8. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
Jake
Jake had held himself together long enough to help the young man after he’d panicked and thrown up. And he’d held himself together long enough to heat up and serve dinner and dessert. And he’d even somehow held himself together long enough to wash about half of the dishes and make sure the man was settled in the extra bedroom for the night.
But by the time the lights were off inside and Jake had donned his heavy coat and hobbled out to the patio to sit for his evening tea and wait for his sister to call, he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to hold himself together.
He was hurting. Badly.
He sat on the patio sofa rather than his usual lounge chair, partly because the sofa was closer to the door and partly because he could use the ottoman to elevate his leg. He set his tea and the home phone down on the patio table in front of him and then hiked his leg up onto the ottoman, leaned back into the sofa cushions, and closed his eyes.
Pain radiated from his lower thigh, just a bit above his knee—stabbing, sharp pains that shot up into his hip and back and then also all the way down into his toes. It wasn’t the worst he’d ever felt, not by a long shot, but it was bad enough that he wasn’t sure whether he’d be able to sleep at all that night.
Just like at the beginning.
And he desperately didn’t want to think about that, but his mind went there anyway, as it tended to do. He could hear it again—the deafening crash as the other boat had rammed straight into the side of the NOAA research vessel he’d been on with his PhD advisor and lab mates. And he could feel the panic in the next few minutes, which had seemed to stretch on and on, playing out in some horrible slow motion all around him, as he’d come to the realization that he and the entire crew aboard the research vessel, as well as the passengers on the boat that had struck them, were in serious danger. And he remembered the momentary relief when their boat seemed as though it might stay afloat, at least long enough for the coast guard to reach them. But then...
The details after that were all fuzzy, even now, six years later—just a mess of panic as he’d been thrown into the freezing Pacific Ocean, grappling for something to hold onto, then water filling his lungs, and shouting, and some frantic struggle, and everything converging into the worst pain he’d ever known.
Shit, he was so lucky to be alive.
He’d woken up in the hospital several days and multiple surgeries later. His sister and his dad had been there. And later, his advisor, Dr. Mulland, had visited. She’d assured Jake that everyone else had survived with only minor injuries thanks to his quick thinking having deployed the life raft—something he still couldn’t remember having done.
The subsequent months of rehab had been incredibly painful as well—difficult in more ways than he’d expected—but he’d pulled through, refusing for even one moment to entertain the notion that he might not ever walk again.
It just wasn’t happening.
Yet now, here he was. Defeated by fifty-three stairs.
He sat back up, groaning, and began rubbing the weak, damaged muscles in his lower right thigh.
That wasn’t true, he knew. He wasn’t really defeated. Just... fucked up. Carrying someone up fifty-three stairs in an adrenaline-inducing panic had definitely fucked him up.
He almost laughed at the absurdity of the whole day, but it really wasn’t funny, and instead, he found himself grimacing, his jaw clenched against the pain as he continued to massage his muscles.
Several minutes later, as he’d just settled back into the cushions with his tea in hand, the phone rang. He wished he knew what to expect—kind, compassionate sister or sister who’d realized how angry she should be with him for screwing up so royally—but he could never be sure which Kris would be calling. Or whether her personality would swap mid-conversation. Either way, she only ever had his best interests at heart, and he knew it.
He leaned forward and picked up the phone, then clicked the answer button and lifted it up to his ear.
“Hey, sis.”
“Hey, lunkhead.”
Jake grinned weakly and breathed a sigh of relief. He could also live with teasing-yet-compassionate sister. “Yeah, lunkhead about fits. I’ve been calling myself that all evening.”
“Do you need me there? I’ll figure it out. Seriously, Jake,” Krista said without any hesitation at all. He wondered sometimes how she just seemed to know when he was hurting. She’d always been intuitive.
