Chapter Twelve
T urned out, day two was not better than day one. It was worse. Scott hurt in places he’d never felt before. Inside his toes. What felt like under the skin, but on top of his left pectoral muscle. He’d discovered a bruise in the general vicinity and was guessing the board had hit him there, too. He had a headache, the nagging kind. His knee pain was off the charts, which made the back thing diminish a tad. More of a major distraction than a full-blown problem.
If he lay very still, totally relaxed, moved nothing, his pain went, on a scale of one to ten, from a twenty to a fifteen. He welcomed the proof that relief was possible. Held on to it, as he bore the icings. The heat.
Just as he clung to the sound of Iris’s voice through the seemingly bone-splitting stab after sharp stab up and down his left side during any process that required him to move.
He managed some scrambled eggs for breakfast.
Gritted his teeth and sweated through the blessedly very short physical therapy session. Just some basic movement. A bend that almost sent him through the roof. Couldn’t remember the name of the guy who’d been sent out. Nor any of the questions he’d previously thought so pertinent to ask during that first session.
He grunted. Gave almost imperceptible nods and shakes of his head. He barely spoke. Slept as much as he could. Gave a thumbs-up for music. Down for television. Couldn’t take on someone else’s story at the moment. Just had to get through his own.
To breathe through the pain.
He insisted on getting to the bathroom when absolutely necessary but allowed anyone present to help him. Iris. The PT guy. Dale. Then Iris again.
What he did not do was take a single pain pill.
He’d said no. Would not take a chance on needing them to the point of thinking he couldn’t make it without them.
He’d gotten himself into the mess. Was proving something to himself. And would not let himself down again.
He could succeed.
He would succeed.
He didn’t want dinner. Drank broth, but only because he needed something on his stomach before he took his antibiotics. Puking was not an option at the moment.
The way he was feeling, he figured even a small regurgitation would kill him.
He’d drifted off after the broth and pills. Came to with an awareness of electrifying pain in his knee, and a new scent in the room.
Scott focused on the lavender smell so he didn’t give in to the mind-killing pain. His nostrils weren’t complaining about whatever was touching them. Something Iris must have brought in with her. He took a second deep breath of it. Didn’t hate it.
Opened his eyes to tell her so, and Iris wasn’t there. Harper was. Sitting on the edge of the chair he was pretty sure had been Iris’s bed the entire previous night.
Alarm rent through him. So acutely that he felt it through the rest of his mammoth discomfort. He’d sucked as a patient. Iris had had enough of him. Had left him.
He had to apologize. “Where’s Iris?”
Harper stood. Smiled as she came toward him. And the not-horrible scent came with her. “She’s just outside the back door, on the beach with the dogs. Your sister called. She didn’t want to wake you with the conversation.”
He gave his almost-nothing nod. Feeling better enough that he wanted to drift back to sleep. Iris hadn’t left him.
“Can I get you anything?”
He didn’t open his eyes. Just breathed deeply again. Concentrating on the scent. Picturing a field of purple flowers. Did lavender plants bloom?
Maybe it wasn’t lavender. Lilac. They had blooms.
Didn’t have to be an L word.
Scott drifted. Came fully conscious again as his own gasp woke him. He’d inadvertently tried to move his left leg to ease the stiffness. Nausea hit for a second. He was hot. On fire.
As he breathed, catching the scent again, both negative sensations receded. Not because of the smell. But because the initial shock of pain was dulling.
Still…
He opened his eyes. Saw Iris’s frown as she stood over him. “You okay?”
Iris was back. Seeing her, he nodded. “Tried to move the damned leg.” No. Wait. He needed to be a better patient. “What’s that smell?”
She grabbed a small unit with an electrical cord sitting on the table at the end of the couch at his feet. “I’m sorry,” she said, reaching down to unplug the bamboo-looking thing. “Is it bothering you?”
“No.” Bamboo? Not lilac, lavender or anything else L . “I like it.” His voice was thick. Throat dry. She looked so good to him. So damned good. Had he seen those clothes before?
Jeans. Didn’t wear them on the beach.
She’d put her hair in a ponytail. Or had it been that way all night?
No. A strand had fallen on his chest at some point. He’d been on his back and…
She was gone. Had left the room. Because he’d had an inappropriate thought. She was being such a good friend. And he’d…
There she was again. Holding what had become his worst enemy of all time. The ice pack. Knee one. The worst.
Her hand on his thigh was nice, though. So he forced himself to lift the leg himself.
“What is it?” He half stumbled over the words. But had to get them out there. To get back on track.
“What is what?”
“The smell?” He took another long whiff.
