by Lexi Ryan
“I’ll wait out here with Marta,” Teagan says. “Let you two talk for a minute first.”
I nod and squeeze her hand one last time before heading to Isaiah’s bedroom at the back of the house. As I pad toward his door across the green shag carpet, I can hear the muffled beat of his house music.
I knock, and when he doesn’t answer, I push inside.
Isaiah’s propped up on a pile of pillows, his casted leg straight before him, his other bent at the knee and his eyes directed at the ceiling. “What do you want?”
“I thought you’d like to go on a run with me. Come on. Five miles. Let’s go.”
He tears his gaze off the ceiling long enough to scowl at me. “You’re not funny.”
I sigh and close the door behind me. In some ways, the room is a stereotypical teenager’s hovel with piles of clothes—some folded, some crumpled—littering the floor, but in other ways it’s the room of a boy who’s tried to fit his old life into a space where it can’t. After his dad died, they had to sell his house. Marta couldn’t handle the mortgage or the upkeep on her own. When Isaiah moved in here, he brought a couch, chair, Xbox, and TV from his old basement and crammed it all into the bedroom, leaving barely enough room to walk between one piece of furniture and the next.
I take a seat on the couch and rest my elbows on my knees. “How’s the pain?”
“It’s pain. Can it be good?”
“It can be better if you take your meds.” When he ignores that, I sigh. “You haven’t been replying to my texts.”
“I haven’t felt like talking.”
“Marta said you’re not eating.”
“Not hungry.”
I stand, too irritated to sit still. “Listen, I get that this situation sucks, but you’re not going to make anything better for anyone if you mope and ignore the doctor’s orders.”
He levels me with an angry gaze. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be nothing but a burden? Grandma can’t afford to take care of me, and she’s been cashing out her retirement to get by, and now she has my medical bills on top of it. Because I fucked up.”
I wince at his language—Marta doesn’t allow cursing in her house—but let it go and focus on the rest. “She doesn’t think you’re a burden.”
“Do you know why Jess broke up with me? For real? She was sick of dealing with my grief over Dad. She said I’m too young to be so sad all the time, and she didn’t want me dragging her down.”
Fuck. “I’m sorry, Isaiah. She’s being immature, and that’s not fair to you. You’re entitled to all the time you need to grieve, and—”
“Stop. I don’t want your inspirational speech.”
The soft rap on the door saves me from trying to come up with a response. “Hello?” Teagan calls, stepping into the room.
Isaiah gapes. “You brought her?” He looks around his room, as if he’s going to jump up and start cleaning. “Jesus, Carter, a little warning?”
Teagan chuckles softly and leans against the doorframe, a glass of some dark liquid in one hand. “No appetite?”
By whatever magic, her words seem to take the sulk out of Isaiah, and he shakes his head. “I don’t want to eat.”
“How about a milkshake?” Teagan says, lifting the glass. “Just a little something to coat your stomach so you can take your pain meds.”
“I don’t need ’em. I can handle it.”
“I’m sure you can, but the human body isn’t made to sleep through pain, and the less you sleep, the longer it’s going to take to heal.” She steps into the room and offers him the glass and a straw.
He holds her gaze as he accepts it and takes a few sips.
“Nice,” she says, and her voice is sincere, as if she’s complimenting him for solving some complex math problem and not for drinking a chocolate shake. She hands him pills and the water bottle from his bedside table. “Now these.”
He takes them without complaint, a slight flush to his cheeks. He’s just a kid, but he’s too proud to let a pretty woman see him sulk.
She surprises me when she sits on the edge of his bed and puts a hand to his head. She tilts his face side to side, looking into one eye then the other. Seemingly satisfied with what she sees, she lifts his hand and looks at her watch as she takes his pulse.
“Do you do house calls for all of your patients?” Isaiah asks.
“Only the ones I like.” She releases his wrist. “Even if you get to the point where you can sleep without the pain meds, I need you to keep taking that antibiotic—all of it until it’s gone, okay?”
