Page 96 of How to Walk Away

“Does it make you sad to come here again?”

I nodded.

“But happy, too, I hope?”

I shook my head. “Not yet. But I’m glad to see you.”

“Why are you out here alone?”

“Kitty’s trying to figure out how to get me in.”

Ian nodded. “I can help with that,” and as he said it, he dropped his duffel without a thought, kneeled down, pivoted, and backed up to me all at once. “Let’s go,” he said, jerking his head for me to climb on.

So I did. He hooked his arms under my knees, and I gripped with my thighs, and held on to his shoulders. Just for a second, I got another intoxicating whiff of him, and then we were off, rounding the side of the house, looking for Kit.

Ian stopped for a second when he caught sight of the lake—blue and bright and bigger than I remembered. The lawn sloped down to it, and from where we stood, we had a perfect, clear view.

“This is your lake?” Ian asked.

“This is our lake,” I said, and when I spoke, my cheek brushed his neck.

“Will you take me out on it?” Ian asked.

“Of course.”

Just then, Kit rounded the corner. “We’re just going to have to wait for—” Then she saw us, and looked Ian over, in his flannel shirt and jeans. “The Brawny paper-towel guy.”

***

I DIDN’T WANTto go back after that. It’s not that Ian showing up made everything okay—it didn’t. It made everything a little better, though. My heart was still humming a mournful tune, but it was like Ian arriving had introduced a little countermelody. It hadn’t stopped the sad song, but it had altered it.

I needed to pee—we all did, after the drive—so after Kit opened the doors, Ian carried me to the bathroom and set me on the toilet with all my clothes still on.

“Do you need help?” he asked.

Even if I had needed it, no way in hell was I asking. “I’ve got it,” I said.

The wheelchair turned out to be fifty percent useless at the lake. The ground was too grassy and gravelly for it to roll well, and the doorways inside the house were too narrow. Upside: Ian carried me a lot.

It was almost my birthday, after all.

It was a crisp, sunny day, and my next order of business was to sit in an Adirondack chair in the sun near the water while Kit and Ian unpacked. I couldn’t expose my grafts to sunlight, so Kitty brought me out a pink dotted umbrella. I positioned it carefully to cover my burns but leave the rest of me—toes, legs, right arm—gloriously exposed. How long had it been since I’d felt the sun on my skin? I closed my eyes and drank in the feeling. The breeze was cool, but I felt warm.

Despite everything that had happened, and everything still to bear, this moment right here was pretty nice.

I don’t know how much time passed, but my headache had gone by the time I heard footsteps crunching down the gravel path toward me.

It was Ian. “Kit wants me to bring out the boats,” he said, not breaking stride.

I nodded, and went back to sunning, but I didn’t close my eyes again.

Ian unlocked the boathouse and dragged boat after boat to the shore: a rowboat, two kayaks, two wakeboards, a clunky old paddle boat for fishing, and a canoe that my grandpa had painted with Cherokee designs. Back and forth he went. Mesmerizing.

After a bit, Kitty joined me, and before she’d even sat down, she said, “Now that’s a gorgeous hunk of man, right there.”

“He’s not a man, he’s a physical therapist.”

Kit did not shift her gaze. “Pretty sure he’s both.”

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