He shifted on the sofa and held back a curse as a fresh bolt of pain shot up his leg. “No, no, please don’t come.” Even as he said the words, he wished he could be saying yes instead. Yes, please come. Please bring me some pain meds. Maybe stay here and help me out for a few days. But he couldn’t say any of that. “I just need to rest, really. And Tim called, says they’ll have the road fixed up probably in two or three days tops, as long as the weather holds. So—”
“So I can come next weekend, then?” Krista cut in, her voice filled with both eagerness and concern. “Phil and I can visit. We’ll drive out Friday evening after he gets out of gym. I can do a deep clean of the house for you. When was the last time you mopped the floors? And I can cook. Maybe barbecue. And make you some casseroles and things—stuff you can freeze and reheat just, you know, in case...” She paused to take a breath, and he heard the shudder in it. “Jake, seriously, will you be okay? I couldn’t stop thinking about you all day.”
Guilt bubbled up inside him, and he closed his eyes. “Kris...”
“I know I worry too much. I know that. But—”
“I love you for it.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Jake huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I will. It might be a few days, though. I’m not really sure. I need to go see Cora, and maybe Dr. Snow. I’ll try for the PT first, since Cora’s closer, and maybe I won’t have to drive all the way to Sacramento. I’ll call her Monday to make an appointment, and as soon as I can get through, I’ll head into town and get my prescription.”
His sister was quiet for a moment, and he frowned.
“I’ll be okay, Kris,” he added lightly. “Really.”
A few barks could be heard in the background—their exuberant but cuddly pup, Nemo, Jake assumed—and then Krista sniffled and cleared her throat. “Um, how about your houseguest? How’s... all that?” she asked, and Jake grimaced at the not-so-subtle change in topic. She did that when she was too upset and too worried to deal with things anymore, and he wished he could reassure her, convince her to believe him.
But given that he didn’t really believe himself...
“Hmm, sort of better but also the same,” he started. She laughed at his vague response and was then quiet for a few minutes while he explained how the afternoon and evening had gone. He still had no idea what the man’s name was or how the man had ended up nearly dead from hypothermia on his beach.
“He still hasn’t spoken at all?” she asked when he finished .
Jake took a sip of his tea—long cold by now—and then set the almost-empty mug down on the table, screwing his eyes shut against the sharp pain that shot up into his hip. “N-no, not yet.”
“But he understands when you talk to him?”
“Yeah, yeah. He’ll respond sometimes by nodding or shaking his head,” Jake said, and he wasn’t sure why, but he lowered his voice. “I think... something terrible must have happened to him. And I don’t really even want to guess what.”
His sister paused and then also spoke quietly. “Hopefully they get the road fixed soon, so you can get him some help.”
Jake nodded with a weak “yeah” as he shifted to reposition himself slightly. If he were being honest, he actually wasn’t entirely sure what kind of help the man even needed. And Jake had been distracted much of the day—just trying to get by, keep moving despite his pain, make sure the man was warm and dry and not on the verge of dying—so he hadn’t really had much time to speculate what exactly had happened. Or what exactly the man was running from.
“You’ll keep me updated? Not just about your mystery roomie, but about how you’re doing?”
“Of course, Kris.”
“And no sugarcoating things, Jake. Promise?”
He sighed. “Kris . . .”
“Jake . . .”
She matched his tone so well that he couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay, okay. I promise I’ll do my best to explain my severe pain to you when you ask, Kris. That good enough?” When she didn’t answer right away, either with a tease or to scold him, he closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Kris. I—”
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” she said, cutting off his apology. There was a quiet laugh, but he sensed no humor in it, and then she sniffled. “I know I can be a bit overprotective sometimes. But it’s just because you’re my little brother, and I love you, and... and I wish I could take away your pain. Knowing you’re hurting so much...”
He knew what she didn’t quite want to say; they’d talked plenty about it before. And even though he wanted to reassure her, like he usually would, he was suddenly too tired for that. He was hurting, and he also wished she could take his pain away. And right now, he wanted to go shower and lie down in bed and hope he could get comfortable enough to get some sleep.
So instead, he just said, “I love you, too, Kris.” Then he straightened up, lowered his legs off the ottoman with a muffled grunt, and scooted to the edge of the seat. “I’m going to head to bed early, I think. It’s been a long day. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Do you want me to call in the morning? I’d text, but, yeah, no cell phone.”
