Mr. Nice Guy by Belinda Williams

Chapter Fourteen

It waslate by the time Tom arrived home. He was careful not to make too much noise on the landing as he retrieved his keys from his backpack. It was after eleven on a weeknight, and Chelsea would most likely be in bed already. Tom hoped she’d at least enjoyed the dinner he’d organised for her despite screwing up the fifth date.

Reece had needed him. He hadn’t been working as a paramedic for as long as Tom had, so he hadn’t seen everything yet. Not that Tom was ever sure you could see everything in this job.

Today Reece had arrived at a domestic violence call-out to find they were too late. It was one of those ugly firsts no paramedic wanted to experience, but frequently did. Tom still remembered his. It had been in Sydney seven years ago, and he could still bring to mind the most unimportant details. The child’s Sesame Street cup on its side near the sink. A woman’s black hoodie draped over the back of a chair. They were burned into his brain along with the more important details like the woman lying face down, her greasy brown hair stained with blood due to the fatal blow to her head.

Tom shook the memory away. It wasn’t fair that some memories—especially the good ones—faded easily, while the bad ones remained imprinted in your brain. Logically he knew it was a survival instinct thing, but most of the time it just felt cruel.

Absorbed in his thoughts and his need to be quiet, he was halfway to the kitchen before he noticed Chelsea sitting on the sofa.

He stilled.

She was staring out the window, her face pale in the dark room—she hadn’t bothered to turn a lamp on. The only light came from the television, which was casting flickering shadows across her face. Tears trailed down her cheeks, and she still hadn’t noticed him standing there.

Tom was careful to keep his voice soft. ‘Chels?’

She didn’t respond.

He tried again, louder this time. ‘Chels?’ He walked around the front of the coffee table so that he came clearly into view without scaring her.

She blinked as he crouched in front of her and looked down at him, confusion lining her face.

‘Chels? Is everything alright?’

She released a breath. ‘Um, no. Not really.’

Tom waited. He’d learned not to push people in his line of work. Sometimes it was better to give them their space.

Tom rose from the floor and sat beside her on the sofa, careful not to sit too close. When she still didn’t say anything, he tried a different approach.

‘Did you enjoy dinner?’ he asked.

Chelsea was staring out the window again. Her frown deepened, then she burst into tears.

‘Chels?’

‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’ve just had a really bad day. Except that’s really selfish of me to say because it wasn’t my really bad day, but someone else’s. And I don’t know why I’m not handling it, but I’m not, and I’m so sad, and it’s so horrible and I don’t know how to process it. And then I keep thinking of Dylan, poor Dylan, and his poor father and—’

‘Shh.’ If he’d been with a patient, he’d have put a reassuring hand on their shoulder. But this was Chelsea, so he drew her into his arms.

Her words became muffled against his chest and transformed into sobs. Tom let her cry, because that was obviously what she needed to do. He stroked her back gently while she cried, and after a minute or two, she produced a loud sniff and eased away from him.

Tom used his thumb to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Bad day?’

She bit her lip, not saying anything and looking close to tears once more, so he changed the subject again.

‘Did you eat dinner?’ he asked.

She nodded and then burst into tears a second time, which wasn’t the desired reaction. He circled her in his arms again.

‘The food was that bad, huh?’

She buried her face into his chest and sobbed, laughed, hiccuped, then sobbed again. Finally he was rewarded with a soft “thank you”.

This time he stroked her hair. ‘I know Italian food is your weakness, and that place came recommended. I ordered it earlier and got Annie to let herself in to put it in the fridge ready for you. You know she’d do anything for me.’

Annie was their elderly next-door neighbour who Chelsea often joked would run away with Tom if she were forty years younger. Tom fed her cat and watered her pot plants when she went to visit her sister, so Annie was always good for a favour in return.

Chelsea slipped out of his arms and looked at him, her eyes bright like the blue sky during a sunshower. ‘The food was delicious. There are leftovers if you want them.’

‘I’m good. I ate with Reece earlier.’

‘Is Reece OK?’

