Page 64 of You Fall First

Chapter Sixteen

Noah

The first half of my workday whizzes by in a blur. Not a glamorous blur, to be clear. Running the PT and OT departments at a memory care community is a massive undertaking. Much more difficult than I realized when I first set my sights on Havenwood.

Originally, I wanted the challenge and the increased responsibility. I also needed the bigger paycheck. Not for myself. So I could do more for Dutton and Paige. These days, taking care of the people I love feels less like a choice and more like a promise, which is why I’m holed up in my office now, head down, plowing through a never-ending to-do list.

First up is juggling the staff’s never-ending scheduling requests. Next, I review their recent performance evaluations. After that, I email everyone about our changes in protocols to better conform to new state mandates. And only then do I get to actual PT appointments.

See?

Unglamorous.

My packed agenda is a blessing, though, because I’m too busy to obsess over Dutton or Paige. Whenever my mind wanders over to worry, I remember that my sister is safe at the hospital, and my nephew is safe with Jo.

Still, I find myself checking my phone more often than usual. Repeatedly, one might say. Annie checks in. So does Paige. But no messages come from Jo. Of course I’m the one who told her not to bother with updates this morning.

“I trust you,” I said.

And I do.

But I’ve gotten used to seeing Dutton’s smile, so I wouldn’t mind if Jo shared a selfie or two. And if her dimples made an appearance, I’d know for sure things were going okay. Those little divots in her cheeks are more of a telltale sign than her words. She’d probably claim that things were great even if Dutton’s entire body was covered in Scooby-Doo Band-Aids.

Just to take that concern off my plate.

Either way, no selfies show up.

Just before lunch, Maureen shoots me a message asking if I’d like to check the footage Inga sent before she approves the new PR campaign.

I beg off.

Partly because I’m already running on fumes, and partly because I truly don’t care. I didn’t get into this business for the marketing. I legitimately want to make our residents’ lives better. I already spend too much time parked behind a desk and not enough time helping people who matter to me.

Like Harlan Cane.

Harlan is my friend Loren’s dad. Bridger’s father-in-law. I’d been doing in-home PT and OT appointments with Harlan before I came to Havenwood, so when Loren wanted to move him here at the same time, I was thrilled. Luckily, Bridger could afford to set Harlan up in one of our “premium” residences.

Read: expensive.

We’ve got a waiting list for openings in the part of the community labeled “traditional.”

That’s code for smaller.

“Knock-knock,” someone says at the door, then one of the biggest movie stars in the world enters my office. Lincoln James in the flesh.

“Dude,” I smirk. “You say knock-knock, but you don’t wait for the ‘Who’s there?’”

“Forgive me, man.” He chuckles. “I wanted to surprise you.”

Link and I met a few years back, when he was vacationing in Upstate New York. At the time, I was still living in Mayville, just down the street from Paige, and Link showed up at the clinic where I worked one day wearing dark glasses and a hoodie.

He’d injured his back waterskiing on Abie Lake, and he needed some PT without the paparazzi discovering him. Our friendship stuck even after he left the Adirondacks.

Then it deepened when I moved here, to his wife Hadley’s hometown.

“I come bearing gifts.” He holds up a bag of tacos from my favorite food truck just outside of Harvest Hollow. “Carne asada, al pastor, and chicken.”

I let out a low groan, and my stomach growls. Only now do I realize I haven’t put anything in my gullet today besides coffee. “You’re completely forgiven,” I say. “How did you know I’d be starving?” I wave at the chair opposite me.