Chapter Twenty Nathan
Chapter Twenty
Nathan
We have learned to fly the air like birds and swim the sea like fish, but we have not learned the simple art of living together as brothers.
—MARTIN LUTHER KING JR.
I survey the bamboo floor and brush my hands off with pride. “Thanks, man. It looks incredible.”
Vincent studies me rather than the floor. “I see a huge improvement.”
I chuckle at that truth. My mood has drastically improved since our last flight together. Since almost running into Joey. “Rather than focus on what I’m running away from, I’m focused on where I’m headed.”
“With such words of wisdom, you’re going to have a lot to offer from the captain’s seat.” Vincent grabs his keys from the counter and strides toward the door.
I watch him go, determining to finally move forward on the upgrade process. Becoming a captain in itself is not a huge pay jump, but it opens the door for more opportunities, and I’m finally in a place to look for them.
First I need to send my dad pics of the new floor. Reconnecting with him has become a priority. I pat my pockets, looking for my phone. Where . . .
It rings from the windowsill.
I jog over and frown at the caller’s name.
Why would Claire be calling? Maybe in my attempt to disconnect the last time she was over, she’d felt like an imposition, and now she doesn’t want to stop by to borrow Maverick without calling first. That wasn’t my intent at all, but I’m still trying to figure out this boundary thing.
I guess I can start by being friendly. I swipe my thumb and go with, “Maverick’s answering service.”
Her chuckle is forced and interrupted by a hiss and heavy panting.
My spine snaps straight. “Claire? What’s wrong?”
“I . . .” A sob escapes. “I think I broke my foot.”
“What?” Though that’s not the most important question when dealing with flight crew. She could be anywhere in North America, so I follow with, “Where are you?”
“I’m down the hill. I wanted to walk to my crash pad from the airport since it’s sunny today, but a scraggly-looking man tried to talk to me, and I panicked. I was afraid he might want to mug me and scratch my retinas, so I yelled for him to leave me alone and ran. Then I fell.”
I grab my keys and race out the door. “You’ve been jogging quite a bit lately. I’m surprised you broke your foot.”
“I’m wearing heels.”
“Oh . . .” Hopefully, she only sprained an ankle. “I’m on my way. You might lose connection for a second as I start my car.”
I climb into my Toyota truck, painted the color Mudbath, toss my phone on the charging station, and press the Start button. I’m already backing out of the driveway when her voice comes over the loudspeaker.
“ . . . tried to call my roommates, but the only one who answered is in Duluth.”
“Don’t worry about it. I got you.” I head down the hill. “Which side of the street are you on?” The sky bridge is on this side, but her apartment complex is on the other, so she might have crossed over already.
“I’m in front of . . .”
“The 7-Eleven.” I see her. She’s a crumpled heap.
Thankfully, I don’t see any scraggly-looking men threatening to scratch her retinas. If I weren’t so concerned about her well-being, I’d laugh at her oddly specific fear.
Her cries hold the wildness of relief. “I’m so sorry.”
I shift to a stop and delay answering until I can do so in person. I hop out and circle my vehicle.
She looks up with the sheen of defenselessness in her eyes. Her bun has drooped to one side, she’s clutching her foot in a position that makes it very fortuitous that she wore slacks instead of her normal skirt, and her suitcase has rolled into the grass and toppled over.
I’m not even going to think about it. I’m just going to act.
I open the back door of my truck so she can elevate her leg on the back seat during the ride, then I scoop her up. She wraps her arms around my neck with a whimper and the kind of softness I can never unfeel. As for her scent of cherry blossoms, I’ve already struggled with unsmelling it.
I’m not even going to breathe. I’m just going to act.
I deposit her gently, then retrieve her bags. After I throw them into the bed of my pickup, I pause to check on her.
I will not make a soda-in-sock joke. I will not make a soda-in-sock joke.
In my efforts to refrain, I lean forward, palm her wet face, and search her serious brown eyes. “He didn’t get your retinas, did he?”
A laugh bursts from her lips, and as close as I feel to her at the moment, I should have probably gone with the soda-in-sock joke. I drop my hand.
“No.” She bravely wipes at her tears, but her voice still cracks. “I’d been warned about protecting my retinas, but nobody warned me about running in heels.”
I look down toward her old-fashioned Mary Janes. “Can I take a look?”
She hugs her left foot to her lap. The skin appears to have puffed up between openings in the T-strap. “My feet are hideous,” she stalls.
I glance up at her lovely face, wondering how she can worry about my judgment of her feet when she’s in pain.
Also, her feet can’t be that bad. “The hospital is on the other side of the airport. Just a ten-minute drive. But you’ll probably be better off if you remove your shoe and elevate your foot to slow the swelling on our way there. ”
She grips the buckle, but before she can pull the strap far enough to unhook the connected prong, she yelps and releases it. “This is the foot that had surgery. My trigger toe locked up.”
I reach for her foot and pause before touching her. “May I?”
She nods and presses her lips together, probably to keep from yelping again.
As gently as possible, I unhook the strap and slide the shoe off.
Her feet aren’t hideous underneath the nylon socks, but the knuckles on her toes seem enlarged, some of the veins stand out, and the area around her big toe is red and swollen.
I’m afraid to ask whether the red swelling around her big toe is normal, because I don’t want to make her even more self-conscious about her feet. So I settle for, “What do you think?”
“It’s my stupid toe.” She throws herself backward onto the seat, clearly more affected by toe trauma than an actual broken foot.
“Wanna scoot backward so I can close the door and get you to a doctor?”
She grips the bench and gingerly moves her body away from the door far enough to extend her leg without it sticking out too far. She’s quiet on the way to the hospital, just grunting whenever I turn a corner, and I assume she’s doing her best to manage pain.
