I’d never be ‘one of those girls’; when I’d hooked up with Sid I’d sworn I’d never become the typical WAG with the size zero body and the bleached blond hair and the enormous, fake tits and orange tan. I just want to be me; I don’t want to have to transform myself into someone I’ll no longer recognize or respect.

The ghosts of girlfriends past normally don’t bother me; I’ve accepted Max’s past and I’ve learned how to both laugh about his previous manwhore behaviour and how to successfully ride his ass about it. But there’s something about Noot Seear that just grates on my nerves; that makes me exceptionally uneasy, insanely jealous and profoundly self conscious.

And my mood hasn’t been made any better thanks to a nasty stomach virus I’ve been carting around for damn near two weeks; nearly ten days now of dizziness and nausea and guzzling bottles of Ginger Ale and devouring boxes of crackers in a vain attempt to settle my tummy and trying to conjure up the strength and will power to just get out of bed and tackle even the most simple, mundane tasks.

It’s stress, I conclude, and picking up the Starbucks take out cup that sits on the seat next to me in the passenger arrival area, take a sip of my now lukewarm caramel flavoured steamer. I just have way too much on my mind and a million and one things to figure out and not even hours in the day to do it. An interview at Pottery Barn next week that -despite Peyton’s insistences and gripes that the idea of Max Talbot’s wife earning minimum wage as a sales girl at a home furnishing store is just plain ‘fucking ludicrous’- I’m seriously considering still attending, my life altering decision regarding my schooling and my plan to talk to Sidney as soon as the Pens get back to town at the end of next week, my mind and my body are exhausted.

Just a little while longer and things will go back to normal, I assure myself.

Whatever ‘normal’ is.

*************

MAX’S POV

I’d slept the majority of the three and a half hour flight home; the meds I’m consistently popping to battle the incessant pain in my shoulder mixed with one hell of a fucking hangover had worked easily and efficiently to knock me out the second the plane had lifted off the tarmac at LAX. Back in my single, carefree bachelor days I would have been the guy on the flight that busied himself by chatting up any and all females that he found attractive; I’d never discriminated by nationality or even body type simply because beautiful women couldn’t be all lumped together or shoved into a perfect, idealistic package that society creates for them. I guess I’d always been an ‘equal opportunity’ pervert; as long as you were attractive and desirable by my standards and I didn’t have to put a bag over your head to fuck you, you had a leg up on the competition.

Then I’d gotten married and everything changed. There’s no woman on earth that appeals to me now; what other men ogle and salivate over and what society deems as ‘gorgeous’ or ‘stunning’ doesn’t even turn my head in the slightest. As far as I’m concerned I already have the definition of perfect back at home; a woman that takes my breath away the second she smiles at me, who makes me tingle from head to toe with even the smallest of kisses and who has clearly defined the startling differences between sex and intimacy. It goes far beyond a simple physical connection or the desire to ‘get your rocks off’; it’s about a bond that exists between two people that accept one another’s faults and look past their often shady histories and who love one another ‘as is’. That’s what love is about; feeling that overwhelming adoration and respect every time you look at someone and knowing that in the end, when you’re no longer a professional hockey player and all of the fame and fortune comes to crashing and sudden halt, that person is going to be the one that still loves you and worships you long after the fan girls have moved on to someone else. Love doesn’t leave because you’re a washed up, broken down mess; it rubs your sore knees and listens to you bitch and moan about your aches and your pains and it tolerates you even on the days you’re being an insufferable, miserable bastard.

No woman can hold a candle to Em; she’s my everything, my always and forever and my world revolves around her. And there’s no one on earth that could ever come close to her or even begin to take her place.

And it’s that love and respect and undying adoration that is turning me into the type of man that she can be proud of; a husband that is one hundred percent faithful and who’d never, ever dream of hurting her out of fear of losing everything that is incredible in his life. The old Max would have gotten off the plane with a few phone numbers stores in his cell and maybe even a hook up with one of the stewardess’ in the plane bathroom under his belt. Just like the old Max would have been exercised his right to fuck anything and everything that walked with a wiggle last night at the strip club; he would have been tucking money down every possible G string and he would have easily coughed up a few grand on lap dances alone. Never mind what he would have spent on a little ‘private room’ treatment.