“I know,” he says softly. “The doctor told me.”
“Then why—” I shut up when Teagan shoots me a look.
“What can I get you, Isaiah?” Teagan asks.
I wonder if it’s the question or the tenderness in her voice that makes his eyes fill with tears.
He looks away and shakes his head. “I’m good,” he says gruffly.
“I’m glad to hear it,” she says.
“I think I want to sleep now,” Isaiah whispers.
“Sure,” Teagan says, standing. I follow suit, and we edge around the bed back to the door.
I let Teagan leave before I turn back to Isaiah. “Text if you need me. I’ll be back in a couple of days.”
“You don’t have to visit me.”
“But I want to.” I grin. “And you’re stuck in that bed, so you can’t avoid me.”
He rolls his eyes and almost smiles. “Thanks, Carter.”
Teagan
I wake up to the sound of thrashing and sit up in bed. It takes me a few panicked beats of my heart to remember where I am—the hotel suite, with Carter.
It’s still dark, but I can just make out his silhouette on the couch, blankets thrown off and scattered on the floor. He waves his arms over his face as if he’s trying to throw someone or something off him. “Get the fuck out of there,” he shouts.
I climb out of bed and cross the room. “Carter?”
He thrashes again and grumbles something unintelligible. But his face—my God—his expression is that of someone in excruciating pain, and my chest aches at the sight of this big, powerful man decimated by his own nightmares.
“Carter,” I say, louder this time. And when I brush his shoulder with my fingers, he grabs my hand and holds it tight.
“We have to get out of here.”
“Carter, wake up.”
“Get the fuck out!” he growls. He squeezes my arm hard enough that it brings tears to my eyes.
“Okay,” I say, swallowing hard. “Let’s go.”
His whole body relaxes and his shoulders go loose, but he keeps my hand in his and brings it to his chest, pressing it there under both of his. “I almost lost you.”
“I’m fine,” I say gently. “We’re safe.” But even now his expression is so tortured that my heart breaks a little.
The couch is too small and he’s too big. There’s not really room for me to sleep beside him, so I grab a blanket and crawl on top of him, resting my cheek against his bare chest.
When I wake up a few hours later, Carter’s awake and staring at me. I see the confusion on his face.
Light pours in through the open curtains, casting the room in the soft yellow glow of morning sun. After curling up on his chest, I slept like a rock. I’m normally a terrible sleeper.
“Teagan?” he asks. The sound of his voice this early in the morning—all grumbly and low—makes me want to snuggle into him. Instead, I scramble off the couch and stand, picking up the remaining blankets on the floor to avoid his gaze. He looks around blearily. “Was there something wrong with the bed?”
My cheeks heat. Did I really think he’d want me to sleep on top of him? “You were having a nightmare.”
“Shit.” He tugs on his messy hair. “How bad was it?”
I shrug. “Bad enough I knew you were upset. You have them a lot, then?”
“I guess. I’m sorry I woke you. Why didn’t you go back to bed?”
&n
bsp; I feel like such an idiot, but I try to act like it doesn’t matter. “You seemed calmer when I touched you. You were saying we needed to get out, and I played along. I agreed and told you we would. That seemed to make you relax, but then . . .” My cheeks blaze hotter. I really should have gone back to bed. Maybe after seeing him like that, I needed the comfort of being close to him. “You didn’t seem to want to let me go, and I was afraid you’d have another if I left. I thought maybe you’d sleep better if I was there.”
“You played along?”
“Yeah.” Sighing, I smile at him. “I worked nights for a while. I never really adjusted to the schedule, so I was constantly overtired, and when I actually managed to make myself sleep during the day, I’d have these crazy dreams that I was at work and no one was helping me. I’d sleepwalk and talk to my roommate—eyes open, like I was totally awake. I’d demand that she help me with patients and apparently get really pissed if she told me I was dreaming or tried to get me to go back to bed. She eventually learned it was easier to play along. She’d smile, nod, agree to help me. Yes, she’d help me with the IV on the patient in 301C. Yes, she’d call the doctor to follow up on Mr. Frasier’s reaction to the new pain meds. It was the only way I would relax enough to go back to sleep.”
