Someone Like You. Karen Rock

Yet when he’d been honorably discharged after losing his lower leg in an ambush, he’d rebuffed her. His rejection still hurt. She’d needed to tell him about Chris’s death and had wanted to comfort him because of his injury. Sometimes it felt as if she’d lost them both to the war.

      They could have helped each other as they had in the past. A team. Inseparable since their summer-camp days.

      His withdrawal had left an empty space inside her that no one, not even Brett, had been able to fill.

       CHAPTER TWO

      “I KNOW YOU’RE there, so pick up!”

      Niall Walsh punched another line of HTML code into his computer, then glared at the answering machine vying for position with the modem, external hard drive, printer and fax machine cluttering his two desks. He pictured his determined older sister, MaryAnne, marching through his Bed-Stuy neighborhood, calling on her cell. Had she forgotten yesterday’s vow not to check in on him so often?

      His phone rang again, followed by the beep. For a low-tech device, it was effective. He should have unplugged it when he’d powered off his cell. “I made your favorite, lasagna,” her voice sounded through the speaker.

      His stomach grumbled. It’d been a while since he’d eaten. An empty pizza box balanced on his brownstone apartment’s radiator. It was the last thing he recalled ordering, and that’d been yesterday. Still, she’d given her word. Hunger or no, he was staying strong and not letting her in. It was better for both of them.

      “Come on, little brother,” he heard her say after he let the phone ring a third time. “I’ve got to get back to The White Horse and help Aiden before my night shift. Buzz me in when I get to your building.”

      He imagined the busy SoHo pub his older brother had managed since their father’s fatal heart attack. Aiden had taken charge of the six other children in the Walsh brood, and their Alzheimer’s-afflicted mother. At least he wouldn’t add to Aiden’s responsibilities. If MaryAnne would stop pestering him, he’d never bother a soul again.

      He glanced down at his prosthetic lower leg. The last person who’d come to his rescue had paid the ultimate price; the guilt that he lived and his savior did not was a bitter dose he swallowed every day. If not for his actions during the classified mission, that soldier might have been home now visiting with his own sister.

      “I promise not to clean your apartment.” Her voice turned pleading as she left her fourth message.

      He glanced around his small, dim apartment, noticing things as MaryAnne would. Laundry spilled out of an overflowing hamper beside his bathroom door. His galley kitchen counters were covered in empty take-out containers, and his sink was full of dishes. Dust coated his coffee table, but at least he’d put his empty soda cans in the recycle bin.

      Beside his shrouded windows hung a lone spider plant, its fronds green despite being watered rarely. He should just let it die, yet once in a while something about its droop made him lumber to the kitchen for a glass.

      A loud buzzing sounded. She was here, not fooled at all by his phone screening. He swore under his breath and limped to the door. Some things never quit...like MaryAnne. Plus, she was his sister, and he wouldn’t ignore her. Not really. Just teach her a lesson...as in...keep your word about not coming over.

      “Fine,” he called into the intercom, and then pressed the button to open the automatic front entrance. “But no cleaning,” he added as he unbolted his locks and slid back the chain.

      MaryAnne brushed by him a moment later and marched into his kitchen. “This place is a pigsty!”

      He inhaled the aroma of tomatoes, cheese and sausage left in her wake. His stomach grumbled again, grateful to her even if the rest of him wasn’t. When would she get the message that he didn’t want people going out of their way for him?

      “What are you doing?” he asked when she shook out an apron she’d pulled from her purse and tied it around her waist. “I said no cleaning.”

      His sister slid her eyes his way as she flicked on the faucet. She squeezed his dish soap bottle, got only a faint mist, then uncapped it and smacked the bottom until a dribble of clear gel oozed out.

      “This isn’t cleaning. It’s excavating a toxic waste site.”

      “I was getting to it as soon as I finished writing a program. I’m sending the prototype to my client this afternoon.”

      She shot him a skeptical look, then shoved a clean, wet plate at him. He shouldn’t have relented, but there was no denying his demanding sister. He grabbed a cloth and began drying.

      “You’re always working.” She passed him another dish. The crystal necklace he’d given her for Christmas winked under the single working bulb in his light fixture. “When are you going to leave the virtual world and start living in the real one? You’ve been home for almost two years.”

      Her freckles stood out against her pale, round face, making him wonder how much she got out. She worked in the family pub, at an assisted-living facility and now, at her third job, taking care of him. He ground his teeth. He wouldn’t be a burden to her or anyone.

      “It’s my life, MaryAnne, and that’s the way I want it.”

      She handed him a mug, disapproval twisting her mouth.

      “Staying inside all the time. Never seeing anyone. That’s not living. It’s hibernating.”

      He shoved the towel inside a glass. “I’m fine.”

      She arched an eyebrow. “But you’re not happy.”

      He opened his mouth to protest, but the denial stuck in his throat. “Have you picked out your wedding dress yet?”

      She shook the sponge at him, then got to work on his counters. “You’re not getting me off track, Niall.”

      “Did you go with the princess or mermaid style?” He recalled her talking about it when she’d visited over the weekend. If lasagna was his weakness, then wedding details were hers. Two could play at this game. He sent out a silent prayer that she wouldn’t quiz him on what those various styles meant. He wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference between a mermaid style or a princess style if an insurgent rebel had a semiautomatic pistol up to his head.

      “Oh, it’s got a gorgeous train that’s a full five feet of lace cutouts with—” Her voice rose then trailed off. She swept boxes into a garbage bag and laughed. “You almost got me.”

      When she struggled to lift the bulging sack, he grabbed it from her. “Can’t blame me for trying.”

      Out in the hallway, he waved to his startled-looking neighbor—Mrs. Robertson...or was it Robinson?—and pushed the trash down the chute. She blinked at him as if he were a ghost, and he supposed, to her, he was. When was the last time they’d run into each other? Six months ago?

      Back inside, MaryAnne shoved his laundry into his military bag.

      “Leave it, MaryAnne. Aiden needs you.”

      When she looked up, perspiration glistened on her forehead. She gestured around the room. “Not as much as you do.”

      He ground his teeth. MaryAnne should be picking out wedding flowers, not wasting her time on him. He coughed at the cloud of lemon-scented furniture polish she sprayed on his coffee table, and gathered up the newspapers tossed beside his couch. When his prosthetic caught on the table’s edge, he went down hard.

      MaryAnne knelt by his side, but he shook off her arm and stood. “I’ve got this. Go.” He instantly regretted his harsh tone when her mouth puckered. “Sorry. Look. Pick out china patterns and stop worrying about me. I want you to be happy.”

      Her eyes glistened. “I am. Do you know how lucky we are to have you home in one piece?”

      He