If You Can't Stand the Heat.... Joss Wood

Lover? Colleague? Friend?

      ‘Hi, Ma.’

      Or his mother. Horribly uncomfortable with the level of relief she felt on hearing that he was talking to his mother, Ellie scuttled from the room.

      * * *

      Jack lifted the mobile to his ear on an internal groan. He just wanted to go and lie down on that bed and sleep. Was that too much to ask? Really?

      ‘I haven’t been able to reach you for a week!’ said his mother Rae in a semi-hysterical voice.

      ‘Mum, we had an agreement. You only get to worry about me after you haven’t spoken to me for three weeks.’ Jack rubbed his forehead, actively trying to be patient. He understood her worry—after all that he’d put her and his father through how could he not?—but her over-protectiveness got very old, very quickly.

      ‘Are you hurt?’ his mother demanded curtly.

      He wished he’d learnt to lie to her. ‘Let me talk to Dad, Mum.’

      ‘That means you’re hurt. Derek! Jack’s hurt!’

      Jack heard her sob and she dropped the phone. His father’s voice—an oasis of calm—crossed the miles.

      ‘Are you hurt?’

      ‘Mmm.’

      ‘Where?’

      Everywhere. There was no point whining about it. ‘Couple of dents. Nothing major. Tell Mum to calm down to a mild panic.’ Jack heard his mum gabbling in the background, listened through his father’s reassurances and waited until his father spoke again.

      ‘You mother says to please remind you to visit Dr Jance. Does she need to make an appointment for you?’

      He’d forgotten that a check-up was due and he felt his insides contract. He did his best to forget what he’d gone through as a teenager, and these bi-yearly check-ups were reminders of those dreadful four years he’d spent as a slave to his failing heart. He tipped his head back in frustration when he heard Rae demand to talk to him again.

      ‘Jack, the Sandersons contacted us last week,’ she said in a rush.

      Jack felt his heart contract and tasted guilt in the back of his throat. Abruptly he sat down on the edge of the bed. Brent Sanderson. He was alive because Brent had died. How could he not feel guilty? It was a constant—along with the feeling that he owed it to Brent to live life to the full, that living that way was the only way he could honour his brief life, the gift he’d been given...

      ‘In six weeks it will be seventeen years since the op, and Brent was seventeen when he died,’ Rae said with a quaver in her voice.

      She didn’t need to tell him that. He knew exactly how long it had been. They’d both been seventeen when they’d swapped hearts.

      ‘They want to hold a memorial service for him and have invited us...and you. We’ve said we’ll go and I said that I’d talk to you.’

      Jack stretched out, tucked a pillow behind his head and blew out a long stream of air. He tried not to dwell on Brent and his past—he preferred the it happened; let’s move on approach—and he really, really didn’t want to go. ‘It’s a gracious invitation but I’m pretty sure that they’d be happy if I didn’t pitch up.’

      ‘How can you say that?’

      ‘Because it would be supremely difficult for them to see me walking around, fit and healthy, knowing that their son is six feet under, Mum!’

      They’d given him the gift of their son’s heart. He’d do anything to spare them further pain. And that included keeping his distance...

      ‘They aren’t like that and they want to meet you. You’ve avoided meeting them for years!’

      ‘I haven’t avoided them. It just never worked out.’

      ‘I’ll pretend to believe that lie if you consider coming to Brent’s service,’ Rae retorted.

      His mother wasn’t a fool. ‘Mum, I’ll see. I’ve got to go. I’ll visit when I’m back in the UK.’

      ‘You’re not in the UK? Where are you?’ Rae squawked.

      Jack gritted his teeth. ‘You’re mollycoddling me, and you know it drives me nuts!’

      ‘Well, your career drives me nuts! How can you, after fighting so hard for life, routinely put yourself in danger? It’s—’

      ‘Crazy and disrespectful to take such risks when I’ve been given another chance at life. I’m playing Russian Roulette with my life and you wish I’d settle down and meet a nice girl and give you grandchildren. Have I left anything out?’

      ‘No,’ Rae muttered. ‘But I put it more eloquently.’

      ‘Eloquent nagging is still nagging. But I do love you, you old bat. Sometimes.’

      ‘Revolting child.’

      ‘Bye, Ma,’ Jack said, and disconnected the call.

      He banged the mobile against his forehead. His parents thought that guilt and fear fuelled his daredevil lifestyle. It did—of course it did—but did that have to be a bad thing? They didn’t understand—probably because he could never explain it—but playing it safe, sitting behind a desk in a humdrum job was, for him, a slow way to die. At fourteen he’d gone from being a healthy, rambunctious, sporty kid to a waif and a ghost, his time spent either in hospital rooms or at his childhood home. He’d just existed for more years than he cared to remember, and he’d vowed that when he had the chance of an active life he’d live it. Hard and fast. He wanted to do it all and see it all—to chase the thrills. For himself and for Brent. Being confined to one house, person or city would be his version of hell. His parents wanted him to settle down, but they didn’t understand that he wouldn’t settle down for anything or anyone. He had to keep moving—and working to feel alive.

      Jack switched off the bedside light and stared up at the shadows on the ceiling, actively trying not to think about his past. As per normal, his job had thrown him a curveball and he’d landed up in a strange bed in a strange town. But, he thought as his eyes closed, he was very good at curveballs and strange situations, and meeting Mitch’s dazzling daughter again was very much worth the detour.

      * * *

      On his second night in Ellie’s spare room, Jack put aside the magazine he’d been reading, rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling above his bed. The air-conditioning unit hummed softly and he could hear the croaky song of frogs in the garden, the occasional whistle of a cricket. It wasn’t that late and his side throbbed.

      Knowing that he wouldn’t be able to sleep yet, he flipped back the sheet and stood up. After yanking on a pair of jeans he quietly opened the door and walked to the stairs. Navigating his way through the dark house, he walked into the front lounge, with its two big bay windows, leaned against the side wall and looked through the darkness towards the sea. Through the open windows he could hear the thud of waves hitting the beach and smell the brine-tinged air.

      Ellie’s distinctively feminine voice drifted through the bay window, so he pulled back the curtain. He looked out and watched her walk up the stairs to the veranda, mobile to her ear and one arm full of papers and files. She looked exhausted and he could see flour streaks on her open navy chef’s jacket. Jack glanced at the luminous dial of his watch...ten-thirty at night was a hell of a time to be coming home from work.

      ‘Ginger, my life is a horror movie at the moment.’

      Ginger? Wasn’t that Mitchell’s mother? Ellie’s Irish grandmother?

      ‘Essentially I need Mum to come back but it’s not fair to ask her. I’m chasing my tail on a daily basis, it’s nearly month-end, I have payroll and I need to pay VAT this month. And I need to move the bakery but there’s nowhere to move it to! And, to top it all, your wretched son has sent me a house guest!’

      So