“It’s aromatherapy,” she said “It’s called calm waters. Combination of lavender, cedarwood and rose oil.” She’d settled the ice pack, put his leg down. Was loosening the compression on his back to ready it for the same frozen torture. “Rose oil is a cicatrizant, good for wound healing. Cedarwood eases tensions. And lavender is calming and will help you sleep.”
His eyes shot open. Glared at her. She was drugging him? Through his nose?
“I’m happy to take it away if you’d rather,” she said, not looking at him, therefore missing his silent communication. “I just found it helped me one time when I was in a car accident. I’ve continued to use it through the years. Mostly when I can’t sleep.”
Ice hit his back. He wanted to swear. To grab the damned pack and throw it at the wall. To hear the thunk of it hitting. He took a deep breath instead. And let Iris’s oils invade his system.
Better that than lose any of the many battles he was waging with himself.
* * *
Iris spent a second night in the chair. The doctor hadn’t prepared her for how hard Monday would be on Scott. And, in a much less brutal fashion, on her as well. Watching him hurt, seeing his face creased in pain even in his sleep, worrying about his lack of appetite, missing his repartee even…all hit unexpectedly hard.
Sage had suggested that her brother should see how his obstinate refusal to medicate properly, or to stay in the hospital, was making it hard on those around him. Had been ready to tell him so herself, but Iris had let her know that she wished she wouldn’t.
In the first place, after calling someone from his office from the hospital to let them know what was going on, Scott had turned his phone off until he could speak coherently. Sage’s calls weren’t going through.
And in the second, Iris was bearing the brunt of the burden of caring for Scott, and she was not going to be the reason he failed in his own eyes.
Besides, it wasn’t like she couldn’t leave if she wanted to. Harper was right there, perched on the edge of Scott’s porch it seemed like to Iris, ready to jump in and help. The woman was kind. Genuinely helpful.
And seemed to gravitate more toward the men on the beach than the women.
Not that that should matter to Iris. It wasn’t like she had her eye on any of them. Still…
Not worth thinking about.
In the kitchen Tuesday morning, scrambling eggs before Scott woke up and grunted enough to tell her he didn’t want any, Iris was glad for the quick shower she’d grabbed as soon as Scott had fallen asleep after the postdawn icing. She felt better. More like herself. Had left her hair loose just to dry. Was in her favorite beige cotton pants and black-and-beige leopard-pattern sweater. Ready to take on anything in her path.
And caught herself smiling.
Because of the clothes. Because Scott should be feeling better.
Both thoughts rang true, but there was more. Standing there, helping her friend, immersing herself in the task, she felt…happy.
Not behind-the-camera alive and well, but…really happy.
In a way the sense of lightness inside her felt foreign. Almost unrecognizable, but not totally. There was distant recognition. Certainly a sense that she’d known the sensation before.
“Iris!” The call shocked her so much she dropped the spatula she’d been using, spattering egg on the floor.
As Morgan and Angel gleefully cleaned up the mess, she ran around the corner to the living room. Scott, half on the office chair, which appeared to have scooted away from him, did not look happy.
She was there in seconds, helping him onto the chair. And, wearing a full-out frown, too. “You should have called out to me.”
“I could smell the eggs cooking. I’m starving.” Full, gruntless sentences.
“The girls are enjoying them,” she grouched, but handled his left leg gently as she got it propped up on the chair. “ You’re supposed to be moving to crutches today, assuming your back allows it,” she continued, all business as she walked behind him to the bathroom door, and helped him stand while leaning on the counter, and then quickly let herself out, pulling the door closed behind her.
Arms crossed, leaning against the wall, she waited outside for him, heard the toilet flush. Heard him brush his teeth, too, took the move as a sign that he was getting better, and figured him for washing his face based on the sounds she heard next. They were succeeding. The two of them, as friends, were working together and he was getting better.
As he called out to her, asking for a change of clothes, letting her know where to find them, and then, telling her to leave them just inside the door on the counter, Iris collected, deposited. Waited. And when he let her know he was ready for her help getting back, experienced that oddly happy sensation from the kitchen again.
She’d never yearned to be a nursemaid. Which was all she’d been doing both times the curious blast from the past had hit.
But she’d been wearing her attitude sweater, both times.
Maybe clothes really did have a lot to do with how a person felt.
* * *
She had to go. Standing on one leg, with Iris’s arms beneath his armpits as he lowered himself to his desk chair, Scott remembered exactly what he’d been planning to ask the physical therapist. And would do so.
Just as soon as he got the guy’s name again.
