Page 93 of Good Days Bad Days
“I’m not the solution either. I can’t get in the middle of your marriage. I know how divorce works. Even if you break up, that’s a major life change. I think ... I think right now you could use a friend.” Even with my woozy head, I know he’s right. I can’t run away from Ian and jump into Cam’s arms, expecting all my problems to disappear.
“You should be a dentist and a therapist—a dental therapist,” I suggest, and he laughs softly, though the moment is anything but lighthearted.
“That one was definitely from the drugs,” he jokes to lighten the mood. He gently releases my hand and folds his arms across his chest as if he fears he might change his mind.
We don’t dig any deeper into “what might have been.” Instead, we watch funny videos on his phone until my eyes grow too heavy to keep focused.
Eventually, the nurse brings in the final paperwork, and I’m released shortly after. Cam escorts me into the waiting room, where Olivia is sitting in a corner with her laptop open on her thighs. We’re instructed to wait here for news about Betty.
Still drowsy from the medication, I doze off with my head resting on Cam’s platonic shoulder. It seems like only a few minutes have passed when a familiar voice jolts me from a dreamless sleep filled with red andwhite flashing lights. I raise my head and see Ian’s face looming over me, a stormy hue contrasting with his naturally bright complexion.
“Ian,” I say, bolting upright. My head is clearer now, although the pain in my hand and forearm is becoming more nagging. The clock on the wall reads 4:37—four hours since the accident.
It’s strange to see Ian standing in front of me instead of being the one sitting beside me, his arm around me, eager to help and trying to ease my pain. He’s the one who drove me to the ER after our miscarriage, the one who stood up to a particularly aggressive paparazzo camped outside our house in LA. He’s the man who showed up to fix my parents’ house, even though we might be getting a divorce. And here I am, sleeping—quite literally—with another man.
“What the hell happened?” he asks, directing his question at both me and Cam, his tone dripping with blame.
“It’s fine. There was an accident with my mom.”
“You don’t look fine,” Ian says, glaring at Cam as though he’s the reason for my bandages.
“Just some spilled soup and a little cut. It’s silly really,” I try to explain, but Ian doesn’t find anything silly about the moment.
Cam senses the awkwardness of the situation. He leaps out of the seat and pats his scrubs pocket.
“It’s second-degree burns and a laceration to the right antebrachium, uh, forearm. They said the burns aren’t serious, but she needs to change the dressing every day or so. Here are her prescriptions.” He hands Ian a folded stack of papers, which he doesn’t take.
Ian looks between me and Cam in the same way he did on the porch when he inadvertently interrupted our first kiss—our first kiss that never happened. Then he storms away, swerving to the right to join a tall, hunched figure at the nurses’ station. My dad.
“I don’t know if you sensed that, but Ithinkhe might be mad,” Cam says, making an exaggerated grimace that I’d normally find funny. “I should probably go.”
And though I don’t want to lose my one ally in this situation, I agree. I haven’t seen Ian for three days, and he looks worse than when he first arrived in Lake Geneva, if that’s even possible. He’s deeply upset, and my dad—well, that’s not gonna be any easier. It wouldn’t be fair to ask Cam to stay and buffer the fallout.
“I’ll call you later,” I say as he helps me up from the uncomfortable upholstered chair.
“I live ten minutes away if you need me.”
“Thanks,” I say as we embrace. I rest my head against his shoulder one more time, a touch of homesickness washing over me when he lets go.
“Don’t forget,” he shouts as he walks out the sliding glass doors. Everyone looks, including the police officer posted at the door, whose hand reflexively goes to the spot next to his firearm. “You still haven’t accepted my friend request. I’m waiting ...”
His voice fades away as the doors shut behind him, and his absence is palpable immediately, especially when I catch Ian grouse, “Funny.”
The hairs on my neck prickle and stand on end as I realize he’s beside me.
“Hello, Charlie,” he says. I wait for him to ask why Cam was here and what his intentions were, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “You ready to talk?”
I fill my lungs and consider all the ways I could respond—all the daggers of truth and criticism I could hurl in his direction. But getting a glimpse at my father, weary eyed, hand shaking as he signs paperwork fastened to a clipboard, I hold back my words.
I nod, pulling my sweatshirt tighter around my body.
“Good,” Ian replies, following my gaze to my dad, who is talking to an official-looking woman in a suit jacket and dark slacks. “Because I’m not the only one with questions.”
My dad joins us and says “Your mother is unwell” for the millionth time in my life.
I want to say,No shit, Sherlock.Damn it, I’m so tired of hearing those words.
“I know, Dad, I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to cause any harm.”
