Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
The absolute last thing I wanted to do was be around people, particularly helpful people who wanted to fuss over my injuries, but before I could answer, Frank, the older, barrel-chested handyman for the B&B, loped in.
“Forget TV. You should sleep it off. Body needs rest to heal.” Frank had the gait of an elderly cowboy and a deep voice to match. And if he’d ever laid around a day in his life, I’d be shocked. “Leon and I have a spare room and better taste in TV than this one.” He jerked his head in Knox’s direction with a fond smile. “And I play a mean hand of cards if you need R&R time.”
“I don’t.” And yet again, I’d forgotten how to human. I took a deep breath. “Sorry. Thank you for the kind offers. I really am fine.”
“Well, at least take one of Leon’s muffins for the road.” Knox pushed a basket of berry muffins toward me.
“Sure.” My stomach was ready to stage an outright revolt, pain along with the antibiotics I’d taken earlier doing me no favors.
“We’ll miss you.” Knox was an adept liar, all bright tone and welcoming expression, but I knew better.
“Eh. I’ll be back in town to get these damn sutures out and when I’m allowed to dive again.”
“Good. We’ll look forward to seeing you. You’ll record the podcast then? Monroe said you asked Holden for a rain check.”
“Yeah. We’ll try for another time.” I tried to sound regretful rather than relieved. And, of course, that bit of gossip had made it back to Knox. I’d simply been too bushed after the urgent care visit, and when Holden and his infinite supply of kindness I didn’t deserve offered to postpone any talk of me recording a podcast, I’d leaped at the offer.
“Holden’s a good guy. He texted earlier to see how you were. And he’s amazing at the podcasting thing. He’ll make sure you’re not uncomfortable.”
“Uh-huh.” I was already plenty uncomfortable. I’d do the podcast if I had to, but I couldn’t say I wanted any part of a Q&A with Holden. He’d already burrowed under my skin far too deeply. He’d held my hand for the whole suture procedure, taken me to the pharmacy, insisted on seeing me into the B&B house, and pressed his phone number on me. He acted like we were friends, like I wasn’t a grumpy ass, like I deserved his nice gestures. I wasn’t capable of being anyone’s friend, not anymore, especially not to someone as magnetic and charming as Holden. Everyone from the nursing staff to the doctor to Knox and Monroe absolutely loved Holden. He had his pick of friends. Didn’t need my cranky antisocial self.
As soon as Frank wrapped up some muffins for me, I started inching toward the door, narrowly avoiding a hug from Knox. Wasn’t that I hated touch. Far from it. Holden’s hand in mine the day before had felt good. Too damn good, warm and secure and stable. A hug was liable to make me crumple like a used tissue, and we couldn’t have that.
“See you soon. Good luck with your plans.” Knox waved from the porch as I made my way to my RV. Like me, the darn thing was sluggish, taking several tries to turn over and limping its way out of Safe Harbor toward the highway.
Knox assumed I actually had plans beyond getting out of town before people could press more charity on me. The last thing I needed was a room to recover in or caretaking. No, I was headed to the closest campground that would accept my ancient rig. From there, I had no clue. I had no other recovery gigs lined up, which I supposed was a blessing since I was a few weeks out from being able to dive anyway. I’d used a good chunk of my rapidly dwindling funds to order a replacement dry suit the night before. The neck seal especially was too badly damaged for repair. I’d had the replacement sent to the same dive shop in Portland where I picked up my air tanks.
The outskirts of the city seemed as good an option as any, so I pointed the RV east. However, I was only a few miles out of Safe Harbor when the damn vehicle went from slow to slower, with no acceleration. It hiccupped and hesitated, revving helplessly when I tried to urge it faster. When the engine compartment gave a mighty rattle, I finally accepted my fate and pulled onto the shoulder seconds before losing power altogether.
“Fuck.” I was alone with no one to hear my yell, so I said it a few more times just for good measure. Visualizing my bank and credit card balances, I pictured all my remaining funds going up in smoke. Starting with a tow truck because my cut-rate car insurance didn’t have roadside assistance. And naturally, the one place I could find with an RV-capable truck was back in Safe Harbor. Fuck me, indeed.