by Ally Blue
He bit back the please please please poised and ready to fly. The last thing he wanted, or needed, was help given under duress. Especially from his sister.
“Fine.” That word, he had to force out through his teeth. “I’ll text you when he dies. Maybe you can have a party.”
He cut off the call before she could answer. Whatever she might say, he didn’t want to hear it.
Restless, he stood and wandered over to the window again, his phone in his hand. The need to talk to Rafael was a near-physical ache, but he couldn’t call. Not yet. Rafael wouldn’t be awake for another hour or so. Normally he wouldn’t be up that early, but Solari had to be in the makeup chair at six this morning, which meant Rafael would be there with her. Even so, Nat knew he shouldn’t be calling Raphael at work.
A dark part of Nat hated Wolf’s Landing and everyone involved in it for keeping Rafael away from him right now. Why, wondered the bruised and bitter corner of Nat’s psyche, was he always the one getting the short end of the stick? Why was he never allowed to have what he needed?
His sensible side reminded him that Rafael had to work, and so did Solari. That Anna had generously given him as much time off as she could manage with the shooting schedule, meaning he could be with his father for another week at least without worrying about losing his job. And the Hawks had offered to look after the house, letting the fire investigators and police in when necessary.
In fact, Nat was damn lucky, and he knew it. Maybe he ought to remind himself of that more often.
Behind him, one of the machines attached to his dad went bong . . . bong . . . bong. Nat turned, heart in his throat like every time one of the alarms sounded. A readout on the monitor had turned red. He frowned, trying to figure out what it meant, but it was all Greek to him.
The cubicle door opened and the nurse—Tara?—swept in, full of calm efficiency. She smiled at Nat as she flipped on the light. “Hi, Nat. Couldn’t sleep?”
He didn’t bother to answer that. Could anyone sleep in the ICU? At least they’d let him stay. “What’s wrong? Why’s the alarm going off?”
“It’s his blood pressure. It’s dropped below the lower limit we set again.” She examined Nat’s father quickly but thoroughly, going through the routine Nat had watched dozens of times but still didn’t really understand. “We’ll titrate up his Levophed. That ought to help.”
Nat didn’t know much about any of the drugs they’d been pumping into his dad. But he’d figured out that this particular one was supposed to keep a person’s blood pressure up when the body couldn’t manage on its own. Tara and the other nurses had been in here more than once to turn up the dose on that and the other meds meant to keep his dad’s blood pressure from bottoming out. And still, it kept dropping, and they kept titrating up, as they called it.
That could only mean one thing: the drugs weren’t working. Nat’s father was going to die. It wasn’t simply a taunt to make Abby feel guilty. Jerome Horn’s life was going to end here in this sterile glass box, in a city where no one knew him, his wasted body bristling with lines and tubes and nobody but his disappointment of a son to mourn him.
The enormity of his father’s existence, erased and forgotten by everyone but him, froze Nat to his bones. How had it come to this? For a second, Nat imagined himself staring down a tunnel into the past, seeing Jerome Horn as he’d once been: strong, vital, alive. A good father, in spite of his flaws. What had happened to that man? How had he become this frail shell lying in the ICU bed? And how was Nat supposed to let him go?
Numb, he watched Tara fiddle with the IV pump, study vital sign readouts, examine his dad again, and finally leave the room when she was satisfied that her patient wasn’t going to die right that minute. He thought she asked him if he needed a cup of coffee or anything, and he was sure he shook his head and said something in answer, but the whole thing felt remote. Distant. Like a show playing on a TV in the next room with the sound turned off.
Tara flipped off the overhead light on her way out. Alone in the dimness with the relentless machines and his dying father, Nat went to the window again to watch the rain.
He was still alone fourteen hours and twenty-two minutes later when his father died.
Because he’d refused to sign the Do Not Resuscitate forms—Dad never would’ve agreed to that, I know it—they had to go through a Code Blue first. All the alarms pinged at once, and even Nat could tell that the heart monitor’s readout looked wrong, an irregular wavy line instead of the usual spiky repeating pattern. A whole crowd of nurses and doctors busted into the room, kicked him out, and started working over his dad with calm urgency.
