Chapter Fourteen

 

Raven

“How did your appointment go?”

I held up a finger letting Ricky know I needed another minute. It wasn’t often I stepped away from the job for a personal call, but Ireland had been worrying me lately. After his upset the week before he’d been a ball of nerves, hyperaware of every barrier between us and frantically trying to tear them down.

The night before, he’d wanted to take our sex life one step further. When I’d reiterated that bottoming was not an enjoyable experience for me, he’d offered to be the one to try. Apparently, even in his college days, he wasn’t able to relinquish that kind of control. We swiftly learned, it still wasn’t something he could do. Whereas I’d been okay with letting the idea of anal go, he’d become frustrated.

“Same as always. She agrees with you, of course. She says I’m pushing myself too hard.”

There was more, but he paused. “And?” I encouraged.

“And, she renewed my prescription for anxiety meds.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“I hate those things. I haven’t taken them in years. How is this moving forward? Needing anxiety meds on a daily basis when I’m supposed to have overcome a setback isn’t what I call getting better.”

“I know it feels frustrating, but Erin knows what she’s doing. You said you trusted her.”

He sighed, and I could feel the weight of his exhaustion. “I do.” He paused, but that time, I knew he was going to say more, so I waited. “Are you disappointed about last night?” he asked.

“Not even a little. I told you, there are many ways for us to be intimate. Anal doesn’t have to be one of them. The last thing I want is for you to do something that isn’t enjoyable or that messes you up. Maybe it’s just not our thing. That’s okay with me.”

“I just… For once, I wish I could have a normal goddamn relationship without all these problems.”

“I’m going to start banning that word from your vocabulary. What we have is perfect for us. There is no normal in life. No two people are the same.”

He didn’t have a comeback because he knew I was right. I was getting sick of hearing him compare himself to normal. It had become an ever-growing, impossible standard of living he could never achieve. He set the stakes higher and higher, so no matter how many positive steps forward he took, he only saw failure.

Ricky coughed to grab my attention and tapped his wrist, indicating I needed to get on with it because we were getting behind. I nodded and shuffled my phone to my other hand.

“Shit, I gotta go. We’re mid-move, and this isn’t a lunch break.”

“Yeah, okay. I should probably eat.”

“Are you coming over tonight?”

He’d been spending a few nights a week at my place, and I was getting used to the company. I liked having him in my bed, even when snuggling against him was not in the cards. There’d been a small handful of times he’d moved in close, and I treasured those precious moments, knowing they didn’t come often.

“I don’t think so. I picked up a few more hours this evening, so I’ll be here late. I’m trying to make up some lost time.”

“Okay. Are you still planning to visit your mom on Saturday?”

All I could hear was breathing on the other end of the line. It went on for a solid twenty seconds before he answered. “Yeah… gonna try. You’ll still be able to come with me?”

“That’s why I’m asking. I won’t let Johnsy book me. I’ll tell him I have plans.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem. Now go eat. Call me later, okay?”

“Yeah, all right.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” he breathed.

He never called.

At ten o’clock that night, I lay in bed wondering just how many extra hours he’d picked up and why my phone was silent. I should have asked. My three messages from earlier had gone unanswered as had the phone call I’d made around eight-thirty.

Feeling antsy, I called his number again, but it rang off the hook until his voicemail picked up. Unsure what else to do, I left him a message.

“Hey, I hope you’re all right. Not sure when you get off, but whatever the time, give me a call.”

I tossed my phone on the bed beside me and frowned at the ceiling. With the state of his nerves recently, not hearing from him was worrisome. I mulled over our conversation from earlier. At least he’d seen Erin today. Maybe he’d started those anxiety meds. From what I understood, they could make a person sleepy. Perhaps he’d gone home and crashed.

Trying not to fret, I rolled over and closed my eyes, encouraging sleep. All I managed was dozing off and on all night. My mind wouldn’t settle, and by the time my alarm woke me at four-thirty in the morning, a queasy, uneasy feeling had settled in my gut.

