Inside Out

by Lia Riley

  “Don’t bother bloody dying because I swear to God I’ll hunt you down and drag you back.”

  Hot tears burn beneath my lids at the familiar accent. I clutch each word, his presence a safe harbor.

  “Sir, I’m going to ask you again, step away from the patient.”

  “Not a chance,” he snaps.

  “I need to check her hematocrit and switch out the quinine.” A woman speaks with unfamiliar cadence, hitting each consonant hard like she wields a hammer.

  “Work around me.” The pressure on my hand increases. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

  There’s a sharp prick on my upper arm. Nothing compared to the pain dimly lingering in my memory’s recesses—a skull-wrenching, chromosomal-deep agony.

  Strange to feel so numb now.

  There’s an unpleasant tang to the air—disposable rubber gloves and disinfectant? A hospital smell. Claustrophobic panic wells in my throat.

  “Damn it, Talia. Wake up.” The fierce order is a tether out of this limbo.

  My eyes open.

  Bright. Ouch. Holy shit. Way too bright.

  Everything is blurry without my contacts.

  A hospital bed rail.

  A shadowy outline of an IV pole.

  A face.

  The only face.

  Bran moves with a suddenness that makes my heart skip. My limbs become aware of their existence, nerves revving to life. “You’re back,” he says quietly, firmly, as if there’s to be no arguing the point.

  He looks like someone pushed to the brink and kicked off the side. Thick, dark hair juts in odd angles. His eyes are chipped jade, but bloodshot and wild, ringed by sleepless bruises. A muscle bunches deep in his jaw, nearly undetectable beneath the days-old scruff.

  He’s beautiful.

  But he’s not supposed to be here.

  Chapter Two

  Bran

  The hills outside the hospital window slump like the hinds of tired elephants. Maybe I shouldn’t stare into the sun, but fuck it, Talia shouldn’t be in that bed behind me either. People look with their eyes, but there’s so much we can’t see. Venus at noon. Dark matter. Malaria ravaging red blood cells inside the girl I love. She coughs, stirring. She’s returned to herself in slow inches throughout the afternoon.

  “Am I dying?”

  “No!” I spin around and move to her bedside. She stares up with haunted, overlarge eyes. Jesus, when I pull her into my arms she’s a fragile layer of skin pulled tight over sharp bones. “Don’t you talk like that, hear me? Don’t even think like that.”

  “Okay.”

  I hate her uncertainty. I hate even more that I’m not bloody Prince Charming, who can bestow a bullshit Disney kiss and transform this sterile room into happy-ever-after land. Nothing I do will make bugger all difference to the parasites swimming through her veins. Goddamn it though, I want—need—to punch something hard and furious until it breaks beneath my split and shattered knuckles.

  Anything to avoid feeling this impotence.

  Instead, I hold my breath a beat and exhale slow as if I’m a pillar of strength or whatever. “You’re going to be fine. I’m here and won’t let anything bad happen.” I close my eyes so she won’t see my brave words are nothing but a grand illusion. I have to front unshakable confidence that she’s going to get better, that way she’ll believe it too. I smooth back her hair and step away, fighting the urge to hold on tighter and face the wall to regroup.

  “Where are we?” She asks, still groggy.

  “Pretoria.”

  I can hear the wheels crank inside her head. “Wait, South Africa?”

  “The Peace Corps medical officer based out of Malawi determined you were in critical condition and ordered you a medevac flight here. It’s the region’s most advanced intensive care unit.” I turn back and lace my fingers with hers. “You’ve been in a coma for three days.”

  Three days? Her lips move but nothing comes out. “How…” She swallows and pushes herself to a half sit. “How are you even here?”

  “Bad weather ended our Antarctic season early. We came to New Zealand to resupply before setting out for Japan and the dolphin hunts. The moment we hit dry land I took off in search of a calling card. When I got through on the number you’d sent, some Peace Corps volunteer, Meghan, answered your mobile phone from a truck carrying you to the hospital. She kept me in the loop after that. You…” I break off, my voice getting gruff. The past seventy-two hours have been the most goddamn awful in my life, and I’ve had some shithouse days. “You weren’t able to speak.”

