Page 2 of Fall for Me

The hospital blanket.

Then Dad and Cass were gone, out the door.

But the man was still there. He slumped back down and tipped his head back against the chair. It was a move of exhaustion. His face was still turned away from me; but I could see the dark growth on his neck and chin: he needed to shave.

Even from this vantage point I could see he looked so sad, his face a rictus of weary pain.

I was content to just watch him from here, but when he raised his hand to the opposite side of his neck, I realized I knew who he was.

“Seamus,” I said, or I tried to say. All that came out was the first sound: Shhh.

Seamus, my brother Eli’s best friend. Seamus, the quiet, tall guy I’d known as far back as I could think. Seamus, the shadow version of Eli’s big, gregarious presence.

Always there. Always standing a few feet apart.

Or sitting by my bedside.

“Seamus,” I tried again. The word came out slightly slurred, my tongue thick with disuse, but I got the sounds right this time. Shay-muss.

He blinked, registering the sound. Then he jerked his face to me, his eyes going wide.

“Jesus!” He pushed himself up. “Chelsea… you’re… Let me get the nurse. The doctor. Your sister.” He sprang to his feet. “Hey!” he called toward the door.

“Stop,” I said, but my voice was so crumbly; so broken.

I blinked, turning my face to follow him as he rushed across the room, and that’s when a bolt of pure, white-hot pain ripped through my face.

I cried out just as he reached the door.

“Stop!” That word ripped from my throat.

The pain in my face was unbearable; slicing like a knife and expanding into my skull.

He froze, then came back to me, gripping the bedrail. He was tall—so tall.

“I need to get you help,” he said.

“No,” I croaked. The pain was receding, at least a tiny bit. “Please wait.” I looked at him. He was a good distraction. His white t-shirt was rumpled but still stretched tight across his broad shoulders. He wore work pants, the kind you’d hook a hammer into. He looked strong. I always thought Seamus was skinny; I’d never seen his arms bare before, had I? Not since we were kids.

“Chelsea,” he said. “I have to get someone. You’ve been out for two days…”

Get my momwas the thought I had. I was a 29-year-old woman, and I wanted my mom. But I knew, I knew now. That’s the pain I felt while swimming in the dark; the ache. Mom’s the one I wanted right now. The only one. But she was gone. She died in my arms a year ago.

I sucked in a breath and tipped my face sideways, the pain searing. But I welcomed it now.

“I’ll be right back,” Seamus said.

“Wait,” I said, grasping his hand. It was warm; broad, with a thick vein spread across the back.

He froze.

“Why are you here?”

His face was unreadable for a moment. Then, with a choked voice, he said, “We were in an accident, Chelsea. We were hit by a truck and I thought—”

He swallowed.

I was stunned. The dream: that man, trying desperately to pull me toward him, his face lit up bright. The man trying somehow, impossibly, to protect me, when it was too late. That was Seamus.

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