You couldn’t connect with a person enough to get the answers you needed out of them if you didn’t put forth some effort.
Like remembering a name.
And then he’d get every trick the trade had ever known. How a guy dealt with crutches and a lower back sprain at the same time. How to lift a leg that was partially deadweight with a back that was on a no-lifting order.
If the therapist wasn’t privy to the answers, he’d invent some. Period. No way was he going to have Iris helping him into his chair like that again.
Bad enough that the bathroom had been involved. The discomfort of that alone was enough to drive a guy to desperate measures. But if he had to stand there one more time with Iris’s arms looped under his, sliding against his body, holding him, there’d be a lot more embarrassing happenings than someone listening to him pee.
Like hearing him cry out in pain at the beginning of his physical therapy session later that morning. Definitely worse than pee. The way Iris had come running in from the kitchen, mouth open, her eyes wide, filled with fear…she had to go.
Let him be miserable in peace.
PT, while sweat inducing and painful, actually turned out to be a good thing. He managed to stay alert, to eventually conquer every one of the basic exercises he’d been given to start with. And to ask Joel—he’d managed to get the name of his in-home therapist for the duration by reading his name tag—the questions that had been on his mind on Sunday. Namely, any and all that would give him the tricks of the trade that would allow him to be immediately self-sufficient.
And while he and Joel were still alone, he had the younger man order him up the wheelchair with a brake on it that was what he was going to need. While his left side and back would continue to be tender, he had enough upper-body strength to get himself from chair to toilet. And they discovered that the bed in his spare room, a queen that was lower to the ground than his king, was better for him to get himself on and off from than the couch.
The freezer door—a top, not side, model—could be accessed with a reacher-grabber tool, ordered online for same-day delivery. And he could access the ice packs, and return them for cooling, with the same apparatus.
For good measure, he had Joel order him up a shower chair, too. Just in case. He was certain he could stand on one leg long enough to get the business done, but he knew others wouldn’t approve of that course of action. And since no one would be around to witness his use of the chair, or a one-legged stance, ordering the chair was clearly the obvious choice. Just because he had it didn’t mean he had to use it.
By the time Iris returned from a trip home, via a walk on the beach with Morgan and Angel, Scott was in another fresh pair of shorts and T-shirt, and was sitting up on the couch. With pillows supporting his back and another set of them under his left leg. Iris had picked up a tray with little legs that straddled him side to side and he had his computer open on it and had just hung up from the office. The call had been brief. Just a check-in. He’d answered a couple of critical questions, though, without once having to grit his teeth against the pain running up and down his left side.
Joel had made it clear that he thought Scott was lacking in mental acuity for not taking the pain medication. The therapist didn’t know about Scott’s greater hurdles, nor the bigger-picture course he’d set for himself.
The dogs bounded into the living room first. Followed closely by Iris. The first thing he noticed was the leopard print. Again. Accompanied by an immediate, inappropriate and not even justified jump to thoughts of wild activities.
“You’re working?” Her lighter tone, the possible approval he heard in her voice, drew his gaze to her face.
And the smile she was wearing along with the leopard print.
“I am and we need to talk.” Another jolt of sexual desire pushed the words right out of him. He’d meant to finesse. To use his professional skills to convince her that she agreed with the plan of action ready to be put into motion.
It was going to happen, either way. Had to happen. He’d just feel better with her support. He didn’t want her mad at him.
A new thing in their friendship—the idea that she would get mad. Prior to his injury, their easygoing friendship had never entered those waters.
The realization required a bit of his energy for the second it took him to process the fact that things were changing in spite of their resolve. Sexual attraction, and the possibility of anger…
“What you need to do is eat lunch,” Iris said, pulling a grocery bag out of the large black satchel she’d carried in and opened. A satchel he’d been eyeing as a threat and needing it to go right back out. She had the lid off a container she’d pulled out of the grocery bag before he found a refusal, and the sight of the sub…all the protein she’d piled on it… Well…he did need to eat.
He needed all the protein he could get. Protein repaired cells.
She had to go. But the food. There was a lot of it. Way more than just a sub. Chicken salad with grapes. Broccoli salad. Potato salad. Coleslaw. Some green gelatin. And a fork.
“I asked Dale to stop at the deli on his way home last night and pick up some salad. He brought two pounds of each of these. I know you aren’t fond of pineapple, but I don’t think any of these contain it. I tasted them all.”
Suddenly starving, Scott dug in. Praised the food. The deli. Dale.
He didn’t praise Iris.
He couldn’t even begin to list all of things she’d done for him in the past two days. All without being asked.
Had no words to express his gratitude.
