Please let her be okay. I’ll do anything. I’ll be better. I’ll stop being such a damn hermit. I’ll even go to family dinners without complaining. Just let her be okay. Please.
My asshole of a father had shown me how a person could just choose to walk away, to leave a hole in your life where a foundation was supposed to be. That was one kind of loss. But the ocean had taught me a crueler lesson—that the universe could just snatch people away without warning. I didn't know which was worse, but I knew I couldn't survive a third lesson.
Which brought that day back, the same way I saw it in my nightmares. The debris field. The empty water. The terrifying silence after the storm. The ghost of that day, the one I kept chained in the deepest, darkest part of my soul, was rattling its chains, threatening to break free.
No.
I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, gripping the wheel so hard my knuckles hurt. This was not that day. This was not the same. Gus said she was alive. But the reassurance was a thin, flimsy shield against the onslaught of fear.
I docked the boat with a speed and precision born of undiluted adrenaline, the hull bumping against the pilings with a force that would normally make me cringe. I barely secured the lines, shouting a gruff, “Thanks for yourunderstanding” to my clients before sprinting down the pier toward my truck.
I didn’t look back.
I didn’t care about the boat.
I didn’t care about anything but getting to her.
The drive to Marathon was a blur of aquamarine water, sun-drenched asphalt, and green scrub. I pushed my truck, weaving through the slower-moving tourist traffic with reckless impatience, earning more than one angry honk. I didn’t care. The cold dread from the boat cabin had now settled deep in my gut, a sickening weight.
I screeched into a parking spot at the hospital in Marathon, not even bothering to see if I was between the lines. I just killed the engine and ran. The automatic doors of the emergency entrance hissed open and swallowed me into a world of jarringly bright fluorescent lights and a low, humming tension that was a world away from the open sea.
The waiting room was a grim space populated by a handful of people in various states of distress or boredom. I spotted Gus immediately in a hard plastic chair, his large frame looking out of place.
He glanced up as I approached, his face a mask of weariness and relief. “Austin. You made good time.”
“How is she?” The words were a raw burst, no room for pleasantries. “Have you heard anything?”
“They took her up to surgery about half an hour ago. The orthopedic surgeon met with me before she went in. Said it’s a bad break of the tibia. Needs a rod, maybe some plates and screws. But he was confident. Said she’s young and healthy.”
A rod. Plates. Screws. The words were clinical, brutal. I pictured her leg, so strong and tanned, now broken,needing to be pieced back together with metal. A wave of nausea washed over me.
“And the concussion?” I asked, my voice tight.
“They did a CT scan,” Gus replied, his tone reassuring. “Said there’s no bleed, thank God. Just a nasty knock. They’ll be monitoring her closely.”
I ran a hand over my face, the rasp of my stubble a harsh, grounding sound. “Thank you, Gus. For being here. For calling me.” The words were ridiculously inadequate.
“Of course.” He clapped a heavy, comforting hand on my shoulder. “She’s a good kid, that Iris. Got a lot of grit. I heard the thump and her holler when she fell, and I knew something was wrong. I’ll head back to Heron House, make sure everything is locked up tight and the crew knows what’s going on. You call me if you hear anything, you understand?”
“I will,” I promised. “Thanks again.”
He gave my shoulder one last squeeze before leaving me alone in the waiting room. I approached the admissions desk, a formidable barrier of beige laminate.
“I’m here for Iris Holloway,” I said to the woman behind the glass, trying to keep my voice steady.
She typed something into her computer. “Are you family?”
The question hung in the air. What was I? Her neighbor? The guy she’d been sleeping with? The man who was in love with her but too much of a coward to say it?
“Yes,” I said, the word coming out with a surprising, fierce conviction. “Her mother has passed, so I’m her family.”
“She’s in surgery, sir. The orthopedic floor is on the third level. You can wait in the surgical waiting area up there. Someone will be out to speak with you when they have an update.”
The surgical waiting room was even more soulless than the one downstairs. A few rows of uncomfortable-looking chairs, a television bolted to the wall playing some inane talk show with the volume muted, and several sad-looking fake plants. I sank into one of the chairs in the corner. The adrenaline that had been fueling me for the last hour drained away, leaving me hollowed out yet filled with a familiar, low-grade panic.
A crawling dread filled with silence.
Waiting.
