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Bailey could go home now. The storm had passed, and while the paths would be a mess, she could pick her way through them. Sleep in her own bed. Grab a change of clothes that weren’t hurriedly shoved into a duffel bag.
She didn’t want to leave Jonathan alone when he was coping with this. Even if he wouldn’t speak to her, she wanted to be here. She grabbed a book from the living-room shelf, and settled in to read.
The next thing she was aware of was the scent of brewing coffee. She used the smell to force her eyes open. The storm shutters were open, and the early morning sun spilled into the room, striking her face. She stretched her neck and shoulders the best she could, and her book thunked to the ground. Note to self—falling asleep on the couch sitting up was a bad idea. The coffee meant Jonathan was up. What kind of mood would he be in? Angry would be better than impassive. Regardless, she hoped he wouldn’t shut her out.
She padded into the kitchen and found him leaning against the far counter, a mug in hand and a second sitting next to him. “For you.” He nodded at the latter.
She grabbed the cup and put some distance between them again. His eyes held the same haunted look as the night before. He’d shaved. Changed. His hair was damp. Cleaning up didn’t hide his grief. Once again, the words how are you doing died on her lips. She held up the mug. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He didn’t drink his coffee. Silence filled the room, and neither of them maintained eye contact. “Do you have plans this morning?” His abrupt question startled her.
“Same plans I’ve had all week.” What she intended as teasing came out tired.
“We should go out for breakfast.”
“What?”
His smile looked as though it took effort, but it was still pleasant. “We’ll stop by your place, and you can change and shower. Then we’ll go to Bobbie’s. Let someone else who has food in their kitchen do the cooking. Give the locals something to talk about.”
“Like what?”
“I’m not dim. Every single person we’ve run into since I arrived is muttering about what a cute couple we make and how it’s about time. Us at breakfast together ought to make their day, regardless of the reality.”
He did notice the stares and whispers. She shouldn’t be surprised. His qualifier gnawed at something inside, but she couldn’t argue. They weren’t a couple; they’d both agreed. “Breakfast sounds good.”
“Do you need help making sure your cast stays dry in the shower?” He winked. Like all his other expressions this morning, it looked forced.
She shook her head. “You can help me put a plastic bag around it.”
Conversation was stuttered at best, as he drove them to her place. She struggled to get her clothes off around the cast without help. She needed to learn sooner rather than later. When she snagged the plaster, and jarred her shoulder, a scream tore from her throat before she could stop it. Fuck, that hurt.
Jonathan pounded on the bedroom door. “What happened?”
She swallowed past the jolt and let him in, relieved the spike of pain evaporated quickly. “I think I need help.”
“Of course.” He moved stiffly, the way he had all morning, but concern shone in his eyes. Like in the clinic, he was so gentle, working the cotton around her arm, pulling off the shirt and setting it aside, it filled her with a different type of ache. He grazed his fingers over her back. “It’s a pretty shade of neon yellow now, but it’s got some new purple splotches.”
She smiled, but a wave of memories slammed into her from the other night slammed into her—laughing and catching up in the rain, and then sex in the shower... She stashed the images for when she was alone and not dealing with the harshness of reality. “What can I say? I’m a bruise collector.” The attempt at a joke fell flat. “Thanks for the help. I’ve got it from here.”
“I’ll be in the living room.” He stepped around her, gave her one final glance, and then closed the door on his way out.
After the shower, she found looser clothes. Something she could put on and take off by herself.
The diner in town was mostly empty. Even the older men who usually occupied the table in the corner were absent. The waitress was too young to know or care who Jonathan was, so there were no whispers or knowing smiles.
They ordered and still barely said more than I’m glad it stopped raining, and Me too.
Jonathan sighed. “You’re dying to ask.”
“I am.” She hated this new information about Nana’s death. Knowing didn’t change anything, and she could only offer sympathy, not do the coping for him. It gnawed at her, but it seemed to be destroying him.
“Go for it.”
“How are you holding up?”
“I’m not.” He gave a bitter laugh. “At this very moment, I’m wondering if it’ll ever not hurt. It doesn’t matter what I tell myself—that I can’t change the past; that this was what she wanted—I’m furious. How is it not demolishing you?”
It hurt. What she said last night was true; it was like reliving the news of Nana’s passing, amplified to infinity. The pain wouldn’t ebb so soon, but reason was drifting in. “Maybe it’s because I was there in the end. I got to see more of her than you did. You have access to all of that, by the way. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“Right now, I just want to know why.”
“You said it yourself—this was her decision. You know her reasons.”
He snarled. “But I don’t understand. Do you?”
A no died on her lips. She tried to force the word out, but it wasn’t true. “In a way, yes.”
“Holy fuck.” He scrubbed his face. “Do I have to put you on suicide watch?”
A wounded stab joined her grief. “I’m not considering it for myself. I respect her decisions, though. In the end, she got something few of us ever get. Control over her life and destiny.”
“I can’t see it that way. I hear the words, I’m trying to make sense of them, but I don’t get it.” He met her gaze. “And it’s worse that you do. This isn’t supposed to be reasonable. It was the wrong choice.”
