Page 62 of Beauty and the Beach

Holland, sitting on the side of her ER bed, staring blankly off into the distance—a large bandage on her forehead, limp arms and legs, eyes devoid of light and life.

I remember watching her from my own bed and realizing that I would do anything to take that look out of her eyes—even poke and prod and nag and annoy until she found fire to burn me with. For Trev, I would do that.

But as I look down at her, asleep on my lap now, it dawnson me that Wyatt was right once again: somewhere along the line, taking care of her stopped being about Trev.

“I make you feel alive, huh?” I say, the words reluctant. “That’s good.” I pause, and then I voice the ridiculous question that’s nudging me over and over. “Do you think I could ever make you happy?”

But I’m pretty sure I know the answer to that one.

I stand up, holding her carefully, and take her backto her own room.

“We’re quite the pair,” I say as I settle her into her bed, pulling the covers up around her. “Just a couple of sentimental fools, feeling guilty for something we couldn’t change.” I smooth her hair out of her face. “Sleep well, Holl.”

I don’t hear her for the rest of the night, but I never fall back asleep.

Phoenix

I wakeup the next morning with a sick sense of dread in the pit of my stomach at the thought of looking at Holland, talking to her, figuring out exactly how much she remembers from the night before. She’ll realize she wasn’t dreaming, and no matter what I tell her about how much I remember myself, she’ll worry.

Then things will grow even more uncomfortable than they were last night coming home from the beach.

I take the coward’s way out by sequestering myself in my study before she even wakes up. I could just go into the office, but that idea is as stressful as the idea of seeing her; I ask Wyatt to meet me here instead of in the driveway since I’ve decided not to leave.

My brain doesn’t like the idea of seeing herorbeing away from her while things are so tense, it would appear.

Why did she kiss me?

Why did I kiss her back?

But when she looks at me, she remembers her beloved brother’s death. When she looks at me, she feels pain and guilt.

Is being married to me pure hell for her?

I rub my temples and try to push the question out of my mind, even though I know it will keep coming back. Thecomputer screen swims in front of my eyes, likely because I’m so tired, but I blink and try to focus. I have to look at the same set of numbers three times before they register, but I continue on anyway.

I’ve been working this inefficiently for thirty minutes when my mother calls and drops a bombshell of epic proportions on me.

I know something is up because instead of simpering or buttering me up, she cuts to the chase immediately.

“The doctors let your grandmother go home,” she says in a high-pitched, high-strung voice.

The words don’t make sense at first; not really. They wouldn’t let her go home; she’s more or less on hospice, and she would never condescend to pass away peacefully at her own house. She wants her life stretched out to the last limits, by any means necessary.

But surely—she isn’tbetter.There’s no way.

“What do you mean, they let her go home?” I shove one hand through my hair, clutching my phone with the other hand. My fingers are starting to feel slippery with sweat, despite the fact that this conversation began only thirty seconds ago. “Doesn’t she need to stay for observation or something like that?”

On the other end of the line, my mother titters nervously. “I guess they’ve already observed everything they need to. Dr. Harvey says her recovery is nothing short of miraculous. Mavis says she actually feels stronger and better than she has in months.”

Mavis Butterfield needs more strength like I need a hole in the head. What kind of higher power is running around handing out miraculous recoveries to people like her?

This is bad. This is bad, bad, bad. I have a contract withmywifethat is contingent upon the idea that Mavis will pass away soon.

“Well, what about a psych eval?” I ask, feeling more irritated by the second. “Did they do a psych eval? No one would dream of turning her loose after getting a good look inside her head.”

“Phoenix,” my mother says more nervously still. “Speak respectfully.”

“I will not,” I say through gritted teeth.

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