Page 15 of Fire Island
“In case what?”
“Relapse, a sudden loss of motor skills, or acute dementia after the fact.” Jamieson is looking at Iris when he says this. I grind my molars and tug the blankets from my legs.
Over the devil’s frozen carcass am I being babysat. Iris has other things to do.Betterthings to do.
“Nope, ain’t happening.”
“Callum McCreary, you sit down right now, or so help me god I will give you one on the other side to match.” Iris’s wild green eyes bore into mine.
With a twitch of my lip and a low, heady groan, I sink onto the mattress. I refuse to climb back under the sheet and hide away from the world.
“I can’t release you unless you have someone to stay with you for the next few months. Sorry, bud, hospital protocol.” Jamieson looks at me as he says this, like somehow we’re now friends.
Fuck you,bud.
“Fine,” I breathe. “I’ll stay at the café with Iris. But you’ll be getting the bill when she loses her shit and cracks me a new one.”
Jamieson has the audacity to laugh, like I’m being dramatic.
Fucker.
“He’ll be fine with me. Thank you. Can I take him home this afternoon?”
“I don’t see why not. Be a few hours before the last set of rounds and he gets discharged. Then he’s free to go.”
“I’m right here,” I drawl.
Iris pecks my cheek before heading for the door. “Text when you’re ready, Cal.”
The room falls into silence as they leave, and I sit on the chair, not wanting to be the vulnerable pleb in the bed, as I wrangle with the reality of losing three years of my life.
It’s not like anything significant would have happened in the last three years. Each day on Fire Island is a carbon copy of the one before it. Lighthouse, garden, chop wood, eat, sleep, and repeat.
Three months of being holed up in Iris’s tiny-ass café quarters is going to drive me nuts.
She’ll be worse than a damn prison warden, if I know my little sister.
Maybe I can convince the warden to let me wander the docks aimlessly. At least the sunshine and the salty sea air will settle this unnerved restlessness that’s been bearing down on me since my eyes opened in this cool, clinical white room.
That’s all a man needs. Sunshine, fresh air in his lungs, and a purpose.
The first two are easy. And the sooner I get better, the sooner I can get back to my purpose. The lighthouse. Hope Em’s been taking care of the old girl.
As I look over the items Iris left on my bed, I pluck up my phone to check the messages. One from Em from a few weeks ago. About a boat going missing. Another from Iris looking for someone called Eve at the festival. Must be one of her friends. She has so many.
The docs do their afternoon rounds, and they hand me the discharge papers, double-checking Iris is collecting me and coddling me for the next few months. They arrange for me to visit outpatient or my GP to get the stitches out and a follow-up scan. Agreeing, I watch as they mutter between themselves before moving on to the next poor sod trapped in this place.
I send Irry a text to come get me the hell out of here.
Iris stands in the doorway of the guest room, my bag in her hand, her lips rolling together. “You sure you don’t want to take my room?”
“Why? It smells like you. Ew, girl germs.” I throw her my best grin. The bandage around my head shifts.
“Okay, if you say so.” She steps out of the way and waves an arm, as if welcoming me to the too-small room with its tiny excuse for a bed. I walk in, taking in my cozy confinement—the view out the window, the chair by the door with throw blankets, the bed that’s made up with a light blue cover and too many fucking pillows.
“If you need anything, I’m downstairs, okay?” She drops my bag by the door and closes it as she leaves. I’ve traded one small room for another.
At least this one comes with better company.