I pull up to the curb of the emergency room, but nobody treats us as if this is an emergency.
I find a wheelchair myself, lower Claire down, and roll her inside for registration before leaving to move my truck.
When I return, she’s been wheeled back to a private room, but there’s nobody attending her.
She’s staring at a muted television with glassy eyes.
“They gave me painkillers,” she says.
“Huh.” I sit down next to the bed. If she can’t manage the pain without meds, or if she can’t walk, she won’t be able to work trips. She might have to call out.
“I need to call Wyatt,” Claire says.
“Okay.” Of course. He’s the one who should be taking care of her. I’m just a stand-in. “Do you want me to step outside or . . .”
She drops her phone, which clatters to the ground, then flops her whole body onto one side to look at me. “Will you dial please?” How much painkiller did they give her?
“Sure.” I retrieve her phone from the linoleum floor and hold it to my mouth like a microphone. “Call Wyatt.”
I hear one ring over the line and offer the device to Claire.
She tips her head back and closes her eyes. “Will you turn on the speaker please?”
Tapping the Speaker icon, I set her phone beside her on the bed and sit across from her.
“Hey, babe. What’s up? I’m heading into a meeting.”
“Wyatt.” Claire’s eyes remain closed, but a small smile spreads across her face. “I’m in a room. The emergency room.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
She says something, but her voice fades away and I can’t make it out.
Oh boy. I scratch my head. “Wyatt?” I interject.
“This is Nathan Stuart. I’m a pilot who’s flown with Claire a couple times, and I live down the street.
She fell on her way home and called me for help.
It looks as though her big toe has swelled up, so I brought her to the hospital.
I’m not sure what drugs they gave her while I was parking, but it appears to be the good stuff. ”
He’s silent for a moment. “Am I on speaker?” he asks.
“Yes.” Apparently he doesn’t want to hear it from me.
“Claire?”
Her head jerks upright. “Wyatt!” It drifts back down to the pillow.
“She wanted to call you,” I explain, feeling much more in the middle than I ever should have been.
He clears his throat. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And thank you for letting her run with your dog. Though it doesn’t sound like she’ll be doing that again for a while.”
I chuckle derisively. “Which she won’t be happy about.”
“No, she won’t.”
This is the guy I judged for not being here for Claire. But really, what choice does he have? He has a normal job. Our careers as flight crew are a lot for anyone to adapt to. I know because it was challenging when trying to adapt with Joey.
Is Wyatt that much different than I had been? If he’s feeling threatened by my presence, he has good reason. I’m attracted to his girlfriend and have arrogantly assumed I’d be a better fit as a boyfriend.
Claire, on the other hand, hasn’t given Wyatt any reason to feel threatened. She’s been forthright and told him about me. He’s the one she wanted to call after hurting herself. I was more of a last resort for help.
I’d already agreed to back off due to Vincent’s advice and out of respect for Claire, but now I’m seeing it from Wyatt’s side. I’ve been him, and I don’t want him to ever have to be me.
“I’ll take good care of your girl,” I promise. “I think they’re going to do X-rays, so I’ll have her call you when she gets an update.”
“Great.” He pauses. “I can fly up there if I need to.”
Not sure if that’s a threat or not. Since I’m feeling magnanimous, I’ll choose to just take it as a boyfriend concerned about his girlfriend’s injury.
“I’ll let you two work that out,” I say.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
We sit there for a moment in silence.
Finally I can’t stand it any longer. “I’ll let you get to your meeting.” “Tell Claire I love her.”
“Sure thing.” I hang up, then blow out a breath and roll my eyes to heaven.
Claire’s hand pats the side of the bed. “Wyatt?”
I consider taking her hand but ultimately decide against it. I’ve already filled in for her boyfriend enough, and I’m not trying to take his place anymore. “He’s gone, but he said he loves you.”
“He loves me.” She smiles again, then her eyes widen and she points at me. “But I think he might be jealous of you.” Her eyes close again, and her head falls back.
Did that just happen?
“We looked you up on Instagram, and when I saw a picture of you with Joey, I knew I couldn’t even compare.” Claire’s eyes open a sliver to bless me with a soft smile. “She’s really pretty.”
“You’re pretty too, Claire.” Not sure what else I can say. I’m still thrown by this whole conversation.
“I wish I were that pretty.”
I study her serene profile, pert nose, and lashes fanned against the tops of her cheeks. Her bun slumps over one ear. She may not be glamorous, but she’s cute. Sweet. Innocent. Beautiful.
“You’re beautiful,” I whisper. I’m not trying to steal her away or boost her self-esteem. I simply state it as a fact, because she’s beautiful to me.
It doesn’t matter though. She’s fallen asleep.
The doctor appears and orders X-rays. The tech rolls her away. And somewhere in all the waiting, I fall asleep too.
I feel a crick in my neck before opening my eyes. I see Claire lying on her side, looking at me. Her expression is clear.
I shift to sit up and roll my head from side to side to ease the crick. “How ya feeling?”
“I broke my big toe. I’m going to have to wear a walking boot for four weeks. No more Mary Janes.”
I lean forward, forearms on my thighs. “Are you going to be able to work?”
“I think so.”
This moment is too personal. Especially with her sober. Hospital visits are usually reserved for family members or significant others. “Have you called Wyatt to update him yet?”
“Update?” Her eyes rove the ceiling, then look down to the bed for her phone. “Did I talk to him earlier?”
I rub a hand down my face. “You tried. I ended up doing most of the talking.”
Her wide eyes land on me. “What did he say?”
He’d given me a message to pass along. Back before I knew she’d mistaken me for someone safe to hang out with. Back before I knew he’d expressed jealousy and looked me up online. But my knowledge of those things doesn’t change either his message or my intent.
“He said to tell you he loves you.”