Over the years, Carly had matured enough to recognize she didn’t bear all the responsibility for what had happened that night. But in one respect she alone was culpable... in her choice to tell a lie rather than the truth, a decision that had haunted her the past sixteen years.
Maybe that’s why I can’t tell a decent-sounding lie to save my life.
The night of the accident, she’d overheard Ben and Liam discussing a party and the alcohol that would be involved. She’d confronted them in hopes they would be forced to take her along, and Liam would finally see her as more than his friend’s kid sister. Instead, Liam had blinked those gorgeous green eyes at her and begged her not to tell anyone. And at that moment, there was nothing she wouldn’t have done for Liam Bennett, the hunkiest guy in high school, the love of her life.
So when it was past curfew and her father questioned her about Ben’s whereabouts, she’d kept her promise to Liam and denied any knowledge. If only she’d told the truth, her father would’ve found the boys at the party before Benjamin got behind the wheel drunk to drive them home. Both the guys would’ve hated her the rest of her life, of that much she was certain. But her brother would still be alive, and Liam would still be able to walk.
She supposed she could simply tell him who she was and accept the consequences. But the attraction she saw in Liam’s eyes was the fulfillment of a dream. She couldn’t bear to watch that admiration turn to disgust and hatred.
And he’d been through so much pain that she didn’t begrudge him the right to harbor anger toward her... at least as much as she aimed at herself.
Layla returned with her cell phone to get a selfie. Though she claimed she wanted one with “Faye,” every shot included Liam in the frame.
When the ordeal was over, Carly couldn’t help being snarky. “I’m surprised she didn’t ask you to flex your muscles.”
“No need to be selfish.” He goaded her with a smug smile. “There’s enough of my muscles for both of you to feast your eyes.”
“I’ve created a monster.” She rolled her eyes and pointed a finger into her mouth in the universal gag-me sign.
The plane gave a lurch, just as the pilot made an announcement. “Our flight is on time, set to arrive at Chicago O’Hare in twenty-eight minutes. However, the weather in Chicago has deteriorated, with wind gusts and heavy snowfall. We are currently waiting to hear if we will be cleared for landing or diverted to another airport.”
Groans and protests came from all over the airplane.
“I don’t want to get diverted somewhere else,” Carly muttered, her palms suddenly clammy. “But it’s better than a plane crash, right? Maybe they shouldn’t take a chance.”
Liam wore a serene expression. Did he not care whether he lived or died?
“We’ll be fine. They won’t let us land if it’s not safe.”
She uprighted her seat and cinched her seatbelt as snug as it would go, exclaiming when the plane hit another pocket of turbulence.
“I don’t like bumps in the air.” She folded her arms. “How do you look so calm?”
“I refuse to worry about things I can’t control. And this is definitely one of them.”
The plane dropped what felt like a mile in freefall, leaving Carly’s stomach behind. By the time it bounced back upward, it felt like they were inches from the ground.
Just to be safe, Carly located a barf bag in the seat pocket. Then she braced herself for the next big dip.
She didn’t protest when Liam peeled her hand off the armrest and tucked it between his. In fact, the next big bump had her interlocking their fingers and gripping so hard she probably cut off the blood in his hand.
She found no comfort in hearing the man behind her fervently recite the Lord’s Prayer more times than she could count.
“Talk to me,” she demanded. “Tell me a story or something. Anything, so I won’t have to think about this turbulence.”
“Okay...” His free hand patted her arm. “The wheelchair I have with me is the prototype of our newest standing wheelchair. It will convert from sitting to standing, all the way to an eighty-five-degree angle. It locks the knees straight and has padding to prevent bruising.”
Curious, she tried to imagine it. “What keeps you from tipping over on your face?”
“Good question.” His fingers stroked her skin, sending tingles up her arm that were quite effective at distracting her from both the bumpy air and his description. “It has a belt that straps me to it and the mass behind provides counterbalance. But there are also wheel extensions that brace forward, so it’s impossible to tip.”
“Is it motorized?” She was proud to have produced an intelligent question from her muddled mind.
“We make both. Mine is manual. I don’t like the idea that I could ever be stranded, not able to move. It’s ingenious how you can roll it from a sitting or standing position.” The plane took another long dip, but her brain paid more attention to the electric sensations on her arm than her stomach. “I had an adapted car shipped to Branson. The chair locks right into the vehicle, either in the driver’s seat or a rear passenger position.”
His description was interesting, but not as fascinating as the delicious sparks that traveled up her arm all the way to her brain, like flickering lights. A sigh escaped her lips.
I can’t let him know how good this feels or he’ll ask me out again!
Resigned that it was for the best, she nonchalantly laid her other hand atop his to still it. “How do you drive using your hands?”
“My car has a regular steering wheel with a turning knob on it and a joystick for my right hand that operates the gas and brakes. But the joystick on our motorized chair can operate the car, if the system is compatible.”
As the plane hopped up and down again, she concentrated on Liam’s enthusiastic explanations. Maybe their meeting had been providential. She might have less guilt now, picturing him living a full and happy life without a trace of the bitterness she’d expected.
“The really exciting part is our research into biofeedback operation of the chair.” He gestured with his hand, his face animated. “A lot of folks with spinal cord injuries aren’t as lucky as I am. Some have hardly any arm mobility and lack the strength to move a joystick consistently. But we’re developing a joystick that responds directly to the nerve impulses. It’s the same technology we’re using to develop prosthetic arms with operational fingers.”
“That’s incredible!” As impressed as she was with his work in medical prosthetics, she was even more awestruck by his attitude.
Can’t believe I felt sorry for myself just because I lost my hair.
His hand dropped back to her arm, his fingers at work again, and little shivers rippled down her spine. “You never told me about your research.”
She opened her mouth, prepared to drop a well-practiced summary of their new injectable therapy that formed nanofibers with bioactive signals to initiate repair of an injured spinal cord. She’d chosen the program hoping to be a part of the breakthrough research on spinal cord regeneration, largely because she’d never stopped thinking about Liam.
But that’s exactly why I can’t tell him about my research!
Though in early stages, this nanotechnology could be life-changing for Liam. If he knew about it, he would assuredly follow up. He might discover her obscure lecture, entitled “BioNanotechnology - Dancing Molecules and Axon Regeneration,” and her cover would be blown. Even if he didn’t figure it out during the convention, he might find their work in an internet search and learn her true identity.