He arches a brow. “That’s crazy.”
I laugh. “She loved to regale our friends with stories of my sleepwalking when we were at parties.” I shrug. “It seemed to work for you too.”
“It’s clever.”
I hesitate a beat, not sure if I’m crossing a line by asking. “Is it the warehouse fire? Is that what the nightmares are about?”
His expression is cautious as he meets my eyes and nods.
“You tried to get Max to leave before the building collapsed, but he wouldn’t.”
“We got a report that there were kids on the second floor. We were working off a line, trying to get to them so we could get them out, when we were told to leave the building.” The words are spoken in a monotone—he’s more a robot reporting an event than a man divulging a traumatic experience to a friend. “I couldn’t see him very well, but he turned around at the same time I did. I thought he was behind me, and when I realized he wasn’t, I had to follow that line back in through the smoke. I should have known he’d be stubborn. He could be reckless, and it wasn’t the first time he’d gone against orders trying to make an impossible rescue. I was shouting for him on our portable, but then the building started coming down and I had to make a choice.” He shakes his head. “In together, out together,” he whispers, “but he never came out.”
“You tried.”
“I should have tried harder.”
“Carter.” I reach out to touch his arm, but he stands and shakes his head. I wonder if he has the nightmares a lot or if seeing Isaiah last night triggered something. “It’s not your fault—the fire, what happened to Max. You know that, right?”
“Of course I do.” He squeezes the back of his neck, then stretches. “Do you want the first shower?”
Just like that, the conversation is over. It doesn’t have to be. Maybe he needs someone to make him talk about it. Maybe that someone should be me.
I take a deep breath. “I blamed myself when Heath died.” The words aren’t as hard to say as I would have thought. Maybe because I’ve carried them for so long. Or maybe because I know Carter needs to hear this from me.
He blinks at me, and I can see the struggle playing out on his face—the internal war between exposing a broken part of his soul to help me with a broken part of mine, and keeping everything locked down so he doesn’t have to admit he isn’t whole.
“We were fighting when he left for work that night.” My stomach knots with the memory. Heath was so jealous, so angry, and there was nothing I could do to make it right. “He was killed during a routine traffic stop. The guy was high and had a bunch of heroin in the car. Heath should have called for backup, but he was in a mood.” I turn away, not wanting to see the sympathy in Carter’s eyes. “He was pissed at me, so distracted by our argument that he was reckless. And it got him killed.”
“You can’t blame yourself,” Carter says softly. “You weren’t even there.”
“Maybe I wasn’t there physically.” I tap my temple. “But I was there.”
“Don’t do that to yourself, Teagan. You have no idea what was going through his mind.”
“And neither do you—with Max, I mean.” I hold up my hands before Carter can shut me down. “I’m not saying it’s the same. I know it’s not. If I’d been there that night and survived him . . .” I shake my head slowly. “I can’t imagine what that was like for you, but I do know what it’s like to carry that blame. I know how it eats away at you. How it makes you . . .” I close my eyes, remembering those months after Heath died and before I moved away. “It makes you act differently. Recklessly.”
“You think I’m being reckless?”
“I think the Carter I knew before the warehouse fire didn’t have a revolving door of women in his bed.”
It’s not pain that crosses his face with those words but . . . nothing. Like he flipped some switch inside him that turns off his emotions and turns his face to stone.
“I’m not saying it’s the same,” I repeat, trying again, “but I am saying I might understand what you’re going through better than you realize.”
“Teagan,” he says, “let it go. I’m fine.”
But I understand fine, too. Fine is where hopes and dreams go to die.