The still-numb, detached part of Nat wished Rafael could be here to film the scene. The way the group worked together was impressive. Way better than any TV show or movie he’d ever seen.
The part of Nat watching his father slip away right in front of him wished Rafael could be here to hold him together.
When a doctor he’d never laid eyes on before emerged from the controlled chaos in the cubicle with a solemn sadness on her face, Nat knew what she was going to say before she got close enough to speak to him. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
Surprisingly, his voice didn’t shake or anything. He must be a better actor than he’d thought, because inside he was screaming.
The doctor nodded, her gaze holding his. “Yes. I’m so sorry.” She reached out and brushed her fingertips over his arm. “We’ll have some paperwork for you to sign in a few minutes. Is there anyone we can call for you?”
He shook his head. “No, thanks. I’ll do it.”
“Okay.” She watched him for a few seconds with the doctor-stare he’d gotten way too familiar with over the past few years. “Again, I’m very sorry for your loss. Please let us know if there’s anything at all we can do for you.”
He nodded and dredged up a smile as she turned and strode away to do whatever doctors did when they weren’t trying to save patients. The day nurse—Nat couldn’t remember his name—came out of the cubicle after a couple of minutes and rested one big, square hand on Nat’s shoulder. “Nat. I’m really sorry, man. We’ve removed all the tubes and everything. You can go be with him, if you want. If you’d rather not, we have a private room you can use to be alone and make calls or whatever you need to do.”
“Okay.” Nat drew a breath that burned. “I’ll stay with Dad. I need to call my . . . my friend.”
“Sure thing.” The nurse grasped Nat’s shoulder. “You go on ahead. I’ll get the paperwork together. Be thinking about what funeral home you want to come get him.”
Funeral home? Christ, Nat hadn’t ever even considered any such thing. How in the hell was he going to do this?
One step at a time, that’s how.
Wiping his palms on his jeans, Nat started toward the room where he’d lived since Saturday. Every movement felt like a monumental effort. Like he was the Tin Man, rusted in place. He wondered if everyone else could hear his joints squealing when he walked.
Nat went to his father’s bedside and peered down at him. He looked exactly like before, only . . . less. The absence of life left him gray and shrunken, still as a carving, mouth slack and eyelids half-open. When Nat touched his dad’s face, he was relieved to find the skin still warm. He wasn’t sure what he’d have done if his father had gone cold already.
He’s dead. He’s really dead. Gone forever.
Nat sank into the recliner, his mind whirling with everything that meant. Loss. Mourning. Bills. Paperwork. Memories. Telling Uncle Jeff and Abby, even if they didn’t give a shit.
Freedom.
Guilt stabbed him. But the idea was there, and he couldn’t unthink it.
Reaching through the side rail, he folded his fingers around his father’s limp hand. “I’m sorry, Dad.” He wasn’t sure what exactly he was apologizing for. Not saving him? Not being the perfect son, maybe, whatever that meant?
No. Nat’s father had never asked for salvation or perfection from his son. In his
heart, Nat knew that Sorry was for all the resentments he’d let fester for so long, all the times he’d silently called his father a burden and wished to be rid of him.
Nat wasn’t the superstitious type. He knew his private thoughts hadn’t caused any of this. But that didn’t make him feel any less awful for having thought them, or for being a tiny bit glad that this one responsibility, at least, was gone now.
He ran his thumb over his father’s knuckles. Strange, how even the texture of his skin had changed with death. Like decay had been circling just out of sight, waiting for its chance to pounce, to rip away color and shape and warmth in its black beak and cruel claws.
Nat glanced up, as if he could spot his own personal demon vulture hovering over him, waiting for the life force to leave his human shell behind.
He dropped his father’s hand—cooling, dissolving, dead—and stumbled across the room to press his forehead to the smooth glass of the window. It was still raining outside, an occasional bass rumble telling of a thunderstorm somewhere not far off. Soon, the nurse would come in with papers for him to sign, and strangers would take his father’s body away. Back to Bluewater Bay, of course, because that was home, for both of them. And there would have to be a funeral, and people saying I’m sorry when they weren’t, if anyone would even show up. Which was debatable.
