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“Wake up?” That was Jonathan. He didn’tsoundmad.
She tried again to open her eyes, and this time they responded. Dark shadows stood out amid lighter ones, and a silhouette hovered over her.
“Thank God.” Jonathan sighed.
Something dabbed against her forehead, and she tried to reach up, to see what it was. When she lifted her arm, a whole new world of hurt greeted her, and she cried out.
“Careful.” He helped her lower the arm back to the ground. “It’s broken. And your head is bleeding.”
A washcloth. That’s what the sensation was. He held pressure against her skin. “You weren’t out for long.” He sounded worried. “Only a couple of minutes, but that’s still not good.” Did they make up?
Was that what she couldn’t remember? “I’m okay.” Why did she say that? Every inch of her protested when she tried to move. “No. I’m not.”
“Can you tell if anything else is broken?” Even in the dim light, he looked concerned.
She shouldn’t like that, but she did. She shifted, squirming on the floor, and forced herself to sit, favoring her arm the entire time. “I think the rest is okay.”
“Good. You need a doctor. Odds the clinic is open?”
“Zero to less than none.” She wanted to be valiant and argue she didn’t need a doctor. To insist she’d be fine. The almost-useless appendage dangling by her side screamed loudly enough to convince her otherwise.
He helped her stand, and her world spun. “Slowly.” He draped her good arm around his shoulders and steadied her, circling her waist and resting a hand on her hip. “Where does the doctor live?”
“Same place as always.”
His chuckle was strained. “You’re serious? He’s got to be ninety now.”
“It’s only been a few years. He’s in his sixties. But we can’t go out in this weather.” Whether or not she was in pain, some things were a bad idea. Now she wasn’t lying in water, the chill of being soaked set in. She clenched her teeth, to keep them from chattering.
“Options. Stay here and ride out the storm. You’ve broken something and probably have a mild concussion, so that’s not viable. With the gusting wind, walking is a stupid idea. Phones are down, so we can’t call the guy, and even then, he’d have to get here. So you’re getting in the car with me. We’re risking the weather, to drive the one or two miles to his house, and we’ll apologize profusely for imposing at his house, but he’ll understand.”
Now she remembered more about why they were fighting. “I hate it when you do that.”
“Think things through?” He helped her up the stairs, not letting go until they reached the kitchen and she sat down.
“Yes. Freaking infuriating.”
“At least your brain is working okay.” He kissed her forehead. “Don’t move.” A moment later, he returned with a blanket, a sheet, her bag, and her shoes.
He tore the sheet into strips, and used one as a makeshift sling, to tie her arm to her torso. His every move was deliberate and gentle. Probably too much so, but she wasn’t complaining. Next, he draped the blanket around her. Being wrapped up didn’t chase away the chill completely, but it helped her stop shivering.
When they stepped outside, the wind slammed into her full force and sent another shock of pain from her arm and through her body. She stumbled, but Jonathan made sure she didn’t fall. The drive to Dr. Phillips’s house was two parts terrifying, as the car jostled with every gust from Mother Nature, and one part agonizing. Jonathan parked as close as the driveway let him, told her to wait, and sprinted to the door. Moments later, he returned with the doctor.
She lost track of what happened next. All she knew was she was finally warm and so tired.
*
MORE THAN FIFTEEN YEARSlater, and Jonathan still hated this place. Not because of Dr. Phillips or anything wrong with the house. It was a lovely two-story Victorian-style home, with pleasant decor. There was even power in this room, thanks to a backup generator kept on hand for cases like this. The last time Jonathan visited was because he almost drowned during a storm a hell of a lot like the one going on now.
As far as he was concerned, his reason for being here today was a lot worse. He was assured Bailey would be fine. She drifted in and out of consciousness—a result of the painkillers pumping through her, and the mild concussion. Her arm was set and splinted without an issue, and though the doctor didn’t have the equipment here to do a full head scan on her, she was responding all right. She just had to be careful until they could get her to a real hospital for a CT scan.
For now, Jonathan waited. He muddled through the sympathy about Nana’s passing. Declined the offer to join Dr. and Mrs. Phillips for lunch. Hovered over Bailey in a way she’d hate if she realized.
Despite how recent their argument was, it felt stupid now. He didn’t regret the things that came out, but his delivery could have used some work. He watched her now, as she slept. Why was it so hard for them to find common ground? They grew up—that changed them—but their friendship lingered. He wished it wasn’t tainted by unshakable memories.
He jammed his hands into his pockets and frowned when the right one touched something. The envelope from the safe. He gave Bailey another glance—she was still sleeping—and tore the letter open.
A single sheet of paper sat inside, on the stationary Nana always used to write him, in her familiar scrawl. A lump formed in his throat when he saw it was dated the day before she died.
