Chapter 27
MILES
Freezing rain spatters Caroline’s porch, the erratic staccato basically a match for where my heart’s at.
I shrug my coat up around my neck and stuff my shaking hands into my pockets, so nervous that I feel like I might throw up.
The only glimpse I’ve had of her since election night was that photo she texted me, and I don’t know how I’ll react when I see her in person.
I don’t know how she’ll react when she sees me here, either—on Thanksgiving of all fucking days.
I spent all day at work yesterday mulling over my therapy session. All day with a roiling feeling building in my gut until I felt like the nervous energy was gonna do me in.
It had taken all my effort to force myself home for dinner after work yesterday, but I’d barely touched my food, too preoccupied to eat. The restlessness got so bad, I’m surprised I managed to stay there all night. To sleep.
Jude had been brining a turkey for the last two days and the rest of the Thanksgiving dinner prep was gonna take all afternoon before Olena’s parents joined us.
She’d put me to work peeling potatoes, which helped a bit, but you can only zone out and get caught staring into the middle distance so many times before people notice you’re acting weird.
Hell, even Murphy could tell something was off and parked himself at my feet, staring at me like he was begging me to act normal.
Eventually, Jude and Olena had to sit me down and prod me until I spilled about what was up.
In the end, I didn’t even stay to eat. Probably muttered something about coming back or picking up leftovers—fuck if I know. I just needed to see Caroline and couldn’t wait any longer.
I drove to her house with zero plan, my heart feeling like it was gonna short-circuit. All I could do was hope she’d be home and we could figure this shit out together. Because together is all I want.
I’m not gonna lie to myself about a relationship with Caroline being all sunshine and rainbows.
Shit, especially with her dad in the picture.
But I know in my bones any stressors between us would pale compared to this gut-wrenching separation.
I think some part of me has known all along that she could never be dangerous for me—which is why it’s been so hard to accept being apart.
When no one answers the door on my first knock, I frown, peering back at the driveway, where I’m parked next to Caroline’s car.
She should be here.
I knock on the door again. Again, no answer.
The rain turns to hail and I tuck myself under the eaves to avoid the icy sting. That’s when I hear it. A faint groan from inside.
Instantly on alert, I shout through the door, “Hello?”
Another groan. Louder. This time it might be the word help.
Shit.
“George!” I try the door, but it’s locked, so I hunt around the usual hiding spots for a spare key. Under the mat. In the plant pots. Above the door frame. There.
I let myself in and barge through the house in my wet boots. “George?”
A pained sound. Then, with effort, “Over here.”
“George!” I spot him in the kitchen, lying on the floor on his back. “Shit. Okay, I’m here. It’s Miles.”
“Miles… I’ve had a fall.”
“I can see that.” I rush over, but I don’t touch him right away, remembering the first-aid training I did for work.
Fuck. Come on, brain.
“Did you hit your head?” Taking a quick glance around the place, I can tell Thanksgiving dinner was in progress.
There are carrots and parsnips on the cutting board, a bowl of cut potatoes soaking in water, and a few errant onion skins have fallen on the floor near where George fell.
Everything smells savory, like rosemary and garlic.
“No. I’m okay. Well, not okay…” He tries to adjust his position and cries out in pain.
I hold out my hands, feeling useless, then pull out my phone. “Shit. Don’t try to move. Hang on.”
“I was just trying to clean up a few things. Caroline’s been cooking up a storm for us and I wanted to help.”
He seems lucid. Probably not a stroke or a head injury. Can’t rule out spinal injury, though.
“I’m calling for an ambulance, alright, George?” I punch 9-1-1 into my phone, racking my brain for a way to make him more comfortable without moving him. “We’re gonna get you some help.”
He nods, wincing in pain.
As I connect to the dispatch operator, I spot a throw blanket in the living room and jog over to grab it before returning quickly to George’s side. I relay the basic info to the operator and get asked to wait on the line.
“Where is she?” I ask George, tucking the phone into my shoulder as I carefully lay the blanket over him. “Caroline. Her car’s outside.”
“Out for a run.”
I frown and tilt my head, glancing at all the half-prepped food.