“Yeah, um, call me? Please.”
“I’ll call first thing.”
“Thanks . . . Good night, lunkhead.”
“Hah, right. Lunkhead. Sheesh.” Jake set one hand on the nearest armrest and dipped his chin down to his chest as he prepared to stand up. “Good night, sis.”
There was an odd silence, almost as though she was waiting there, hesitating, not quite wanting to hang up. Then there was a click, and the dial tone sounded. He pulled the phone away from his ear, hit the off button, and took a deep breath before heaving himself up off the couch, grabbing his mug, and hobbling toward the patio door to head back inside his house.
Nothing good ever came from wallowing in bed. At least, that was what Jake told himself the next morning as he forced himself to get up even earlier than normal. He wasn’t sleeping anyway. In fact, he hadn’t slept much of the night—mostly because of the pain in his leg, but also because of his houseguest.
As he stood in the doorway to the extra bedroom—one hand gripping the doorframe, the other clasped tightly on his upper thigh as though that would stem the pain radiating up into his hip—his eyes drifted from the bed to the far corner of the room, and he frowned.
The bed was empty, and the young man was huddled in the corner, just as he had been the two other times Jake had checked on him overnight. This time, the man was asleep, it seemed. Not half sobbing, his eyes screwed shut, his whole body trembling with what could only be fear. The pillow Jake had given him was still under his head, but the blanket was pushed halfway off, covering only parts of his upper body and torso and then very little of his legs.
Jake was sure the man had reasons enough for not sleeping in the bed—or not being able to sleep in the bed. And he’d spent half the night worrying, in and out of the room, sitting next to the man on the floor—close but not too close or the man’s crying would get worse—trying to console him.
Nothing much had worked.
His sister would have called him a lunkhead again. And she would probably be right. Sitting on the floor had been a dumb thing to do, because getting up had been more than difficult. And he hurt just as much now as he had at his worst the day before. But he’d had to try. He hadn’t been able to just stand by and watch as the man had struggled.
Although it really hadn’t mattered in the end.
He stood there for another minute, which was about as long as his leg would allow, and then he turned and limped slowly down the hallway toward the kitchen, figuring he might as well get started with his morning routine, or at least however much of it he’d be able to manage.
Jake didn’t let himself stop at the end of the hallway—if he stopped, he already knew he’d be done. Instead, he angled to his right and continued to the small corner in his living room that he’d designated his workout space. Then he lowered himself to the soft carpet of the floor.
And he immediately regretted that decision.
Several barely muffled curses escaped him as the muscles in his thigh seized up, and he scooted back to sit against the wall and then straightened his leg out in front of him in an effort to get the muscles to stop spasming. But the pain continued, intense and harsh and almost with some pulsing rhythm.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered, now gripping his thigh again. He could feel the muscles trembling, shaking, and he had to force himself to take controlled breaths as he tilted his head back against the wall and waited it out.
That was about the only thing he could do, anyway. Wait it out.
He tried not to count the minutes, but he automatically counted the breaths. After fifteen, the feeling that his muscles were knotted and trembling began to ease, and after thirty-one, the pain was almost bearable. At forty, he blinked back the tears that had gathered in the corners of his eyes and then slowly bent his leg up, testing it. When it didn’t spasm again immediately, he let out a long breath, pushed himself away from the wall, and rolled over onto his stomach.
Fifty push-ups. Almost.
One hundred sit-ups. Kinda.
A two-ish-minute plank.
Twenty-five single-leg squats on his good leg. While holding onto the back of the couch for support.
And before he could start his massaging and physical therapy exercises for his bad leg, he collapsed back onto the floor, his face flush with pain and exhaustion, and he wished that, at least this morning, he wasn’t quite so stubborn. He wished he could let himself just crawl back into bed and call it a day.
But that wasn’t him.
So instead, he gave himself a minute to rest. Then he finished his morning routine—minus the mile walk—holding back tears the whole time.