There was still no message from Ireland.

I hopped out of bed and pulled on joggers, a T-shirt, and a hoodie for our morning jog. It was cold at that early hour, even when the days heated up to something pleasant. Racing downstairs, I hopped in my van, eager to see him and to ensure that my unsettled mind was simply out of control and lying to me.

There was no traffic at that hour, so I made good time and pulled into the parking lot by the trails at five minutes to five. Ireland’s car wasn’t in the lot, but I was early, so I cranked the heat to keep warm and waited. When the radio station flipped to the five a.m. news, I scanned the lot and the road from where I’d come.

Still no Ireland.

He wasn’t usually late. It was me who dragged his ass most mornings due to late-night band practices. By ten after five, I got out of the van and paced, walking to the main road and peering in the direction he should have come from. At a quarter after, I found my phone and placed another call.

Again, like the previous evening, it went to voicemail.

A rock formed in my gut as I dialed his number a second time. This wasn’t like him at all. When it went to voicemail again, I left a quick message asking him to call me. Then, I scanned the parking lot, thinking of what I should do. Ireland never ditched on our morning runs unless he had a reason, but he always contacted me in those cases.

If I left to go to his apartment, I might pass him on the road. Logic told me he could be driving and that was why he hadn’t answered. However, my heart knew better. Something wasn’t right. Forcing myself not to panic, I considered that he could have been called into work early. It’d happened before. Ordinarily, he let me know we wouldn’t be running, but what if he forgot? What if it was last minute and the thought simply slipped his mind? He hadn’t been himself lately.

I told myself I’d wait until five-thirty, then, if he hadn’t arrived, I’d drive across town to his house, popping into the hospital since it was on my way, just in case the answer was that simple. With a plan of action, I leaned against the back of the van and watched the road for the next ten minutes.

Every car that passed tripped my heart out of rhythm, but not one slowed down or turned into the lot. At five twenty-eight, I said fuck-it and got into the van to leave. I couldn’t stay stagnant for another minute. If something was wrong, I was only wasting precious time.

I drove too fast and pulled into a vacant spot near the hospital’s emergency department. At that early hour, I knew the ER would be the only door I could access without an employee ID card. I slipped past the triage and took the first elevator I came to up to the third floor where I knew Ireland worked. I’d visited him a handful of times during the day, bringing him coffee or taking him out to lunch if my schedule permitted, so I wasn’t completely lost.

When the elevator doors opened, I took a sharp right and ran down to the nurse’s station in the surgery department. The hallway lighting was dimmed, and there weren’t many nurses about. It was quiet apart from a few random machines beeping in distant rooms. At the main desk, two nurses worked at computers, and they both looked up simultaneously when I approached, surprised to see me there at such an odd hour.

I didn’t recognize either of them, and on a quick scan, I didn’t see any more people milling about.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but is Ireland Hayes here? Did he come in early for his shift today?”

The male nurse closer to me peered at his co-worker who frowned and shook her head. “No, and so far as I understand, he won’t be in for the rest of the week.”

It was my turn to frown. The rest of the week? He didn’t tell me he took the week off. What the hell was going on?

The male nurse quirked a brow and regarded me with sympathy. “Ireland went home at six last night. He got a call from his mother’s nursing home. I guess she passed away. He’ll be off for bereavement the rest of the week, possibly longer. Can I leave a message for him?”

My skin went cold as I stared at the man who’d just nonchalantly informed me that my boyfriend’s mother had passed away. Blood drained from my face, and I gripped the counter between us for balance as a chill radiated up and down my spine.

“Are you being serious right now?”

“Dude, that’d be a pretty awful thing to joke about, don’t you think?”

“So, he just got the news yesterday and left here? By himself? Did anyone make sure he was okay?”

Jesus, was he okay? He’d dropped off the face of the earth since we’d talked.

I didn’t wait for an answer, I spun and bolted back the way I’d come and raced to my van. I needed to get to his house. Why the hell hadn’t he called? Was he suffering alone?

Shit!