  Her bottom lip quivers—just once—and stills like nothing ever happened. When it comes to this girl, I don’t miss a trick. “Don’t worry, okay?” She laces her fingers with mine. “I—I can’t have you scared.”

  “I know.”

  She’s afraid she won’t make it.

  I’m freaked the fucked out that I’ll lose her.

  “You got this, Captain.” All I’ve got are nothing words and optimistic posturing. I’d beg, plunder, and steal to swap places. Me for her. It should be me in that bed. I can bear anything except watching her scared and suffering.

  “I’m thirsty,” Talia whispers.

  “Coming right up.” I jump at the chance to do something, no matter how small. “Here we go.” I snatch a cup off the otherwise empty food tray and lift it to her mouth.

  “Sir.” The grumpiest of the ICU nurses strides into the room without a preliminary knock. “You need to consult with a doctor before giving the patient anything.”

  “Why don’t you find one for me? I want her checked over while she’s awake.”

  Grumps flashes me her best stink eye.

  She clearly doesn’t know whom she’s dealing with. I level her a look of my own. “Her name is Talia, and I’m giving her the water.”

  “We’ll see about that.” The nurse beats a retreat with a disapproving headshake.

  “Don’t worry about her.” I bend and kiss Talia’s clammy forehead. “Drink.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

  “Yeah, you should.” I press the cup’s rim with insistence against her lips, and water splashes her chin.

  “Jesus, Bran. Here, give that to me.” She jerks the cup from my grasp and takes a sip. “There. Yum. Yum.”

  “Want something else? Orange juice? I’ll shake down the nurses.”

  “No, please, don’t bother anyone.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “You’re driving everyone crazy here, huh?”

  “Probably.” I drag a plastic chair next to the bed. “But I don’t care about them. I care about you.”

  “A three-day coma?” She rocks her head back against the pillow. “Where are my parents?”

  “You didn’t list your mom on the emergency contact record. As far as I’ve tracked down, she’s on some silent meditation retreat. Your dad was taking his university class on a field trip in the mountains. No cell reception over the weekend, but I got through to him this morning.”

  “Thank you. God, I hate making him worry.” She covers her face with hands the same stark white as her hospital gown. “It’s crazy not to remember anything. It’s like someone erased my hard drive.”

  I don’t tell her that I have the opposite problem. I can recall every last detail in high-definition.

  I remember the sucker punch in my solar plexus when I learned a mosquito infected Talia with malaria’s worst strain, plasmodium falciparum.

  I remember the total helplessness as within hours the illness tore through her, deteriorating into cerebral malaria.

  I remember how she slipped into a coma while I waited at the airport to board my Emirates red-eye to Johannesburg.

  By the time I found my seat I was praying. By praying I mean raging, begging, and pleading with the universe. When the wheels broke contact with the tarmac, I didn’t even shudder. My entreaties coalesced into a single, ceaseless mantra: not her, not her, not her.

  I offered to sacr
ifice myself or any of the random people surrounding me.

  Take me, not her.

  Take them, not her.

  First, my father catches dengue fever and now Talia gets malaria. Can someone get on annihilating all bloody mosquitoes?

  “None of this makes any sense.” Talia drops her head against the pillow. “I took tetracycline every day and slept under a freaking mosquito net.”

  “The medical files from Malawi mentioned you’d had a stomach bug.”

  “Yes, but what’s that got to do—”

  “Didn’t keep much down?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Including antimalarials.”

  Her face contorts into an expression of horror. “Oh my God. I’m such an idiot. It was like I hadn’t even been taking them.” She seems to almost say something else but changes her mind.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You do.”

