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Bailey’s head hurt more than she ever remembered it hurting. She couldn’t remember much, though. Her arm ached too. Why? She was fighting with Jonathan. Was this some kind of psychological reaction? It was dark. The power was still out. No, her eyes were closed. She struggled to force them open, and her skull protested.
The fighting wasn’t the last thing she did. She’d been downstairs. Pissed because the basement flooded. Angry at Jonathan, for choosing now of all times to show emotion. Yanking stuff down in a frustrated rage. And then—
She reached for the what next, and her head screamed no.
A soft and warm sensation scuttled over her cheek. Bugs? The thought made her skin crawl. Lucifer? No. A hand.
“Wake up?” That was Jonathan. He didn’t sound mad.
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 YEARS later, 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.
Jonathan,
I’m sorry I’ll never see you again. I’m grateful you kept in touch.
Fate is a funny thing.
The sudden shift in subjects made him frown, but he kept reading.
It doesn’t matter how hard you try to avoid it, it always finds you. Except in your case. You’ve dodged yours every step of the way.
I don’t think anyone’s future should be set in stone, but I hope you stop running sooner rather than later. That you pause long enough to see what’s been right in front of you for so long.
I love you, and I couldn’t be more proud of you. Never think otherwise.
Love,
Nana
He swallowed past the ache in his chest and stared at the handwritten note, trying to make sense of what she meant about fate. Why did the words nag at him?
Something rustled, and he shoved the letter in his pocket again. He looked up, to see Bailey blinking a couple of times before completely opening her eyes.
“Hey.” Her smile looked like it took effort.
“How are you feeling?”
“Everything hurts, but not as much as it did.”
He reached for her working hand and grasped her fingers. “Good drugs.”
“I’ll say. What time is it?”
“Almost six at night. You slept for a while.”
She pushed herself into a sitting position, keeping her weight on her good arm. “I’ll say. Phillips isn’t going to make me stay all night, is he?”
“He said we couldn’t leave until there was a break in the storm.”
She looked down, and saw she wore a hospital gown. She frowned. “Where are my clothes?”
“Mrs. Phillips had to cut your shirt off, to get you into something dry, without jarring you too much. I hope it wasn’t a favorite. She’s washing your jeans.”
Bailey sank back into her pillows with an oof. “It sounds like a ruined top is the least of my concerns. And no, it wasn’t a favorite.”
“I’m sorry about earlier.” He should wait to have this conversation, but the apology needed to be out there.
“No, you’re not.” She didn’t look or sound upset. “We both said what we meant to.”
He couldn’t argue that. “But there were better ways to say it. I’m tired of arguing. I’m not going to yield if I disagree, but there’s got to be a happy medium.”
“In that case, I’m sorry too.” She squeezed his hand. “And if you’re gone in a few days, we won’t argue anymore anyway.”
“About that...” The words slipped out before he realized what he was saying. He had to analyze the rest of the thought and figure out if he wanted to head down that road.
She raised her brows in question.
He had to try. “Come back to L.A. with me.” The suggestion was ludicrous, and wouldn’t be taken back. The longer the idea lingered in his head, the more he liked it.
Her surprised exhale wasn’t quite the response he wanted. “Wow. I... uh— Wow.”
“You said this morning you’ve considered a bigger city and that nothing’s keeping you here.”
“That’s not quite how the conversation went.” She didn’t look upset, but the hesitation wasn’t what he wanted to hear.
“It’s a plan in progress.”
“My livelihood is here. My sales connections. My regular customers.”
This was the point where he should concede and tell her he understood. “I’ll help you get re-established.”
“And then what? You don’t agree with my business plan. What did you say? It wasn’t the kind of thing that made money.” Sadness lined her words.
“There are ways to improve on the idea. I can help.” Stop talking. Drop it. He refused to listen to the voice in his head.
She tugged his fingers. “I don’t want help with that.” Her tone was calm and even. “I’m happy with the idea the way it is, and the gallery I want is here.”
“You wanted to know earlier what could have been thirteen years ago. This is our chance to find out. Minus the sarcastic cynicism.”
“The teenager in me wants to find out,” she said. “She’s so very desperate for me to say yes. But we don’t know each other. I adore the boy I grew up with. I hope you feel the same, but—you know—the other way around. The problem is, we clash every time the real world rears its head. A lot of that’s on me; I have so much baggage... You’re the one who makes the predictions. How do you think this plays out? I’m guessing I give up my life here, sell everything, and move in with you. Sounds amazing. Until the fighting gets worse and the memories can’t hold us together. Do I have that right?”
“Real close.” He didn’t want to concede, but she had a point. “The sex is amazing.”
She smirked. “I can’t argue that, but it doesn’t make a relationship. Ask me again though, and I won’t say no.”
He was thinking clearly enough to know that would be a huge mistake. “I won’t ask again. Get some rest until Phillips says we can go.” He slumped back in his chair, trying to make sense of what just happened. The conversation felt backwards and nonsensical. Or rather, it should. Instead, the only part that confused him was where it ended with a no.