Page 70 of Beach Cottage Kisses
And he was not going to fail her.
* * *
She was being selfish. And a crappy caregiver, too. Scott needed to be in his bed, leg propped. Iris just needed a couple of minutes. Time to cross over from the darkness that had been, to the life she’d found on the other side.
To turn her mind away from the horrible truth she couldn’t change, to things that came after, which was the only way to get the sense of anguish to dissipate. It was up to her. Let depression rob her of the good she had left. Or choose to focus on the good even when she couldn’t feel it. To trust that it was there. Give up. Or fight for herself.
“Where’s Angel?” The second canine angel in her life. Adopted after the first one, the service dog that Sandra Livingston had gifted to her at eighteen, had died of old age.
“She jumped down when I came up.”
Scott’s voice. Normal. Reassuring. Nothing dramatic. Still there. A small wave of relief passed through her. Easing a bit of the strong hold the past had gained on her while she was unconscious and therefore unable to fight it.
She was going to have to tell him something.
Wasn’t sure what he’d heard. Or for how long. Living alone, she had no way of knowing if episodes were seconds, minutes or hours long. There were no witnesses other than Angel.
And hadn’t been anything to witness a long time.
What in the hell was going on with her?
And how bad was the situation with Scott? How big did her cover-up have to be?
On the bright side, sex wasn’t the problem. She almost wished it was. There was a plan in place to handle that.
The thought brought another wave of fear-engulfed hopelessness. She refused to lie within it, even while the feelings continued to linger.
She had to move her thoughts elsewhere. Focus on the present. She wasn’t alone. “Did I wake you?” she asked.
“Yes.”
He was there. A voice. A friendly one. One she trusted.
Witnessing more than she could easily explain.
The episode had been severe enough to wake him from behind a closed door and down a hallway.
Heaviness hit again. She couldn’t have everything she wanted. Couldn’t go back to who she’d thought she’d be when she was growing up. Still huddled into herself—afraid to let go until she could trust herself not to cry—Iris fought her mental battle. Refused to wallow. To give in to the moment. To let grief win.
The damned surge was a huge one.
On her own, she’d get up. Take a walk on the beach. But there, with Scott…
She hadn’t seen it coming.
People lost family members to car accidents all the time. She was one in millions. Billions even.
What if Dr. Livingston was right? What if she wasn’t in a surge? But was dealing with a psyche that had loosened its reins and had let her deep emotions decide not to be dead after all?
How in the hell did one fight that?
Didn’t she get a say in the matter?
Of course she did.
Mind over matter. She knew how it all worked.
And was letting an injured man sit there with her anyway. Definitely a low moment.