  “It’s just…” she worries her bottom lip. “It’s just that coming to Africa was supposed to be my big chance to prove my mettle, show what I was made of. It’s early April, Bran. I lasted four months. Four pathetic months.” Her heart rate monitor beeps, accelerating. “It’s laughable really. Look at me, I’m a bona fide joke.”

  “More water.”

  She gives the proffered cup a halfhearted backhand. “No, please.”

  “I’m serious, you need to drink, rehydrate yourself.” Get better, stronger, less goddamn pale.

  The green digital numbers show her pulse rate passes into the high nineties.

  “I know.” Her tone is testy.

  Pulse is in the low hundreds.

  Hasn’t she suffered enough? “Talia, calm down, sweetheart.”

  “Gah, I’m trying.” She drills her fingers into the side of her temples and takes a ragged breath.

  “Try harder!” I snarl, pissed at myself, the unfairness of the world.

  For a moment, shocked silence reigns.

  Her mouth quirks in amusement. “You don’t scare me, buddy.”

  There’s a staccato knock on the door frame, and a doctor enters, the same one who poked in earlier, low-key and to the point. Talia will be comfortable with him. I resume my position by the window, cross my arms, and watch the cars below. He conducts a quick examination, his hands light on her body.

  As much as I’m grateful, I hate that there’s another man who can actually do something useful for her.

  The doctor straightens. “It’s early days, but so far there doesn’t appear to be neurological damage. We’ll keep running tests, but for now, I’d say you’re a lucky lady.”

  “Really?” The hope in her small voice flays my defenses.

  “She’s going to be okay?” I mutter, wanting to believe it so bad that my teeth hurt.

  “Things are optimistic. Waking from the coma means the worst is over, but she’s not out of the woods yet.”

  All the tension I’d held in my body rushes out in a tsunami-sized wave.

  The second the doctor exits, I pounce forward and wrap my arms around her thighs.

  “Tighter,” she whispers, burying her fingers into my hair. “Please, hold me tighter.”

  “You’re going to be okay. Thank Christ.” I can’t hold back the violent shudders.

  “Do you…do you really think so?”

  “I know so, Captain.”

  Her face softens when I use my favorite nickname for her. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

  I force down the sob clawing from my throat. “I missed you so much.”

  “Really?”

  “This is something you doubt?”

  “No.” The faintest smile. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear all about it.”

  “The crew got so sick of listening about you that I resorted to conversing with animals.” I sit up and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “Whales make pretty good confidants actually. The cetacean world must be buzzing with rumors of the hottest teacher in Africa.”

  “You told whales about me?”

  “Yes. Is that a problem?”

  The skin around her eyes crinkles. She gives her head a bashful shake.

  “And don’t forget about birds, love.” I stand and lean forward, peppering kisses along her forehead. “The albatross were sympathetic. They mate for life. They understood where I was coming from.”

  “But wait.” She stiffens. “You’re supposed to stay on with the Sea Alliance for the northern hemisphere summer, go to Japan and all that?”

  “I quit to come here.”

  “But…but…” She fumbles her words. “Bran, the dolphin drive hunts—”

  “The crew leaders have time to sort staffing. This is where I need to be. I’m in exactly the right place.”

  “I’m sorry.” She squeezes her eyes shut. “I made you quit.”

  “You didn’t make me do anything. I wanted to be here, more than anything.”

  “I’m weak.” Her hands form two fists. “You had to give up everything we fought for because I couldn’t hack it.”

  “Come on, sweetheart.” I don’t like how she’s breathing, too quick and ragged. “Hang in there.”

  “Don’t feed me some motivational kitten poster line.” She rolls away, giving me her back.

  Oh, hell no. “We’re not playing this game, Talia.”

  “What?”

  “The one where you refuse to tell me what the hell you’re thinking.”

  She grimaces. “Trust me, you don’t want the all-access pass to my head.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  Two lines appear between her brows. “I’m tired.”

  “Talia.”