Teagan
I have to give Carter credit. I’m sure he knows all there is to know about all of the local breweries—and he certainly knows everything there is to know about Jackson Brews beer—but as our tour bus took us from one brewery to the next, he acted like this was his ideal way to spend a day off. I know the Jacksons are picky about beer and think their stuff is the best, but he tasted the samples at each stop like it was all new to him.
We’re sitting thigh to thigh at the far end of the bar at Jackson Brews, the last stop of the day. After the tense and abrupt end to our conversation in the hotel room this morning, it was a relief to let loose and do something fun together. Now I’m slightly buzzed from the beer samples. My skin is warm and my eyes are heavy, and going back to our room for a nap is starting to sound mighty tempting.
The best part of the day has been spending it next to Carter. I kept catching my gaze drifting to him as we toured the breweries. My sister is completely smitten by him. Or maybe she loves the idea of me being with someone she believes makes me happy. He plays the role of my boyfriend effortlessly—walking hand in hand with me and whispering comments into my ear. He’s so natural that I’d almost believe he did adore me. I almost want him to.
The worst part of the day has been Rich watching our every move. He wasn’t at dinner last night, but I should’ve known the reprieve would be short-lived. I haven’t talked to him since he showed up in Jackson Harbor last year. I don’t know if he’s tried to call or text. I blocked his number a long time ago, and Rich is perceptive enough that I’m guessing he’s figured that out. My friendly Apple Store tech informed me that I can listen to the voicemails he leaves if I go to the Blocked Messages folder. Thanks, but no.
I don’t realize that my thoughts have made me frown until Carter leans over and brushes my hair behind my ear. “Are you okay?”
I swallow and push away thoughts of Rich—as much as I can when I know he’s in the same room, sitting three chairs down from us. “I’m fine. What about you? Are you having an okay time?”
“If this is your family’s idea of bonding, I can see why you fit in so well with the Jacksons,” he says.
“I think this was more Saanvi and Liam’s idea of fun than Mom’s.” I lean my head on his shoulder. We’re supposed to be a couple, after all, so wouldn’t I touch him like this? “But maybe my parents have loosened up a little in recent years.”
“They did put us in the same room.”
I huff out a laugh. “Mom cor
nered me at dinner last night and told me she’d given us the other suite to ‘appease the bride,’ then warned me of the risks of pregnancy and the struggles of her patients who have babies out of wedlock.”
His eyes are wide—perhaps the slightly horrified look of a man who’s wondering if there’s a shotgun wedding in his future. “And what did you tell her?”
“I told her that I’m a virgin and I’ve never so much as kissed a boy, and how exactly are babies made again?”
He laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You didn’t.”
“Oh, yes, I did. She didn’t think it was funny, sadly.”
He shakes his head and grins. I love when he smiles at me like this—as if I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. As if he wants nothing more to get me alone and kiss me in a way that has nothing to do with pretending we’re together. Is that wishful thinking? Do I want him to want that?
“Regardless, I’m having a good time. And I’ll get bonus points with Brayden when I can tell him about Howell’s new sour,” Carter says.
I grin. “It’s like you’re a secret agent.”
“Oh. My. God. It’s him!” Someone screeches behind us. “I told you it was him.”
“He’s even hotter in person!”
We turn on our stools to see two women standing right behind us, cameras at the ready.
“Can we get a picture?” the shorter of the two asks, flipping her curly, golden hair over her shoulder.
Carter smiles, and I notice no one but me seems to see the way he pales. “Sure.”
“I’ll take yours and you take mine,” the second woman tells the first.
They squeal and squeak, fawning all over Carter as they get pictures of themselves hanging on him. He doesn’t pull away from their touch, but he stiffens every time they stroke down his arms or press against his chest, and he grows even paler when they croon about what a hero he is.
“If you’ll excuse me, ladies,” he says after a few minutes, “I’m on a date with my girlfriend.” He nods to me, and the girls look stricken—kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.