There still wasn’t much traffic, but what traffic I encountered, I cursed. When I got to his building, I barely remembered parking. I found myself racing into his building and down the hallway toward his door. Then, I banged, loud enough he’d hear me if he was sleeping—which I doubted. Knowing the self-hatred and guilt he’d been carrying around over his mother—knowing we were days from making a proper visit—I knew Ireland would be destroyed over the news.

Why hadn’t he called me?

There was no answer, and when I pressed my ear to the hardwood surface, no sounds stirred within. I knocked once more, calling his name. When my second attempt saw no better result, I tried the knob, crossing my fingers he’d left it unlocked.

It was.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside, once again calling out for Ireland. I didn’t need a response, nor did I need to go far. Sitting on the ground, back against the couch, face buried in his drawn-up knees was the man I’d been seeking since last night.

A distraught and clearly broken man.

“Ireland?”

I approached, leveling my voice so I wouldn’t sound as frantic as I felt, but he didn’t respond. Kneeling beside him, I called his name again, thinking he was asleep. Stirring, he rolled his head in search of me, but his eyes were unfocused like he was drunk and the effort too difficult.

Instinctively, I reached out to touch his face, to draw his attention, so he knew where I was, but he reacted instantly and violently, flailing an arm and smacking me away.

“Don’t!” he shrieked, his groggy eyes widening in horror. “D-don’t touch me.”

“Okay… okay, I’m sorry. I won’t.” I held my hands up to show him. “Ireland, look at me.”

His head lulled on his neck, and he shrunk back in fear, wrapping his arms tightly around his legs, pulling away even though he was as far back as he could get.

I shuffled back another few inches and examined his face. Beads of sweat gathered on his forehead, temples, and upper lip. He looked clammy and ill. “Hey, you don’t look so hot.”

“She’s dead.” When he tried to focus on my face, his eyelids closed, and his chin dropped before he jerked himself upright once again. “Please don’t touch me,” he whimpered, examining our distance with concern. “Please, not now. I can’t. I just can’t.”

“I won’t touch you. I promise.”

He was a wreck. Whether it was all grief-induced or he’d truly hit the booze, I had no idea, but he looked ready to pass out. Had he overdosed on those anxiety pills? Shit! That would be bad.

“I was too late. I was going to go visit Saturday. But it didn’t matter, did it?” He peered down at himself and clenched his fists into tight balls, grinding his teeth, sending a shiver up my spine. “It didn’t fucking matter! Look at me! Fucking look at me!” he hollered before burying his face and screaming into his hands. His anger was thick and raw. It seeped from his core uncensored and stabbed into my heart.

Then, he cried. Gut-wrenching sobs like his world had just shattered. And in all respects, it had.

I felt so helpless not being able to touch him. All I wanted to do was draw him into my arms and never let him go.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Ireland.”

His shoulders shook as he wept. My hand twitched, itching to reach out. It was physically painful watching his heart break and knowing I couldn’t comfort him. All I could do was be a presence in the room and hope he knew I was there.

As he cried, he had moments where he seemed to almost fall asleep. He’d go silent, then his limbs would go limp before he’d jerk back to life again like he was teetering on the edges of exhaustion.

“Have you slept? You look exhausted.” Since he was still in his hospital scrubs, I assumed the answer was no.

He moved his hands to the back of his head and linked his fingers before placing his forehead on his knees.

“They called me at work… Fuck, she’s really gone.”

He didn’t seem to be processing what I was asking. I scanned his apartment, unsure what to do. If I could convince him to lie down, maybe I could make him… wait…

“Shit, Ireland, look at me. Can you look at me?” I wanted to shake him when he didn’t respond. He’d turned limp again and was slouching sideways, threatening to fall over. “Ireland!” I said louder. “Lift your head and look at me. Please.”

It took obvious effort, but he finally responded and lifted his head. Like it weighed too much, it fell back on his neck, and his eyes rolled up into his head before he managed to focus.

