6. Sarah
6
SARAH
I'm not an angry person by nature. As a matter of fact, on an average day, you'll find me doing my best trying to make sure the people around me are okay.
My mom used to call me a people pleaser. Maybe I am. But that's not my attitude right now.
No, it's whoever did this to Ian's handsome face that I have a bone to pick with. Or, like I've been told, the two people.
My aunt Sheila had called me a while ago telling me to come to the hospital. Of course, I asked her why. I mean, I had no idea that anyone I knew had been hospitalized. And the thought of my daughter being a patient is something I refused to believe. My aunt immediately sensed my confusion, though, and clarified, telling me it was Ian.
It's one thing to be told he's in the hospital. It's another thing entirely to find out he's there for a very avoidable reason.
First, I was pissed at him. I came here ready to talk some sense into his head, of course, with some skepticism of whether he'd want to see me.
He did leave earlier without any explanation. What if he wouldn't appreciate me coming?
I tried talking myself out of coming, but I just couldn't find it in me to leave him alone, especially when I'm still not sure why he's in town yet or if he's with any company. What if he has no one to drive him back to the motel?
So here I am, staring at his very swollen face, and the anger that was in me toward him has switched gears.
I want to punch someone, preferably the two men that did this to him. But who am I kidding? If they can do this to Ian, who I know to be a strong man, what harm could my punch possibly do to them?
It wouldn't hurt to at least try, though.
He looks so much older, so different from the man whose mouth I was ravishing just a few hours ago.
I want to kick whoever did this to his face in the nuts.
He stopped walking as soon as he saw me, so now we're both just standing awkwardly, staring at each other, neither of us saying anything.
I contemplate turning back and just going home after five minutes of awkward silence, but the way he looks just won't let me. I can't stomach leaving him here all alone, so I decide to break the silence.
“Have you been discharged?” I ask, even though I already know the answer to the question.
I do have to start somewhere, right?
He nods at my words, his left hand coming up to rub his jaw. Even with his beat-up face, he still has an edge of appeal to him.
Will I ever stop wanting this man?
The nod is all I get in response from him, and then we're back to the awkward silence.
Okay, at least no one will be able to say I didn’t try.
Moving out of the hallway so I don't block anyone who may want to pass, I go to rest by the wall, my eyes fixed on him so he knows I'm here for him, and I'm willing to stay here for however long it takes him to speak.
It takes him a full minute before he breaks under my gaze.
He sighs in frustration, his face turning into a frown before he speaks.
“I wasn't expecting to see you here. Shouldn't you be asleep by now?”
“Well, maybe if you hadn't gotten yourself involved in a situation that was totally none of your business, I would be asleep,” I shoot back at him in annoyance.
I come out here to see him, and he's asking me why I’m not asleep?
Asshole.
“Damn, nothing is a secret around here,” he mutters, his eyes intentionally avoiding mine. My eyes remain on him as he looks everywhere but me. “Look, um, about earlier. I'm sorry for leaving without telling you. I didn't mean…” He trails off, struggling for words to justify himself. He sighs again, runs a hand through his hair, and then opens his mouth to speak.
“Do you need a ride back to the motel?” I cut him off, not willing to remain silent for another second, and watch him try to feed me bullshit.
He left voluntarily. He had his reasons, whatever they were, and I don't want to hear them. Or at least, I'd like to pretend not to.
His head flips up at my words. His eyes search through mine. Whatever it is he's looking to find, I don't think he does judging by the defeated look that mars his already dented face.
“Yes, please. That's if it wouldn't be too stressful for you, of course.”
And now he cares about me. Please.
Rolling my eyes, I turn to walk away from him.
“The car is outside,” I say loudly as I continue walking, not once pausing to check if he's following me. If he chooses not to, then that's his loss. At least I can go back home and get back to what I was doing without feeling guilty.
As I pass through the hospital reception, I meet with a couple of people I know and exchange quick pleasantries with them. I see Ian in the corner of my eye, occasionally waiting a few feet behind me every time I pause to exchange greetings with someone. By the time we successfully make it to the car, I let out a sigh of relief.
Being a people-person can be a good thing in some moments, but most times, it can be quite tedious. You're saddled with responsibilities and expectations that can be too much to keep up with, especially in moments when you just want to be left alone to your thoughts.
I open the driver's seat and unlock the front passenger door for Ian. He enters immediately, strapping the belt to his body.
“Thanks for doing this,” he says as I start the car's engine and pull out of the hospital lot.