The concern in her gaze almost undid him. God, he adored this girl and her big heart. She was obviously upset about something serious, but still thought to ask about Reece.

‘Long day. He had a first.’

Chelsea grimaced. She knew what he meant by “a first” after having lived with him for a while now. Usually she’d ask what the first had been, but this time she said something else.

‘I had a first, too,’ she whispered.

Tom’s heart constricted, and it felt like a ten-tonne truck had collided with his chest.

She’s alright. She’s sitting here. She’s not hurt.

Tom redirected his thoughts—as he’d learned how to do—and the pressure in his chest eased a bit. ‘Want to talk about it?’

Chelsea gave him a weak smile. ‘I sort of did already, didn’t I? But I don’t think I made much sense.’

‘That’s OK, you don’t have to explain yourself—’

‘Dylan’s father tried to kill himself.’

Tom closed his mouth. Dylan was obviously a child at work. And the word “tried” implied that he’d failed, which was the best outcome for everyone involved.

‘I’m really sorry to hear that,’ he said, meaning it. ‘Is he going to be OK?’

‘Yes. He’s alive. But I don’t know. Will he ever be OK? Barb thinks it will be harder for him to see his children now—they’re getting a divorce, you see. Now he’s done this, they might consider him unsafe to be around the kids, but I don’t think he will be, and I know he’s a great father.’ She drew in another breath, the words tumbling out, one on top of the other.

‘Everything I’ve seen to date suggests he’s a good father, and the whole situation is just so horrible and unfair, and I wish there was something I could do. I was going to send him a card, but that seems kind of stupid. I mean, what do I write in it? “Sorry to hear you tried to kill yourself. I’m so glad you didn’t succeed”? Ugh! See? But he must be hurting right now, and surely it would be really good to know that someone is thinking of him. And oh, God, I’m rambling again, aren’t I?’

Tom bit down on a smile, because she was just so damn beautiful inside and out. ‘You can ramble all you like,’ he told her.

‘This is why I wanted to talk to you when you got home. I knew you’d understand. I spoke to Nadia on the phone and she helped a bit—although I think what people say about her brusque bedside manner is true, you know. We’ll have to be careful she doesn’t turn into a surly old matron one day. So after I got off the phone, I sat here and waited and tried to distract myself with the television, but that was equally tragic and . . .’ She inhaled a shuddering breath and offered him a weak smile. ‘And here we are.’

‘You were waiting up for me?’

Chelsea shrugged. ‘I know you told me not to because you’d be late, but it’s not like I felt like going to bed anyway, and I knew you’d understand. In fact, I reckon you’re probably the only one who does.’

Tom grappled to get hold of the war of emotions clamouring for his attention. Satisfaction that Chelsea wanted to talk to him. That she’d waited up for him. Sympathy because she was so distraught. Relief that she was OK, except for a little emotionally battered.

Chelsea gave him a worried look. ‘That doesn’t sound stupid, does it?’

‘You’re never stupid, Chelsea. Occasionally amusing, but never stupid.’

She smiled more convincingly this time and then dropped her gaze to her lap. ‘I just wonder if you think I’m stupid sometimes, that’s all. See? Now I’m repeating myself.’

Women could be maddening, and that included Chelsea, but he’d never wanted to understand any woman quite as much as he wanted to understand her.

He put his finger under her chin and tipped her face up so she’d look at him. ‘Chelsea, why would you think that?’

Her eyelashes fluttered as she blinked and she tried to look away, but his finger was still on her chin.

‘I like how you say my full name.’

‘Chelsea?’

‘Yes.’ Her answer came out in a rush of breath.

Tom swallowed. Somehow the tone of the conversation had changed in less time than it had taken him to draw a breath. The twenty or so centimetres between them now felt much too close.

Be careful, Tom. She’s feeling emotional and vulnerable.

Tom retracted his hand and rose slowly from the sofa, scooping up the empty wineglass she’d left on the table.

‘I’m glad you feel like you can talk to me,’ he said as he returned the glass to the sink.