Instead, as he handed her the empty paper plate and used fork, he said again, “We need to talk.”
He’d have kicked himself if he’d been able, as she turned her back and, without a word, left the room.
He’d meant to express his undying appreciation. To let her know just how much her being there during the past two hellish days had kept him going.
Admitting that he couldn’t have done it without her.
Instead, he’d talked to her like she was some space age robotic servant with no feelings. Maybe a way to kill off any latent attraction that she might, somehow, if the moon fell to the earth, still be harboring for him after the past days of awkward physical TMI.
But not at all the way to preserve a friendship that meant more to him than ever.
“We’re already an hour late for your pills.” She was back. Handing him the medication before taking a seat in the chair that had somehow become a bedroom to her. “I kept watching for Joel’s van to leave. He must have worked you hard.”
Yes, well, Scott did feel as though he’d been run through an assembly line complete with paper presses. But Joel’s lengthy stay had been caused by the after-workout, “provide for Scott’s autonomy” business.
As soon as he’d swallowed the last pill, took a breath to dive into his charge, argument, summary and verdict.
Before he got started, Iris said, “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
“I’m a hundred percent better today,” he started in, stopping when his words garnered him a very clearly raised eyebrow in his direction. She was all confident-looking in her leopard-patterned top.
“As opposed to yesterday,” he conceded.
Had she put on the tiger that day for him?
He wouldn’t blame her.
“I just want you to know how much it means to me…what you’ve done these past two days.” He stopped right where he’d planned. And then said, “I’m never going to forget…” His voice dropped off midsentence as his ears heard his words, and something inside him rescued him from himself.
“You might want to wait until the end of the week to be saying things like that,” Iris said, and pushed herself back until the footrest came out on the chair. She sat there, looking him right in the eyes. Appearing as though she had every intention to remain there. Take a nap even.
Not that he begrudged her one. She most definitely deserved some catch-up sleep after all he’d deprived her of with his heat and ice and pill requirements. But not there.
Still, he’d started the conversation. He couldn’t just completely bail. “I could wait until the end of time, and I’d still be grateful.”
With her lips turned, her chin jutting, her brows raised, all as though she’d suddenly decided there was merit in his words, she nodded. But didn’t lower her footrest. Instead, she pulled out her phone.
Confusion replaced the huge amounts of gratitude he’d been feeling. Panic took over for confusion. With a little anger bobbing in and out.
“I no longer need twenty-four-hour care.” He told her about the wheelchair, the grabber thing, the shower chair, postulating that they were tools meant to make one independent and ending with Joel’s proclamation regarding Scott’s upper-body strength. Punctuating the finale with a good chest and upper arm muscle clench.
Emulating any of the action figures of his youth, if he did think so himself.
Iris appeared to be listening. She was watching him, not her phone. Seemed attentive. He couldn’t read her, though. Which did not please him. Used to reading juries made up of total strangers, and doing so accurately more often than not, Scott was vexed by her ability to stump him.
Because he was already on his last nerve due to the constant pain in his left leg. Not just the knee. No, his injury had to make itself felt up and down the entire damned limb.
That was it. He’d almost lost Iris the day before by being cantankerous. He’d needed her then. Now he didn’t. All he had to do was be a difficult patient. A grouch.
Something he could offer with very little provocation at the moment.
“I’m serious, Iris. I want to do this alone from here on out. I need my place to myself.”
“I know. You’ve made up your mind. You have a right to make your own choices.”
And there she sat. With the silence drawing out between them. Until she asked, “You done?”
Her question played right into his plan. Bringing out the grump in him. “Yes, as a matter of fact I am,” he snipped. Then thought of something else to say, pursuant to the black weekend bag she’d erroneously brought into his home but couldn’t give voice to it lest he prove himself wrong. He’d said he was done.
“Good, then here’s your choice. You put up with me in your space until your back allows you to be up on crutches full-time—no need for a wheelchair…”
His gut clenched. He gritted his teeth. He waited for whatever other cockamamie option she was about to deliver with such sassy confidence so that he could hand down his third and final option—she had to go.
“…oorrr…” She drew out the word, turning her phone around, to show him a call screen. With his sister’s name on top in big bold letters. Big enough, bold enough for him to read from several feet away. “Or she’s catching the next flight home, cutting her family-moon short by two weeks. Your choice. I gave her my word.”
Scott’s mouth opened.
But no winning argument came forth.
Sage had clearly issued a threat she fully meant to keep.
And Iris was there because of the very same threat. She was there for Sage. To preserve the Bartholomews’ very special bonding time as a new family.
Not for him.