Page 128 of Sweet Caroline
27
MILES
Freezing rain spatters Caroline’s porch, the erratic staccato basically a match for where my heart’s at. I shrug my coat up around my neck and stuff my shaking hands into my pockets, so nervous that I feel like I might throw up. The only glimpse I’ve had of her since election night was that photo she texted me, and I don’t know how I’ll react when I see her in person. I don’t know howshe’llreact when she sees me here, either—on Thanksgiving of all fucking days.
I spent all day at work yesterday mulling over my therapy session. All day with a roiling feeling building in my gut until I felt like the nervous energy was gonna do me in.
Lydia hadn’t come out and saidyou’re ready. Being that direct would probably break the rules of therapy or something. But she’s right; I’d been clinging to the one-year mark, this arbitrary date, to prove that I made it. That I followed the rules. That I did the right thing, for once in my life. But nothing magical happens on your 365th day of sobriety and I don’t need my bronze chip to prove I’m ready for a relationship. I’ve already proven it to myself. Sure, it’s been dicey, but that’s fuckinglife.
It had taken all my effort to force myself home for dinner after work yesterday, but I’d barely touched my food, too preoccupied to eat. The restlessness got so bad, I’m surprised I managed to stay there all night. To sleep.
Jude had been brining a turkey for the last two days and the rest of the Thanksgiving dinner prep was gonna take all afternoon before Olena’s parents joined us. She’d put me to work peeling potatoes, which helped a bit, but you can only zone out and get caught staring into the middle distance so many times before people notice you’re acting weird. Hell, even Murphy could tell something was off and parked himself at my feet, staring at me like he was begging me to act normal. Eventually, Jude and Olena had to sit me down and prod me until I spilled about what was up.
In the end, I didn’t even stay to eat. Probably muttered something about coming back or picking up leftovers—fuck if I know. I just needed to see Caroline and couldn’t wait any longer.
I drove to her house with zero plan, my heart feeling like it was gonna short-circuit. All I could do was hope she’d be home and we could figure this shit out together. Becausetogetheris all I want.
I’m not gonna lie to myself about a relationship with Caroline being all sunshine and rainbows. Shit, especially with her dad in the picture. But I know in my bones any stressors between us would pale compared to this gut-wrenching separation. I think some part of me has known all along that she could never be dangerous for me—which is why it’s been so hard to accept being apart.
When no one answers the door on my first knock, I frown, peering back at the driveway, where I’m parked next to Caroline’s car.
She should be here.
I knock on the door again. Again, no answer.
The rain turns to hail and I tuck myself under the eaves to avoid the icy sting. That’s when I hear it. A faint groan from inside.
Instantly on alert, I shout through the door, “Hello?”
Another groan. Louder. This time it might be the wordhelp.
Shit.
“George!” I try the door, but it’s locked, so I hunt around the usual hiding spots for a spare key. Under the mat. In the plant pots. Above the door frame.There.
I let myself in and barge through the house in my wet boots. “George?”
A pained sound. Then, with effort, “Over here.”
“George!” I spot him in the kitchen, lying on the floor on his back. “Shit. Okay, I’m here. It’s Miles.”
“Miles… I’ve had a fall.”
“I can see that.” I rush over, but I don’t touch him right away, remembering the first-aid training I did for work.
Fuck. Come on, brain.
“Did you hit your head?” Taking a quick glance around the place, I can tell Thanksgiving dinner was in progress. There are carrots and parsnips on the cutting board, a bowl of cut potatoes soaking in water, and a few errant onion skins have fallen on the floor near where George fell. Everything smells savory, like rosemary and garlic.
“No. I’m okay. Well, notokay…” He tries to adjust his position and cries out in pain.
I hold out my hands, feeling useless, then pull out my phone. “Shit. Don’t try to move. Hang on.”
“I was just trying to clean up a few things. Caroline’s been cooking up a storm for us and I wanted to help.”
He seems lucid. Probably not a stroke or a head injury. Can’t rule out spinal injury, though.
“I’m calling for an ambulance, alright, George?” I punch 9-1-1into my phone, racking my brain for a way to make him more comfortable without moving him. “We’re gonna get you some help.”
