Page 48 of Our Long Days
This time, as I flip the lights on in the workshop, searching for Dex, I refuse to let it win. I expected to find him here, lost in his latest project, wood shavings clinging to his shirt and a frown of concentration creasing his handsome face.
It’s empty.
Just like his office.
He didn’t show for our morning briefing. His truck is in the driveway, and there’s nothing scheduled in his calendar until this afternoon. He’s usually up at the crack of dawn, out feeding the goats or sipping his coffee on the lone Adirondack chair on his porch; his absence raises alarms.
Stepping outside, I pull my phone from my pocket and dial his number.
It rings and rings before going to voicemail.
My hands clench at my sides, spinning the dainty ring on my index finger to calm the anxious shaking.
He slept in, missed his alarm. Maybe Patrick picked him up—they’ve been wanting to go fishing for weeks. Either of those options are better than the dark places my mind drifts to, unwanted and intrusive.
Locating the key under the doormat, I let myself into the main cabin, not caring about overstepping at this point.
“Dex!” I shout. Over the last couple of days, I’ve noticed his hearing fluctuating. I don’t stop hollering as I check the living room, kitchen, and mudroom. Nothing. The guest rooms are untouched, leaving the bedroom at the end of the corridor. I haven’t stepped in there since the new year.
It’s the last possible place he could be. Fist raised, I go to knock, only to find the door is ajar. The hinges creak as I nudge it open with my sneaker.
“Hey, Dex? Are you here?”
The room is cast in shadows. My vision takes a second to focus, and when it does, a chill breaks out over my body.
Dex.
I forget how to breathe, how to blink. Leaden with panic, my legs and arms stiffen, immobilizing me.
My big, protective lumberjack lies on the floor, halfwaybetween the bathroom and bedroom. He’s motionless apart from the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
What should I do?
Do I call an ambulance?
What would he do?
He wouldn’t hesitate, throwing himself at the problem both mentally and physically. He’d remain calm and keep me calm.
That springs me into action.
My knees throb when they land on the hardwood floor with a thunk, hands swiping over his shoulders carefully. “Dex. Dex, wake up.”
His eyelids flutter, and a pained groan escapes him.
A stuttered breath wheezes out of me, the first in minutes.
“Oh, thank god. What happened? Are you hurt? Should I call someone?” The questions fall out of my mouth, one after the other, in jumbled succession.
His eyes clamp shut. A bruise blooms on his left cheek, but other than that, he seems uninjured. Arm shaking, he reaches for me. That single movement fractures my heart. I clutch his hand to my chest.
“Did you pass out? Hit your head?”
He taps his right ear and lightly shakes his head.
Realization hits.
I stand my ground when panic charges at me. It’s the last thing he needs.