‘Tom?’

‘Mmm?’ He didn’t look up and kept rinsing the glass under the tap.

‘Can you say my name again?’

Tom shut off the tap and looked at her.

She was standing up, staring at him from across the room, that earlier vulnerability he’d identified writ large in her pale complexion and wide eyes.

‘Chelsea,’ he obliged softly.

She closed her eyes. ‘I thought so.’

He was scared to ask, so opted for, ‘Chels?’

Her eyes blinked open again. ‘You say it differently to everyone else.’

‘I’m not sure how.’

‘No, you do.’ She came over to stand in front of him on the other side of the bench. ‘I’m scared about what it means.’

Tom shot her a confused look and turned to get the tea towel. ‘I think you’ve had a long day and you’re reading too much into it. How about—’

‘Do you like me?’

Tom swiped up the wineglass and began drying it. ‘Of course I like you.’

‘No, Tom. Do you think you could, you know, like me?’

Tom lowered the glass and tea towel. ‘That’s a really odd question to be asking.’ He knew it was an obtuse answer, but he’d learned to talk around things when the situation required it. And right now, the situation required it.

Sure, Chels, sure I could like you. I already do. I like you a lot. Too much. But I’m a nice guy, so I keep those feelings to myself.

‘I want you to kiss me,’ she said.

He gaped at her.

‘You heard me,’ she persisted. ‘You need to kiss me.’

‘I don’t think that would be a good idea,’ Tom said slowly.

It would be a very, very bad idea.

She crossed her arms and glared at him, a bit like he imagined one of her petulant children might. ‘And why not? Are you scared of me?’

Terrified.

Of course he wanted to kiss Chelsea. He couldn’t remember a time in the last year or so when he hadn’t wanted to. But this was Chelsea, and he was Tom, and he’d long ago accepted that he could never go there with her.

Except now she was asking him to.

Somehow he managed to maintain a semblance of control. ‘I’m not scared of you. But we live together, and it’s not a good idea.’

‘Is that your only reason?’

Well, it was a damn good reason as far as he was concerned. He had no hope of Chelsea being his, so why ruin things and make it awkward between them? The last thing he wanted her to do was move out. Although upon reflection, he was obviously a glutton for punishment, wanting her to stay around.

‘Tom?’

He sighed and pushed a hand through his hair. ‘Chelsea, please just drop it. This is a really strange conversation, and I think you’re tired and not making a lot of sense.’

Chelsea huffed and then groaned. ‘Oh my God. You’re right. I’m being an idiot. I’m so sorry. I’m definitely tired, but I guess I’m also tired of wondering how you feel about me.’

Tom froze. ‘You are?’

‘Yes! As well as feeling terrible about Dylan’s dad, I’ve been sitting here all night wondering why it was you I wanted to talk to about this, and it’s not just because you’re a paramedic. It’s because you’re Tom. Whatever that means.’ She rolled her eyes and started to pace in front of the kitchen. ‘It made me worry that maybe I’m beginning to like you,’ she continued, and his heart skipped a beat, ‘which is silly, because you’re Tom, and I’ve known you forever.’

At that, his heart flipped and flopped hopelessly to a standstill.

‘Not to mention the whole nice guy thing. This week is all about you doing me a favour and showing me what nice guys are like, and here I am misinterpreting it, thinking that you might actually like me. Face it, Tom. I’m incurable. Take your nice guy arse and run as far away from me as you can before I try to take advantage of you and turn you into an arsehole.’

She halted in front of him, her hands on her hips like it was a challenge.

Tom still hadn’t moved. He couldn’t. But he managed to speak. ‘I’m not running away from you.’

‘And you’re also not an arsehole. Thank you for bringing me to my senses. Can we forget this ever happened?’ she finished hopefully.

Tom doubted he’d forget it. He doubted it very much. Tonight would be burned into his brain as the one time he had the chance to kiss Chelsea but didn’t. While, in her mind, that might make him the nicest guy ever to walk the earth, for once in his life, he wouldn’t have minded being the arsehole.