“Wrong or right, it wasn’t yours to make.” She hated this argument and being able to see both sides.
“I don’t know if I can ever forgive her.”
“I hope you do.” Bailey wanted to reach for him, but he felt worlds away. “I understand if you don’t. But I hope you do.”
His phone rang and was in his hand before the first tone faded. Instead of answering it, he stared at the screen.
“Do you need to get that?” she asked.
“It’ll wait.”
For as anxious as he was to get the device back, the answer surprised her. “I’m always here to listen. Even if you want to yell about how wrong I am and she was and this all is.”
“That’s not me.”
“I know.” She covered his hand with hers. “But the offer stands from now until forever.”
*
JONATHAN HAD TO SWIM through sludge every time he let his thoughts drift inward. The grieving he avoided when Nana died haunted him tenfold. Heavy and sick inside. He didn’t want it to go away, but he couldn’t lose himself in it. As long as he only kept half his mind on what happened, he could mourn and seethe and get things done at the same time. He wanted to be mad at Bailey for brushing the entire thing off. That wasn’t quite the case, though. And the agree-to-disagree approach left their friendship intact. That was important.
They got back to Nana’s house—Jonathan wouldn’t think of it as his. There was no doubt he’d sell the place now. Bailey settled in to her lists, and he stepped outside, to return the call he ignored earlier. He didn’t need her overhearing this conversation. The number was unfamiliar, so he wasn’t certain, but he had a good idea where it was from, based on area code.
“Andrew Newton.” A cheerful voice picked up on the other end.
That was what he thought. “Jonathan Woodhouse, returning your call.” He’d decided not to sell, but there was no reason for Bailey to know he’d considered it.
“Hey, man. It’s nice to put a voice to the name. Especially for someone I’ve heard so much about.”
“From whom?”
Andrew chuckled. “The girls and some of the guys. You know how they gossip. Get them in front of a camera, tell them to take off their clothes, and a lot of them get chatty when they’re nervous.”
“The guys?” Jonathan pulled his phone away from his ear, to glare at it.
“Teasing. Miss Mercy speaks highly of you in vague and professional terms. What can I do you for? I hear you’ve got antique nudies. Old Playboys maybe? Original classic pinup art?”
Jonathan wasn’t sure how this guy was friends with Mercy—everything about the conversation grated on his nerves—but apparently they went way back. Kids did tend to make bad decisions. “Ernest Hemingway.”
“Is that a metaphor? Some kind of Old Man and the Sea kind of kink?”
“It’s literal. It’s a film of Ernest Hemingway. But I’ve wasted your time. It’s not for sale after all.”
“Hmm.” Was that seriousness in Andrew’s tone? “The imagery is disturbing, but I guarantee there are buyers out there for it if you can prove authenticity. What changed your mind?”
“It’s also starring my grandmother.”
“Oh. Eww.” Andrew sounded disgusted. “You thought about selling that? Man, what’s wrong with you?”
“I wasn’t in my right mind. Mourning does funny things to a person.” Jonathan wondered why he returned this call. A never mind text would have sufficed. It was a relief to step back from the situation and view it from a different angle, though.
“I’m glad you got over it. If you come across any classic spank-sheets that don’t reek of Oedipus, give me a call again.”
“Oedipus was with his mother. And I didn’t make the fucking movie, I found it in storage.”
“Technicalities. Keep my number, but not for the incest. And I’m sorry about your loss.”
“Thanks.” As soon as Jonathan disconnected, rage sped back in. Was there a time limit on something like this, or was he stuck with the empty void in his chest forever?
When he wandered back into the house, Bailey looked up from her spot on the couch. “Everything all right?” She frowned. “Besides the obvious?”
Not really. Not ever again. That was melodramatic. He needed to reconcile Nana’s choice or he wouldn’t be able to get on with life. “I—yeah. I need to head back to my hotel and grab the rest of my things so I’m here to help you finish up, but I can’t sleep in this house.” His voice cracked. “Who do you like best in town, as far as lodgings are concerned?”
“Me.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Why did he say that? His subconscious didn’t fill in the blanks of its assumption.
She sighed. “You’re being stupid. I have a perfectly good guest room, and my place is close.” She gave him a hesitant smile. “We’ll stay up late watching movies, and you can make sure I don’t get into any trouble, and make breakfast.”
Her teasing threatened to lighten his mood, but his resentment refused to let that happen. He covered both in numbness. “All right. But you have to behave.”
“Me? I’m not the deviant.”
“Whatever. I’ll be your chef, but I’m not your manservant.” There. That was the superficial joking he could do with anyone. The mask he was comfortable in.
“Do you want company? Driving back to your hotel, I mean. You’re not the only one who’s been stuck on this island for days.”
He didn’t want to talk, but being alone with his thoughts was worse. If she was there, they could keep up some kind of meaningless banter, and he didn’t have to sink into his own head. “Sounds fantastic. We’ll grab lunch and make a day out of it.” He offered his hand, and pulled her to her feet when she accepted.