And the bills . . .
Thinking about that right now was too overwhelming. It could wait a few days, anyway. Nat hoped.
Christ, he’d never felt so alone in his life.
You don’t have to do any of this alone.
Nat’s vision blurred. He blinked away the threatening tears. It felt like forever ago that Rafael had told him that. But he knew it was true.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed Rafael’s number.
It took Rafael a lot longer than it should have to get to the hospital after Nat had called him, on account of heavy traffic slowed down by the rain. He finally found a spot in the parking garage and jogged across the breezeway into the lobby where they were supposed to meet, an hour and change after leaving his apartment.
Nat wasn’t there.
Frowning, he circled the space a couple of times, checking all the chairs, even walking into the men’s room and calling Nat’s name. Nothing.
Back in the lobby, Rafael was wondering if he ought to call Nat and check on him when he emerged from the elevator bay. He didn’t seem to notice Rafael, or anything else, his focus turned inward and his eyes glazed.
“Nat. Hey.” Rafael hurried forward, only touching Nat’s arm when he finally blinked and turned toward him. “Are you okay?”
Nat started to say something, then stopped and shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m just so tired.”
In fact, he looked worn out, still in the same clothes he’d been wearing two days ago, blue circles under his eyes, hair greasy and tangled. Soft golden whiskers covered his jaw and straggled down his throat.
Rafael hurt for him. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yeah.” Nat peered at him with dull, exhausted eyes. “It’s too much, Rafael. I can’t think about it all yet.”
Rafael wasn’t sure what exactly he meant, but it didn’t matter. Deciding he didn’t care what anyone else in the lobby thought, he slipped an arm around Nat’s waist and led him toward the exit. “You don’t have to think about anything right now. I’m taking you back to my place, you’re going to have a shower and something to eat, then you’re going to sleep as long as you need to. We’ll sit down together and think about things after that. All right?”
Nat said nothing, but his taut muscles relaxed under Rafael’s arm. That was answer enough.
The rain and the traffic both slacked off as they left Port Angeles. Thick clouds still covered the sky, thankfully shielding Rafael from the setting sun as he drove west. Nat stared out the window the whole time without speaking. Rafael didn’t break the silence. If Nat didn’t want to talk, Rafael wasn’t going to push him.
By the time Rafael pulled into his apartment complex, the remaining drizzle had stopped altogether, and a few rays from the fast-sinking sun peeked underneath the ragged edges of the clouds.
Ever since his first day in Bluewater Bay, Rafael had found the sunset spectacularly beautiful. Even here, in the parking lot of an unremarkable apartment complex with not the slightest glimpse of the Juan de Fuca Strait that had inspired the town’s name, sunset—and sunrise, when he was up to see it—painted the place with magic. He always stopped what he was doing to admire it, if only for a second or two.
He’d caught Nat doing the same more than once. But today, he shuffled on, head down, ignoring the way the level shafts of light washed the world in red and orange.
Rafael decided to take the elevator today instead of the stairs. Nat didn’t argue, which said a lot about both his physical and mental state. They got upstairs and down the hall to Rafael’s apartment without running into any neighbors, for which Rafael was grateful. He didn’t want to stop to talk with anyone, and he figured Nat wouldn’t either.
Inside his apartment, Rafael finally gave in to the gnawing desire to wrap Nat in his arms. Nat immediately relaxed into his embrace, head tucked into the curve of his shoulder and arms looped around his waist. He breathed a long sigh into Rafael’s neck. “I remembered what you said. About how I don’t have to do this alone. That . . .” His voice caught. He pressed closer, clutching Rafael’s shirt in both fists. “That’s everything to me. Okay? Everything.”
Rafael’s throat went tight. He stroked Nat’s tangled hair. Rubbed circles between his shoulder blades. “I’m always here for you.” He’d said it before, and would say it again, as many times as Nat needed to hear it.
