Chapter 5
five
Isla
The bell above the door chimes, and I look up hopefully, but it's just Wren MacDonald looking for copper wire.
"The thin gauge, if you have it," she says. "I'm working on a new piece and ran out."
I help her find it, trying not to be obvious about checking my phone. Mac left my apartment at six this morning for work—some construction job with one of the logging crews—and I haven't heard from him since.
Which is fine. Normal. We've only been doing this for a week.
A week of him showing up at closing time.
Of dinners that get cold while we tear each other's clothes off.
Of mornings waking up tangled together in my bed, his beard rough against my shoulder.
Of him teaching me the basics of knitting while we sit on my couch, his big hands guiding mine through the stitches.
A week of falling completely, stupidly in love with a man who knits baby blankets and still looks surprised every time I kiss him.
"Isla? The wire?"
"Right. Sorry." I ring her up, smiling through my distraction. "How's the jewelry business going?"
"Good. Bennett's helping me set up a proper workspace in his shop." She grins, that happy glow that comes from being newly in love. "It's nice having someone who understands the creative process."
After she leaves, the shop falls quiet again. It's been slow all week. March always is a weird lull between winter and tourist season. I've been rearranging displays to pass the time, but mostly I just keep thinking about Mac.
About last night, when he stayed up late working on a new blanket while I read beside him. The way his face relaxes when he knits, the tension melting from his shoulders. The way he looked at me when I asked if I could try.
I'm dusting shelves when I hear the sirens.
An ambulance, racing down Main Street. Not unusual in a small town, but something makes me go to the window. And then I see Mac's truck, following close behind the ambulance, hazards flashing.
My stomach drops.
I'm dialing his number before I consciously decide to, hands shaking.
"Isla." His voice is rough, strained. "Can't talk right now."
"What happened? I saw the ambulance."
"Birdie fell. At her house. Bad this time." I hear him take a shaky breath. "Sprained her arm. Maybe worse. They're taking her to the hospital."
"I'm coming."
"You don't have to."
"I'm coming." I'm already flipping the sign to CLOSED, grabbing my keys. "I'll be there in ten minutes."
The hospital is small—, so I find Mac immediately. He's pacing in the waiting area, still in his work clothes, sawdust in his hair. When he sees me, something in his expression cracks.
"Hey." I go to him, and he pulls me against his chest, holding on like I'm the only thing keeping him upright.
"She was just getting the mail," he says into my hair. "Slipped. Called me instead of 911." His arms tighten around me. "She couldn't get up. Couldn't move her arm."
"But she called you. She's conscious, talking?"
"Yeah. Pissed off that I called the ambulance." He pulls back, and I can see the fear in his eyes. Fear and guilt. "I should have made her get the walker last week."
"Mac, no. You can't control everything."
"She's eighty-five. She fell twice in two weeks. I should have convinced her."
"Mr. Hawthorne?" A woman in scrubs appears in the doorway. I recognize her—Bronwyn Allard, the nurse who came back to town a few months ago. "You can see her now. Her arm is sprained, not broken. We've wrapped it, given her pain medication. But we need to talk about fall prevention."
Mac nods, his jaw tight. He reaches for my hand, and I lace my fingers through his as we follow Bronwyn down the hall.
Birdie is sitting up in bed, looking annoyed and slightly loopy from the pain meds. Her left arm is in a sling, and there's a bruise forming on her cheek.
"Oh good, you brought reinforcements," she says when she sees me. "Mac's been hovering like I'm dying."
"You fell," Mac says flatly. "Again."
"I slipped. There's a difference." But her usual spark is dimmed, and I can see the fear underneath the bravado. She's scared. Maybe for the first time, she's actually scared.
The doctor clears his throat. "Mrs. Callahan, you've had two falls in two weeks. At your age, falls are the leading cause of—"
"I know the statistics, dear. I'm old, not stupid."
"Then you know you need assistive devices. A walker, at minimum. Possibly a cane for around the house." The doctor looks at Mac. "She also shouldn't be living alone. Not until we're confident she's stable."
"I'm not going to some home!"
"You're not," Mac says firmly. "You're staying with me. In my guest room. Until we figure this out."
Birdie opens her mouth, then closes it. For once, she doesn't argue.
"And you're getting a walker," I add, stepping closer to the bed. "A nice one. We can decorate it however you want. But you're getting one."
"I don't need that."
"Yes, you do." Mac's voice is rough. "I can't... Birdie, I can't watch you hurt yourself because you're too stubborn to accept help."
She looks between us—Mac still holding my hand, me standing close enough that our shoulders touch—and a small smile crosses her face.
"You two are together."
Mac and I glance at each other. We haven't talked about this. About labels or telling people or what we are beyond the nights we spend tangled up in each other.
"We're..." I start.
"We're seeing each other," Mac finishes.
"I knew it!" Birdie looks delighted despite her injuries. "The way you looked at each other at the craft show. And Mac, you've been whistling. You never whistle."
"I don't—" He stops. "That's not the point. The point is you need help."
"I'll make you a deal." Birdie's eyes are bright with medication and mischief.
"I'll get the walker. I'll stay at your place.
I'll do whatever you medical types think I need.
" She pauses. "But only if you two promise to actually date.
Properly. None of this sneaking around. You tell people.
You go out together. You give this thing between you a real chance. "
"Birdie." Mac's voice holds a warning.
"That's my condition. Take it or leave it." She crosses her good arm over the one in the sling. "I'm not accepting help unless you accept happiness. Fair trade."
I look at Mac. His jaw is tight, that muscle jumping like it does when he's stressed. But when he looks at me, something in his expression softens.
"You want that?" he asks quietly. "To go public? Deal with people talking?"
Do I want people knowing that Mac Hawthorne, the gruff loner who barely speaks, is sleeping in my bed every night? That I'm falling in love with him so fast it scares me?
Hell, yes.
"Yeah," I say. "I do."
He nods slowly. Then turns back to Birdie. "Fine. We'll date properly. Now will you please just agree to the walker?"
"With flowers," Birdie says immediately. "I want silk flowers on it. And maybe some of those spinny things. Pinwheels? Do they still make pinwheels?"
"We'll find pinwheels," I promise, laughing despite everything. "Whatever you want."
The nurse, Bronwyn, clears her throat from the doorway. "I'll write up the discharge paperwork and a prescription for the pain medication. We can get you fitted for a walker tomorrow."
When he leaves, Birdie settles back against her pillows, looking satisfied despite the circumstances.
"You're a meddling old woman," Mac tells her, but there's affection in his voice.
"Someone has to look out for you, darling. You certainly won't do it yourself." She waves her good hand at us. "Now go get me one of those terrible hospital sandwiches. I'm starving, and the medication is making everything fuzzy."
In the hallway, Mac pulls me into an alcove away from the nurses' station. For a moment, he just looks at me, his hands framing my face. He kisses me properly this time, deep and thorough, right there in the hospital hallway. "We're doing this. You and me. For real."
"For real," I agree.
When we pull apart, he's smiling. That rare, real smile that makes my chest ache.
"Come on," I say, taking his hand. "Let's go find your meddling housemate a sandwich."
"She's going to be impossible, you know. Living with me. Probably rearrange all my furniture."
"Probably." I grin at him. "And you'll let her, because you love her."
"Yeah." He squeezes my hand. "I will."