Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
florence
I try not to show my panic. A single drop causes the fear to spread like a wildfire. On the outside, I’m calm, but on the inside, the emotion wrenches its way through me. Saving face is partly for my benefit and mostly for those around me.
The day we lost dad, I drowned in it. It filled my lungs, wrapped its claws around my heart, and yet, my body was motionless as Patrick explained what happened while my devastated mother wailed beside me.
He was at the restaurant, up a ladder, when he had a catastrophic heart attack. That was all it took. No warning. No time for goodbye. A life so loved and cherished, snuffed out like that.
The grief and panic come in waves, spreading like frost on a windowpane.
There’s no off switch, no time to catch your breath.
This time, as I flip the lights on in the workshop, searching for Dex, I refuse to let it win. I expected to find him here, lost in his latest project, wood shavings clinging to his shirt and a frown of concentration creasing his handsome face.
It’s empty.
Just like his office.
He didn’t show for our morning briefing. His truck is in the driveway, and there’s nothing scheduled in his calendar until this afternoon. He’s usually up at the crack of dawn, out feeding the goats or sipping his coffee on the lone Adirondack chair on his porch; his absence raises alarms.
Stepping outside, I pull my phone from my pocket and dial his number.
It rings and rings before going to voicemail.
My hands clench at my sides, spinning the dainty ring on my index finger to calm the anxious shaking.
He slept in, missed his alarm. Maybe Patrick picked him up—they’ve been wanting to go fishing for weeks. Either of those options are better than the dark places my mind drifts to, unwanted and intrusive.
Locating the key under the doormat, I let myself into the main cabin, not caring about overstepping at this point.
“Dex!” I shout. Over the last couple of days, I’ve noticed his hearing fluctuating. I don’t stop hollering as I check the living room, kitchen, and mudroom. Nothing. The guest rooms are untouched, leaving the bedroom at the end of the corridor. I haven’t stepped in there since the new year.
It’s the last possible place he could be. Fist raised, I go to knock, only to find the door is ajar. The hinges creak as I nudge it open with my sneaker.
“Hey, Dex? Are you here?”
The room is cast in shadows. My vision takes a second to focus, and when it does, a chill breaks out over my body.
Dex.
I forget how to breathe, how to blink. Leaden with panic, my legs and arms stiffen, immobilizing me.
My big, protective lumberjack lies on the floor, halfway between the bathroom and bedroom. He’s motionless apart from the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
What should I do?
Do I call an ambulance?
What would he do?
He wouldn’t hesitate, throwing himself at the problem both mentally and physically. He’d remain calm and keep me calm.
That springs me into action.
My knees throb when they land on the hardwood floor with a thunk, hands swiping over his shoulders carefully. “Dex. Dex, wake up.”
His eyelids flutter, and a pained groan escapes him.
A stuttered breath wheezes out of me, the first in minutes.
“Oh, thank god. What happened? Are you hurt? Should I call someone?” The questions fall out of my mouth, one after the other, in jumbled succession.
His eyes clamp shut. A bruise blooms on his left cheek, but other than that, he seems uninjured. Arm shaking, he reaches for me. That single movement fractures my heart. I clutch his hand to my chest.
“Did you pass out? Hit your head?”
He taps his right ear and lightly shakes his head.
Realization hits.
I stand my ground when panic charges at me. It’s the last thing he needs.
He can’t hear.
Dex isn’t overly forthcoming about his condition, and I know little about Ménière's Disease. From what Pat says, he can experience violent attacks that cause severe dizziness and temporary hearing loss across both ears.
I bend over him, lips hovering next to his right ear. It’s been days since he wore his hearing aid. I’m not sure what level of hearing he has right now, and with his eyes shut, he can’t read my lips. “Okay. We’re gonna move. Keep your eyes closed and squeeze my hand if you can hear anything.”
I almost sob when his fingers jerk in response, followed by words saturated in anguish. “Some. Fuzzy. Slower.”
He can hear some, not everything. I need to speak slower.
“Floor or bed?” I ask, keeping it simple and overly enunciating.
“Bed,” he grunts.
“Give me your other hand. Don’t rush.” I hook my arms through his and slowly raise him up to sit. It’s a challenge. He’s all muscle and dead weight, but we manage. I catch him when he collapses forward, and he sighs into my neck, his facial hair scratching my skin.
Two words threaten my resolve, forced through gritted teeth. “Little Sadler.”
Nothing about this man is weak. As distress and discomfort wrack his body, he’s still the epitome of strength. Not just physically, but mentally. A solid presence. A shoulder to lean on. Brave to his core.
Even now, as he struggles to keep himself upright, bravery radiates from him.
But he doesn’t need to be.
“I’m here.” My lips graze the shell of his ear. “C’mon, big guy.”
We’re both sweating by the time I get him to his feet.
“Left. One step. Good. Another. Not far.” His right arm loops over my shoulders as we shuffle toward the bed, and then he freezes, swaying.
“Toilet.” He gulps.
We make it just in time. He throws himself over the toilet and empties his stomach. I crouch behind him, rubbing his back.