“I know.” Nat lifted his head. His expression was raw, wounded, all his walls beaten to dust. “I love you.”
The fist around Rafael’s ribs constricted, stealing his breath. He laid a palm on Nat’s stubbly cheek. “And I love you.”
Nat’s smile was an anemic shadow of his usual devilish grin, but right then it was the most beautiful thing in the universe. “Romance is alive and well. We’re the goddamn proof.”
Rafael let out a startled laugh. “It’s not official until I kiss you, though.” He tilted his head and kissed Nat’s too-pale lips. “There. Now we’re a certified romance novel couple.”
“Yeah.” Nat snickered, then stopped, looking horrified. “Fuck. I shouldn’t laugh.”
Christ. Poor Nat. Raphael kissed him again, soft and lingering, comforting rather than sexual. “It’s okay. It proves you’re alive. That’s all.”
“Alive. Right.” Nat stared at him, white-blue eyes wide and haunted. “What do I do now?”
Rafael didn’t think he was talking about right now, tonight. He rested his forehead against Nat’s. “We’ll figure it out, together. I promise. Right now, let’s get you cleaned up and fed, then you need to sleep.”
“Yeah.” Nat nodded. Sighed. He sagged a little in Rafael’s arms. “You’ll stay with me, right?”
And there went the hard, tight heat again, ballooning in Rafael’s chest until it pushed his organs aside and filled his rib cage with light. He wound his fingers into Nat’s hair. “Of course I will. I won’t leave you. Not ever.”
To him, that vow extended well beyond these walls, or this night. He thought Nat knew that too.
The day of the funeral was as sunny and bright as the day of Nat’s father’s death had been dreary and rainy. Nat wasn’t sure what to think of that, except he was glad he didn’t have to stand in the cemetery in the rain. That would have been way too much like some overwrought movie.
At least he had Rafael to help him handle the details. Sure, Cooper & Prince Funeral Home was super helpful—which was a good thing, since they were the only game in town—but still, Nat didn’t think he’d have been able to face a single decision without Rafael to guide him.
As it was, every step of the process had felt like yanking an abscessed tooth without Novocain: horrifi
cally painful, but a relief once it was over.
Now, standing in the slightly overgrown green grass and listening to the preacher talk about shit he couldn’t believe, but his father had paid occasional lip service to, Nat felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff. Before him lay the yawning gulf of the unknown future, terrifying and exhilarating. And here he was, unable to fucking jump because his feet were still tangled in the past. The whole business made him want to scream. At himself, at his dead father, at the world in general.
Rafael nudged him in time for the prayer. Nat bowed his head along with everyone else when the pastor—what was his name, anyhow?—glared at him, but he didn’t close his eyes. He was the fucking bereaved here, he’d skip the fucking prayer if he wanted.
And, yeah, he was the only bereaved, because his sister hadn’t flown out for the funeral. Big shock. She’d called him after he’d texted her the news of their dad’s death, which had been kind of a surprise, and they’d talked for almost an hour. “I’m proud of you,” she’d said, which he’d never expected to hear from any of his dwindling family in his lifetime. “Me and Colin watch Wolf’s Landing every week. I tell everyone you’re my brother. You’ve got a hell of a talent. Don’t forget that, and don’t waste it.”
Nice as that was to hear, having her at his side right now, when their father’s casket was being lowered into the ground, would’ve been better. But apparently expecting his fucking sister to fucking be there for him for a change was asking too damn much.
“Amen,” said the preacher. He lifted his head and gave the crowd the sort of plastic smile preachers used at funerals when they didn’t know either the dead person or any of the mourners. “Brothers and sisters, go in peace.”
Nat let out a long breath and clutched Rafael’s hand tight. He wasn’t sure how to feel right now. His father was in the ground, and he was the only person in his family who’d bothered to show up. At least his sister had acknowledged that their dad’s death was hard for him. Uncle Jeff had said, “Good riddance,” when Nat had called him, then not only hadn’t come to the funeral, but hadn’t even sent a fucking card.