He swears extensively. I’m pretty sure I hear some words that have to do with boats and sailing and fish mixed in there, the old Maine vernacular running true. He puts a hand to his head. “I think I’m all in one piece. Mostly. I need a large glass of whiskey. Or a bottle.”
“First we need to get you out of there. Do you think we need to call in like… a rescue team?” I’m envisioning something with ropes and pulleys and a stretcher. “I’ll call nine-one-one.”
“Absolutely not. The last thing I need is the boys I went to high school with cutting me open. They couldn’t even dissect a fucking frog in biology.”
“I feel like they give them training for stuff like this.”
“No. I can climb up.”
“You can climb up? What are you, Spiderman?”
“I did some rock climbing out at Big Sur. It was more dangerous than this.”
“The fact that you just fell and almost died seems to contradict what you’re saying.”
“I didn’t die or even come close to it. I’m mildly winded.”
“Then why are you just lying there.”
“I’m resting. It’s restful here. Next time I go camping, fuck White Mountain. I’m just gonna roll out a tent right here and look up at the stars.”
You can’t see a single star because of the fog. “I’m going to call nine-one-one.”
“Don’t.” He forces himself to a sitting position. “I’m coming.”
“You’re at least ten feet away from me.”
“Fifteen, but the angle of the rock is almost forty-five degrees. This wouldn’t even count as rock climbing. It’s advanced hiking, and I could do it hammered.”
“You might be bleeding internally.”
He stands, looking unsteady as hell. I hope he was right about doing this drunk, because that’s what he looks like right now. He grasps onto a ridge above him and pulls. The first part of the way works pretty well, because like he said, it’s not that steep.
But the drop right where I’m standing is a solid five feet.
There’s a grunt. “I might need your help with this last part.”
“Listen. For the record I vote calling for help. If we both go over the edge and die in the sea, I want it to be clear that I was against this.”
“Fine,” he says between gritted teeth. “Don’t help.”
I make sure my feet are planted on fairly dry ground, grasp his hand, and pull as hard as I can. There’s a moment of uncertainty where we waver, his weight more than my strength, but then we collapse on the rock. It’s hard and cold and pointy in some places—but it’s never felt so good as right now. I press my cheek against it and let out a sob of relief.
Can adrenaline make you drunk? I feel a little hammered as I stand up. I stagger a little, but he doesn’t move from the ground. “Beau? Mr. Rochester?”
“I like it when you call me Beau,” he says without moving.
“Can you walk?”
“I may have understated how much pain I was in down there.”
“Oh my God, you are bleeding internally.”
“I’m not.” I can hear the scowl in his voice, though he doesn’t lift his head. “It’s my damned leg. I don’t think I can make it back to the house without a walking stick.”
“I’m not getting you a walking stick. Your leg is broken.”
“Well, I can crawl there. It will be undignified as fuck, but I probably deserve it.”
“You need crutches. And a cast. And X-rays. And a hospital, goddamn it.”
“The same way you had a hospital when you broke your wrist? Twice?”
“Yes,” I say, thoroughly aggravated at him. “That’s why you were able to bribe people to get the hospital records. Which I’m still mad about.”
“Thirty-six years climbing over these rocks, hauling lobsters on a boat, some truly crazy illegal stunts while high as a kite in Los Angeles, and I’ve somehow managed to never break a bone.” He glances at me. “You’re dangerous, Jane Mendoza.”
“And you’re delirious.”
“Find Paige.”
“Fine, but you had better be here when I get back or I’m going to throttle you.”
It takes me about fifteen minutes that feels like fifteen hours before I find her curled up in a pile of pine needles, the kitten tucked under her chin. The painting we did of her mother only a few feet away, and I know without asking that it’s what drew her out tonight.
I wake her gently and let her know that Mr. Rochester’s been hurt. She figures out on her own that he was hurt while looking for her, so I hold her close and dry her tears. “It wasn’t your fault that he fell, but you need to stop going out at night. If you get scared or lonely or sad, you come to me. Even if you need to go outside, I’ll come with you. Promise?”
“Promise,” she says in a wavery voice.
We hold up Mr. Rochester on either side and limp together into the house. The kitten trails behind. It’s a slow and painful journey but it feels like we’re a small family.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jane Mendoza
He didn’t just break one bone. He broke three and fractured another. The hospital sends him in for surgery while I wait at home with Paige, glued to my cell phone.
It’s enough to earn him doctor-ordered bed rest.
Even a crutch could aggravate the healing process.
He was only gone from the house for a total of twelve hours, but everything changes. If an ordinary grumpy asshole Mr. Rochester was a storm, then the new bed-ridden Mr. Rochester is an entire hurricane.
“I want that whiskey,” he growls from the bed.
I continue picking up dirty clothes that are strewn across the floor without meeting his gaze. “You can’t have whiskey with the pain medicine.”
“Fuck the pain medicine. I’m not going to take it. I want whiskey.”
“Why on earth wouldn’t you take pain medicine?”
A low growl. “If you don’t give it to me, I’m going downstairs myself.”
“Do you just want me to feel guilty?” I say, throwing up my hands. Tears prick my eyes. I hate being emotional at a time like this. I can’t seem to stop.
“Guilty? Why would you feel guilty?”
“I know what happened out there. You pushed me back onto the ground and let yourself fall instead. The only reason you have three broken bones is because of me.”
“God save me from crying females. It’s not your fault. It’s not Paige’s fault. It’s not anybody’s fault but this damn cliff and the ocean and a thousand years of history.”
“I’m going to stand here crying until you take the pain meds.” It’s not hard to make that threat, because I’m already standing here crying. When I was sixteen I talked back to my foster mother. She held my wrist so hard and twisted that it fractured. I didn’t cry the whole time she did it. I didn’t cry that night when I went to bed or in the morning when the school nurse realized what happened and sent me to the hospital. Now I’m a watering pot. It doesn’t make any sense.