I was no longer in doubt. I knew exactly what was wrong. Despite being new at this, I was starting to recognize the signs of his sugars being out of whack. Bolting the bathroom, I searched for his black pouch. Not finding it in view, I ripped open multiple drawers and threw things aside. It wasn’t there.

Back in the living room, I scanned the surfaces and found it laying on the floor underneath the coffee table like it had fallen and possibly been kicked aside unintentionally. I snagged it and unzipped the opening, not having much of a clue what I was doing.

“Ireland, listen to me. I need you to focus and check your sugars for me. You feel shitty because they aren’t right.”

His eyes remained closed, and the only response I was afforded was a tiny lick to his lips. They were dry and sticking in the corners.

“Shit. Okay, look. I don’t know what I’m doing here, and I know you don’t want me touching you, but you have to wake up and do this, otherwise, I’m calling you an ambulance, and I know you won’t like that. Those people will touch you. Do you hear me?”

Still nothing.

I fit a testing strip into the slot on the glucometer, and it beeped telling me it was ready. I picked up the finger prick thing I’d seen him use a hundred times and fiddled with it until I understood how it worked.

By the look of him, he was out cold. Knowing I couldn’t wait, I took his hand closest to me. The moment we came in contact, he retracted with a cry, and his eyes flew open. Fear consumed him. Falling over himself, he crawled away as quickly as his uncoordinated limbs could carry him, muttering words that barely made sense, but I understood them to mean that I shouldn’t touch him.

Well, that wasn’t going to work this time. I scampered after him, cornering him and holding his glucometer between us.

“Get away. Please. Please don’t.” He trembled and held his body tightly. If he could have crawled into himself, I think he would have.

“No! Listen. You need to check your sugars right now, or I have to do it for you. Ireland, you’re sick. I need to know what way they’ve gone because I’m not familiar with all these signs. I don’t know if you need food or insulin. Help me.”

My words seemed to register. His gaze drifted from my face to the machine. He squinted at it like he was trying to make sense of something, then he snatched it from my hand, whimpering and closing his eyes.

“Juice,” he slurred as he tried to aim the finger prick device at the tip of a finger. “S’low… They’re low… Need… juice.”

“Okay. Okay, I’ll get juice. Check your sugar, I’ll be right back.”

Taking his word for it, I raced to the kitchen and found a box of Kool-Aid Jammers in a cupboard. I grabbed two and flew back to his side. He’d managed to prick his finger and dab the blood on the end of the testing stick. But that was as far as he’d gone. His head was back against the wall, his eyes closed.

I read the number on the machine. 2.1. With the minimal knowledge I had, I knew for a fact that was way too low. I popped a straw in the juice and held it to his lips without touching him.

“Drink. Open your mouth.”

He seemed to know enough to follow my instructions and sucked back the whole thing in one go. When I offered him the second, he took about half before shrinking away from me until he was lying on the carpet.

“N’uff.” His eyes fell closed. “Sh’eat somethin’… pro’lly.”

Within less than a minute, he was out cold. I didn’t have a clue if one small juice box and a half of another was enough, but it had to do something. It was definitely better than nothing at all. Leaving him, I went to the kitchen and rifled through his cupboards, looking for something to make him to eat. I’d give the juice twenty minutes, then wake him and make him take food. Then, maybe we could talk.

Settling for peanut butter and jelly, I made him a sandwich and plated it with a glass of milk to wash it down. I brought it into the living room and set it on the coffee table before taking a seat beside Ireland on the floor. He’d curled up in the fetal position, hugging himself. His face was pale, lips parted, and eyes puffy, probably from having cried all night. If I had to wager a guess, I bet he’d come home and landed in the exact spot I’d found him, drowning in grief.

It was just shy of my twenty-minute wake-up call when he stirred. First, his eyes squeezed tighter while his face soured, then he rolled to his back and peeled his eyes open, squinting against the light.

Peering around, clearly still a little disoriented, his gaze eventually landed on me. His muscles unclenched, and he swiped a hand over his face before closing his eyes again.

“I feel like shit.”