In the middle of making dinner?
George must notice my confusion, because he adds, “She’s been… running a lot lately. Working through some things, she says.”
My heart squeezes at his words, but I try to shake it off.
He goes on. “Dinner was under control and she thought—”
“Don’t—” I cut him off, “Don’t worry about explaining, okay? I’ll call her when I’m off the phone.”
“Thank you,” he says, visibly relieved.
I grab his hand, squeezing tight, and nod. “Of course.”
It doesn’t take long for the ambulance to arrive and I can end the call with dispatch. Paramedics take over with practiced ease, splinting George into a supported position before transferring him onto this two-part plastic stretcher, which they carry outside.
“It’s good you didn’t move him,” one EMT says as she passes me. “You don’t wanna mess with a hip fracture.”
“Shit, yeah,” is all I can manage, then force a reassuring smile for George. “You’re in capable hands, alright? I’ll follow you to the hospital.”
“Thank you,” he says again, shaking a little as he reaches for my arm. He gives me a light squeeze. “You’re a good man, son.”
Son. Somehow, when George calls me that, it carries none of the condescending vitriol I’d felt from Pete. If anything, the older man’s stoic approval fills me with a sad kind of warmth that makes me miss my dad—and my own grandpa.
I make sure the oven’s turned off, then follow them outside to lock up, replacing the spare key above the door frame as the paramedics carefully navigate George into the ambulance.
Jogging through the rain, I try to brace myself to hear Caroline’s voice. I slide into the driver’s seat and pull out my phone, my stomach clenching as I hit the call button next to her name.
“Miles…” She sounds out of breath and a little uneasy, surely remembering the last time I called. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” I say quickly, trying not to fixate on how her voice—her concern—is like a salve for the wound that’s stubbornly refused to heal these last few weeks. “But George isn’t.”
Caroline rushes through the emergency room doors, wild-eyed, with her puffy winter coat billowing unzipped around her running clothes.
She doesn’t see me right away. Quickly zeroing in on the reception desk, she jogs over.
I can only watch from across the waiting room as she exchanges frantic-sounding words with the nonplussed nurse behind the desk. The magnetic pull in my chest begs me to go to her, but I know it isn’t my place.
Caroline rummages in her purse before thrusting her ID through the hole at the bottom of the plexiglass divider. The nurse eventually returns it, gesturing toward the waiting area.
And when Caroline spins around, our eyes lock.
I slowly stand, clutching my bunched-up coat in my hands. “Hey.”
She crosses the waiting room with tentative steps, like she doesn’t know what she’ll do when she reaches me. Her approach stutters to an awkward stop about a foot away.
“Hey,” she says, her voice breaking a little.
We share a pained look before she launches forward, wrapping her arms around my waist.
I tuck her in close, my thumbs gently stroking her back through her damp jacket, and she squeezes tighter, burying her face in my hoodie.
“They wouldn’t let me go in with him,” I murmur with my lips pressed into her hair. Closing my eyes, I inhale her familiar vanilla scent and it’s like the wound tears open all over again.
Keep your shit together. Only one of us can fall apart at a time here.
“I tried,” I add, “but they’ll only let family back there.”
“Thank you,” she manages to say, sniffling. “For helping him. For being there.” Drawing back, she searches my expression. “Why were you there, anyway? It’s Thanksgiving.”
“Wanted to talk to you.” I shake my head sadly. “But now’s not— It can wait.”
“Do I have family here for George Nickerson?” a voice calls out from my right and we turn. A door reading “authorized personnel only” swings shut behind a black woman in scrubs holding a clipboard.
Caroline steps out of my arms and toward her, swiping at her eyes. “Me. I’m his family.”
My arms already feel empty and useless, and she’s just a couple feet away.
“Is he okay?” she asks.
“If you come with me, ma’am,” the woman says, “I’ll go over his X-rays with you. Right this way.”
Caroline nods, moving to follow, then turns back to me. The look she gives me breaks my heart.
“Go.” I tilt my head toward the woman, then cover up the burning in my throat with a soft smile. “Get outta here.”
Taking a few steps back, she whispers, “Thank you” once more, then turns to go.