I’d been an exceptionally good boy; I’d gotten loaded but had managed to hold on to my common sense when it came to getting myself into any compromising situations. The only person who’d gotten lap dances on my time had been Tanger; it had been hilarious to watch him blush furiously and shift awkwardly in his chair while strippers grinded in his lap and shoved their bare tits in his face. And I may have been completely polluted but I’d still managed to hold on to my common sense; dumping one of the dancers on her ass when she’d perched herself in my lap and offered to show me a good time somewhere more ‘dark and quiet’.

Those days are long behind me. I have no desire to engage in random hook ups and the entire lifestyle seems boring and ridiculous to me.

Although I haven’t lost all my stupidity apparently. The swelling in my face, the inability to both speak of close my mouth properly and the ache that radiates throughout my mouth and along both sides of my jaw are all testament to the fact that I still make rash and moronic decisions. I’d done it for Em though; I’d been thinking about my wife when I’d walked into that tattoo/piercing parlour at three in the morning and announced I wanted ‘something different’. It’s not the freshly done ink on the back of my right thigh that’s bothering me; I’ve almost completely forgotten about the massive Fleur de Lis that’s now permanently etched into my skin. It’s a simple piece of metal that’s causing me a world of discomfort.

I’d wanted it to be a surprise. A whole ‘honey look what I did!’ moment. And I was relieved that my wife hadn’t initially noticed that something just wasn’t quite right; she’d been more freaked out by the sight of my arm in a sling than she had the fact that my cheeks look as if I’m storing nuts for the winter. I’d managed to prevent her worry from getting the best of her by effortlessly scooping her up with my one good arm and I’d lost myself in the warmth of her body and the smell of her hair as she curled her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck and she buried her face in my shoulder. I’d missed her; more than I’d thought I would considering we’d already spent nearly half a year apart to begin with. Her embrace feels like home; a warm, safe place that I can retreat to when everything around me feels as if it’s going to shit.

“What’s wrong with your face?” Em now asks, worry furrowing her brow and darkening her eyes as she tenderly cradles my swollen cheeks in her hands. “Did you get into a fight or something? Break your jaw? How come…”

“It’s nothing like that,” I assure her. “Ce n’est rien pour vous a vous inquieter de votre jolie tete peu.”

“Why are you talking like that?” she frowns. “Why are you talking so funny?”

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” I tell her, and then proceed to stick my tongue out and show off the metal bar bell that now travels straight through the middle of it.

“Are you insane?!” she nearly shrieks. I can’t tell whether she’s horrified or impressed. Or maybe even a bit of a both. This is a woman that is no stranger to her own body art, as evidenced by the massive tattoo that stretches along her lower back from hip to hip and the piercing that sits just below the middle of her bottom lip. “You got your tongue pierced? For real?”

“Just for you, baby…” I give her a playful wink and then press a feathery kiss to her lips. “Just give it two or three weeks until it heals up and then I’ll be able to put it to good use. Ce sera bon pour vous. Extremement bien.”

“But I never had any complaints about your…skills…before. They’ve always been…exceptionnel. Tres incroyable.”

“Les choses seront encore mieux maintenant,” I assure her. “Off the fucking hook.”

“Now that…” she gives a devilish grin and wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. “I can’t wait to see. You know, you’re lucky you’re as hot and irresistible as you are,” she says, and pressing a kiss to my scruffy cheek, nuzzles her nose against the side of my neck before laying her head on my shoulder once again. “You’re lucky I love you as much as I do.”

She couldn’t be more right. And I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fully convey just how goddamn lucky I actually do feel. How blessed and fortunate I am that after every shitty and questionable thing I’ve ever done in my life, I’ve somehow managed to have someone like her fall in love with someone like me.