“I bet. I made you a sandwich. You should probably try to sit up and eat it. I’m betting your body needs more than a measly juice box. You just provided me with a whole different definition of a diabetic coma. I will never use that term in jest anymore.”

He grunted in response, despair pulling his face into a frown. He looked miserable and utterly heartbroken. Unsure how he’d respond now that he was more clear-headed, I lay down beside him, propping myself on an elbow. There was more than a foot of space separating us, but he shrank away, grimacing as he shook his head.

“Please don’t. I can’t right now.”

“I’m sorry.” I got up again and took a seat on the floor opposite the coffee table, the ache in my chest growing. “Please eat.”

It took effort, but he dragged himself to a sitting position before pulling himself to stand. Using the arm of the couch for balance, he shuffled a few wobbly feet over. Finding his black pouch on the side table, he scooped it up and fell hard onto the couch like every muscle in his body gave out at once. He eyed me warily, and I knew right then that his mother’s death had launched him into a setback.

And of all the times I wanted to touch him more.

He proceeded to check his sugars again, his motions jerky and uncoordinated. I didn’t ask about the reading, figuring he was more in his right mind and was able to take care of himself without help. He ate his sandwich and drank his milk before leaning back and staring at the ceiling with a groan.

Withdrawn, a blank slate of emotions and expressions, Ireland remained that way for a long time. Losing a parent wasn’t something I’d experienced. Words failed me. Every instinct I had told me he needed comfort, but how? If I could hold him, maybe I wouldn’t have to watch him break apart.

“I knew it was coming,” he said. It’d been quiet for so long the eruption of words into the soundless abyss startled me. “I made every excuse under the sun to avoid going to her. Now it’s too late. I waited too long.”

Sensing he wasn’t looking for a response, I stayed quiet and let him talk. He needed to get it off his chest. His guilt would eat him alive otherwise.

He scrubbed his eyes and rolled his neck like it was stiff. Groaning, he sat up and balanced his elbows on his knees. “I don’t even know what to do from here. When they called and told me, they asked me all these questions, and I had no fucking answers. I was at work for fuck’s sake. How the hell did I know what funeral home I wanted to use?”

He rubbed knuckles into his eye sockets, shaking his head with a humorless laugh. “You know what I did? I Googled it and told them the first name that popped up. Who does that?”

He met my gaze, his red-rimmed eyes showing his pain like windows into his broken heart.

“I’m sure in grief many people numbly make decisions like that. You can’t be the first.”

“Yeah.” Lost in his head, he stared at the coffee table separating us.

“I’ll help you out any way I can, okay? Do you need to go down there and make arrangements?”

Ireland scanned the apartment, squinting at the morning sun shining through the window on the far side of the room. “What time is it?”

“Just after seven.”

His brows drew together, and he blinked a few times before asking, “Is it tomorrow?”

“It’s today. Seven in the morning. Thursday morning.”

“Shit. Um, yeah, I need to go…go…” He glanced around, brows pinched in confusion until he patted his pockets and withdrew his phone. He typed on the screen and chewed his lip where his hoop normally sat. “Do you know where Hollins Funeral Home is?”

“Yeah, I do. How about you pop in a shower, and we can go there together.”

His head bobbed on his shoulders before he pulled himself to stand. A few wobbly steps brought him to the hallway where he clung to the wall for balance. Before he could disappear into the bathroom, I stood and approached him.

His hand came up, warding me off, then his gaze dropped to the middle of my chest, and he wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Just… Everything is really fucked-up right now.” He waved a hand around his head, indicating his mental state. “I… I’m sorry. I’m gonna need space.”

It was as I feared, but I understood and wanted Ireland to know that I didn’t blame him and that it wasn’t going to break us apart.

“I’ll always respect your space. You know that. I’m here for you, no matter what.”

His lips pulled tight, and he nodded. Without further discussion, he dragged his feet toward his bedroom.

“Ireland,” I called. He stalled but refused to turn around. “I love you. That won’t change.”

His head hung lower, and he kept walking without response.