Page 32 of The Wrong Fiancée

Well, there wasn't anything to do but get on with it. If a local with the right kind of vehicle came along, I could hitch a ride, but I wasn't going to wait in the July sun for that to happen.

I started walking, pushing the bike up the incline with ill grace.

It wasn't just the flat tire. It waseverything. My job, my life, Noe.

I’d spent the past four years trying to help my sister, pulling her out of the darkness she’d been trapped in since the accident. And she couldn’t stand me. Why did I keep going every week? Maybe once a month would be enough.

Even as the thought crossed my mind, I knew I wouldn’t do it. Noe was lonely, and she got upset when I didn’t visit everyweek. She might poke and prod at me when I was around, but the nurses said she waited impatiently for me every Wednesday.

I sighed, wiping the sweat from my forehead as the sun beat down relentlessly. My tank top clung to my skin, and the waistband of my denim shorts—well past their prime—was damp and uncomfortable.

I trudged along the road, the wheels of my bike creaking because the Universe obviously hated me.

Stop the pity party, Elika. You at least have legs to walk on.

That put a stop to my self-indulgence.

Noe couldn't ride a bicycle, couldn't walk, maybe forever. I couldn't blame her for being depressed—who wouldn't feel like shit when they'd lost their legs at the age of twenty-four. God! She'd been so young when the accident happened. We'd all been so young, but Daddy's decision to drink and drive had aged both of us.

I'd try and cheer Noe up today, I decided. We'd go to the beach, and I'd help her get her feet into the water. That would make her happy. I knew she missed swimming and surfing.

Could she surf even if her legs were not all there? Maybe she could paddle? I was lost in thought, so I didn't hear the low hum of an engine until it was all but next to me. I turned to see a sleek, black four-wheel drive rolling to a stop beside me.

The window rolled down, and Dean leaned casually against the driver's seat, his eyes hidden behind dark aviator sunglasses. Even in this heat, the man looked ridiculously cool, like a freaking advertisement for luxury travel.

"May I give you a lift?" he asked.

I gripped the handlebars of my bike and stared at him for a second longer than necessary. Part of me wanted to say no, to be stubborn, to walk the last mile like I didn't care. But another part of me—the part that was hot, tired, and sweaty—was about to give in.

"Please," he added somberly, sincerely.

"Thank you. I'd appreciate it if you could just drop me off a mile down this road," I replied politely, giving bitchy Elika a break.He was being kind and generous, and I had to get my head out of my ass and not blame him for my lack of...everythingthat he wanted in a partner.

"Where are you going?" He hopped out of his car, easily lifting my bike into the back before I could protest.

"Ka Pono…it's a rehab center."

He opened the passenger door, and I slid in, trying not to think too much about how nice the cool air felt as it blasted through the vents.

The road twisted through lush greenery, where steep cliffs softened into rolling hills sprinkled with wildflowers. Kauai had a raw, untamed beauty—unpolished, yet breathtaking. I turned to the window, watching the ocean glimmer under the sunlight as it stretched endlessly beside us.

"This the place where your sister is getting treatment?" Dean asked, breaking the quiet.

"Yes. She was in a clinic in Waikiki, but they're doing some experimental treatments here that could…ah…she can't walk, but they're hoping she'll be able to get some mobility with this new thing they're trying," I explained.

"I know that she was in the car accident where you lost your father."

I hesitated, not sure why I wanted to tell him about Noe, the clusterfuck my life was. Maybe it was the fatigue. Or maybe I was just tired of carrying it all by myself.

"She has a TBI." I stared out the window, hating to say these words, hating that my sister had lost so much because of our father's carelessness. "A Traumatic Brain Injury. From the accident."

"What does that mean?" he asked, his eyes on the road.

"Like I said, her legs don’t work—she’s paralyzed. She’s been stuck in that wheelchair for years now, and it’s been hell for her. It’s not just the physical stuff. With a TBI, her brain is affected. She has extreme mood swings, good days and bad days. She’s also clinically depressed." I paused, feeling like a drama queen spilling all my woes. "But I’m hoping she’ll regain some mobility, andmaybe that’ll push her to...I don’t know, leave the rehab center and start living again."

"She has to be there full-time?"

"No. She wants to. She…I thought when we came here, she'd get out and live and work, even though she was wheelchair-bound, and go to Ka Pono on an outpatient basis. But her doctors don't think her mental state is where she can function and…." I trailed off, swallowing the lump in my throat.

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