After a minute of dry heaving, he croaks, “Go. Please.”
He can’t see me, but my face scrunches in outrage. “No.”
“Go,” he repeats, swatting the air with a limp arm. “Don’t. Need. To…see this.”
I roll my eyes and run my fingers through the short hairs on his head. “Make me.”
No response.
Argument over.
He wretches, body convulsing under my touch. I reach for a washcloth, dampen it, and lay it on his neck. His heaving lessens, and he eventually peels himself off the ceramic throne, breathing deeply.
We repeat the motions, and once he’s standing, he swigs some mouthwash and puts his weight on me as I guide him into the bedroom. He hasn’t opened his eyes once.
He’s still in yesterday’s clothes, so my eyes stay on his face as I reach for the hem of his T-shirt. “Arms up.”
He cracks an eyelid open.
Fed up with his bullheadedness, I fix him with a stern look.
Amped up on adrenaline, my worry and frustration rushes out of me.
“I don’t like to do this, but if you can’t take care of yourself, who will?
You need to call someone, or we get you one of those watches that notifies an emergency contact if you fall or your heart rate drops.
I’ll add it to my to-do list.” I raise my chin, voice pleading.
“Please, quit being stubborn. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.
Being vulnerable will not shrink your dick, Dexter whatever-your-middle-name-is Moore.
All you’ve done is care for me, time after time.
Now it’s my turn, so put your pride aside and let me help. ”
He blinks at me.
Three long seconds pass, and then he raises his arms.
When the T-shirt hits the floor, I tap his half-unbuckled belt. “You want me to do this, or you?”
A slight flush tinges his pallid complexion.
He fumbles with the belt and zipper, and after a minute, he reluctantly lets me take over.
Leaving on his briefs, I tug his jeans past his hips.
Pushing lightly on his shoulders, I urge him to sit and lower to my knees.
I wrangle his pants down to his ankles then cup the backs of his calves.
Pine trees decorate his left thigh, a large clock on the other.
There’s barely any blank space on his body.
From his neck to his feet, countless designs adorn his tanned skin.
I could sit here for hours admiring them.
His bloodshot eyes flutter open. “Hate this,” he rasps, looking wretched and embarrassed.
Oh, Dex.
My heart bursts with pain.
“I know.” I press a kiss to his knee. “Do you need to take anything?”
He watches my lips closely. “Bathroom cabinet. Ben-benzod—” Exhaustion minces his words.
Standing, I stroke his jaw. “I’ve got it. Lie back.”
I search his cabinets. Benzo? Benzo? Benzo? Benzodiazepine. Grabbing the medication, I return to him, happy to find he’s listened to me and lies against his pillows. His tired gaze tracks me as I grab the glass of water from his bedside table and shake the bottle gently.
He reads the label, nods, and opens out his palm. After he swallows two pills, his bulky frame melts into the comforter, breaths evening out. I brush a hand down his stubbled cheek, thankful he’s resting, my worry from earlier easing. My anger and sadness linger over his obstinate nature.
A clammy hand wraps around my wrist when I go to step away.
“Stay,” he whispers.
One word. One request. A million reasons I shouldn’t.
One reason I should: him.
I convince myself this is what friends do.
But as every inch of my body erupts in sparks when I lay next to him, head resting on his chest, my argument loses all gumption.
Sleep finds him quickly.
I drop a text to Megan, telling her we won’t be around today. I answer a few emails, push back this afternoon’s meeting with the Department of Agriculture, and scroll through mindless videos to pass the time. It’s hours before the silence breaks.
“What time is it?” a drowsy voice asks.
I crane my neck to find him peering down at me. His cheeks have a little color back and his eyes are less bloodshot.
“Don’t worry about the time. How are you?”
He swallows. “I have meetings. People I need to—”
“The only thing you need is rest. Work isn’t going anywhere.”
He doesn’t say anything at first; he just studies me. “Robert.”
I cock my head.
“My middle name is Robert.”
Embarrassment stains my face, unsure how much of my lecture he heard. “You have a free pass today, but get ready for a verbal beating tomorrow, Dexter Robert Moore.”
His smile is weak. “I look forward to it.”
I settle back into his chest, and he tugs me closer, vice-like grip locking me in place. “Sorry for the dressing down I gave you. Seeing you like that kinda freaked me out, and my stupid brain went into overdrive.”
“Your brain isn’t stupid.” He sighs. “It’s one of my favorite things about you.”
“Things plural?” I scoff.
“Hundreds.” I can feel him looking at me, but my eyes remain glued to where my hand rests on the scripture over his ribs. The room is too dark to make it out.
Clearly, he’s delirious.
“Your smile. Your laugh. How you chat to the goats—or to yourself. The scrunch of your nose when you’re angry or confused. Your empathy. The way you mess up common sayings.” He takes a breath. “I’ve got my own List of Florence. I just haven’t had the chance to write it down yet.”
Be still my stupid, stupid heart.
“Most of all, I like how you feel next to me, even if I shouldn’t.”