  “Think what I’ve just been through. This is a lot to process. Besides, I feel like shit, smell like shit, and I haven’t seen a mirror yet, but I’m a hundred percent certain I look even worse.”

  “You’re you. Perfect.”

  “Enough. Stop talking.”

  “I’m dead serious.” I bend to kiss her.

  “No.” She claps a hand over her mouth. “I haven’t brushed my teeth.”

  “I crossed an ocean for you. Do you think I give two fucks?” I gently pry back her fingers.

  “But I—”

  My lips cover hers, and then she’s returning my kiss with such fierceness my breath stops and I hear colors. Our bodies entwine and I inhale deep like she’s a wildflower that blooms only for me as my fingers trace the delicate skin beneath her jaw. Each touch is an ode, a secret sonnet, composed just for her. I caress in lieu of words, want to give her myself, at my most basic—my body—blood and bones. Everything, every damn thing I am, or ever will be, is hers now and forever.

  She breaks away, panting. “Holy hallelujah.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That was—”

  “I know.”

  “Hang on, I need a minute.” Her lids flutter closed. “Saying I missed you doesn’t come close. I require you.”

  “I’m familiar with the feeling.”

  She sniffles.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen.” I smooth back a wisp of her hair. “You work on getting better and I’ll figure out how to take you home. Back to your family.”

  Her irises darken to a bitter coffee brown. “What family?”

  “Your dad. When we spoke this morning he made it clear he wants you to recover in California.”

  “God, I can’t believe I’m doing this to him.” She gives a low, keening moan. “I’m the only kid he’s got left. My whole point should be not to cause unnecessary stress.”

  “He’s fine. No worries.”

  Fine if you leave out the part where he broke down, got himself under control, and then sounded like he’d enjoy nothing more than strangling me. I get it, this situation is stressful and he’s far away. Scott Stolfi didn’t get into specifics, but apparently his girlfriend is also in the hospital over in California. The bloke is getting slammed on all sides. Did my reassurances that
I’d move heaven and earth for his daughter endear me to him?

  That would be a no.

  I have no idea where the hell Talia’s mother is, and I can’t leave. This is all on you and here’s how it’s gonna go, bud. You bring her back where she belongs, and then get the hell out of her life. You’ve hurt her enough. End of story.

  “Fine, huh?” Talia’s look is skeptical. “He tends toward overprotective.”

  “That’s good. He should. You deserve that.”

  From both of us.

  “Please don’t make me out to be this delicate thing.”

  “Says the girl fresh from a coma and down ten kilos. Should I try to track down your mom?”

  “No.”

  “Are you—”

  “Maybe you should go and wrangle some orange juice.”

  “You’re not getting off that easy.”

  “What about my blood sugar. I’m so weak and all.”

  Fucking hell.

  She fiddles with her sheet. “Look, I really am so sorry about the Sea Alliance.”

  “There’s nothing to apologize for. The mission was a success. We located the whalers and their factory ship, put a complete halt to the hunting season. The only thing left to do was ramp our media efforts. Dial up the PR machine.”

  Yeah, the mission was a success, except for me being a bloody idiot and damn near ruining everything.

  I halt the bitter thought at the gate. You shall not pass.

  The accident, the whole shit storm from that final day at sea is over and done with. This, right here, getting Talia better, that’s what’s important.

  “You were supposed to stay on until October.”

  “Did you honestly think anything would keep me from you?” I straighten and push up my sleeves.

  She won’t stop moving her hands, fidgeting with the sheets, her hair. “What am I going to do? I mean, early terminating? Quitting the Peace Corps? Everyone expects me to be in Africa for two more years.”

  “Wait—what? You can’t think to stay.”

  She nodded. “During volunteer training they said that if we get sick, like really sick, we can go home, recuperate, and return within forty-five days. It’s called medical separation.”

  I want to respond with no way in hell, but that’s the type of reaction that drove us apart in December. I scuff my Vans against the linoleum and clear my throat. “What are you thinking?”