“It's nothing,” I murmur.
I don't have to ask him where his motel is because there's only one motel in Glazer Ville. And although it may be the cheapest accommodation around here, it's the closest place you'll feel to home. The staff members are very warm and friendly. There's also the fact that they provide their customers meals, good meals.
Throughout the drive, my mind wonders about the possibility of tonight's events not just being mere coincidences.
What are the odds that one person would put himself in a life-threatening situation twice in one night?
What is going on with Ian, and what does that have to do with his presence in this town?
Last I knew, he was successful at his job in New Jersey. I even found out that he was second-in-command now. While I don't make it a habit to keep tabs on him, once every two or three years, I find myself looking him up on social media platforms, wanting to see if he is happy in life.
He chose a path that didn't lead to me many years ago, and I wonder if there's ever been a time he’s regretted that decision.
I haven't found any information about his family. Sometimes I go as far as checking on some of his friends’ profiles to see if I can get more information, but nothing ever pans out.
If Ian was married, I never was able to find out.
But now he's suddenly back in my life after all these years, and he doesn't look like a man who's happy or married. There's no ring on his finger, nor is there any indent to indicate he recently removed one.
If anything, Ian looks like a man who's unhappy, like a man on the run from something or toward something.
Or maybe I'm just overthinking all this. I've been told I have an overactive imagination, which has honestly helped me in my journey as a writer. All I need is one thought, just one. Leave me to it for a few hours, and you'll come back to find me halfway through building a whole new plot.
Soon, we're at the motel. I park my car properly and unlock the door.
“I can't thank you enough for doing this,” Ian says, his voice quiet as he starts to build up a goodbye speech.
I give him a sideway glance before I start to get out of the car. Once I'm out, I give him a determined look.
“I'm coming in with you,” I inform him.
His lips turn in disapproval, but he doesn't refuse me. He just opens his door and gets out of the car. I wait for him to close the door from his side before I do the same from my end, then I ensure the car is properly locked.
When I'm done, I face him, and he shakes his head in exasperation.
“This way,” he says
I follow him inside. As soon as he gets to the reception desk, he is hounded by a very concerned Susie.
She expresses her apology to him on the motel's behalf. The way Ian brushes it off so easily helps me come to one conclusion: he did this on purpose.
As we walk toward his room, I don't take my eyes off him, something I'm doing on purpose so he knows I'm onto him.
When we're inside, he goes to sit on the bed, offering me the lone chair in the room.
“Please.” He motions towards the chair. I sit.
“I'm not sure what to offer you by this time of the night,” he explains, skeptically looking around the room that he and I are aware hosts no refreshments.
How bad are things with him financially?
I should have seen the signs earlier.
First, he was at a local bar, then he was getting more drunk than he usually did back in the days. Now, I find out he's staying in a motel and got in a fight all in one night?
“Why are you trying to kill yourself, Ian?”
The stunned expression that stays on his face for a few seconds before he gathers back his bearing tells me that I may be on the right path.
“What?” he asks, feigning confusion.
“You do realize that I'm a writer, right? Figuring things out is part of my job description.”
“That doesn't make you a specialist.”
“Maybe. It still doesn't explain why you've put yourself in two life-threatening situations in one night.”
“I am a firefighter. Saving people is what I do,” he snaps. I can tell I'm getting him angry. Now would be a smart time to back down. But I'm on a mission here, and I'm not backing out without getting the answer I want.
“Nobody was in a fire tonight,” I say calmly. Regardless of the tone I use, my words only add more fuel to the fire that's already burning.
“So you're saying I should have stood aside and watched you get killed?”
“That's not what I said.”
“Then what are you saying?” he thunders, now on his feet, his breath coming out of him in large spurts.
I'd like to believe that I know Ian very well, but this angry and wounded man in front of me is not a man I recognize, at all.
“Maybe I shouldn't have said anything.” I offer an olive branch.
He nods, shaking his head before he releases a frustrated breath. “I shouldn't have raised my voice.”
“We'll call it a truce then.”
He shrugs at my words, his height towering over me before he turns to walk away. His hand grabs at the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one swoop.
My mouth opens at the sight of his scarred back.
My God.
He looks like a man whose body has been through many hells, some, no doubt, life-challenging. How he's still alive with all these scars is beyond me.
If, for a moment, I let myself believe everything that happened this night is because he's a man who's driven by his instinct to save others, what I just witnessed has me questioning everything.
Something is going on with him, and I'm not so sure I want to find out anymore.