on me showing up. Even on days when my own life feels like it’s up for grabs.
I turn my back on temptation and my ire on my brother. “Beautiful and smart are tame words to describe what she is. And I don’t like her, I love her. And I know I owe you a lot, but that you’d call me to remind me of it, pisses me off.”
Hayes blinks in surprise “Love her? You don’t even know her.”
“I know her better than I’ve ever known anyone.” And, saying it out loud, I realize how true it is.
Hayes gapes at me. “What the hell did I miss?”
I laugh, but it’s bitter and short. “My formative years.”
He looks like I punched him. “Stone—”
“I have to go. I’ve got more patients to see than I have hours in a day.”
“Wait,” he barks.
“Can’t. But feel free to continue worrying about who I’m fucking. And I hope you and Remi have an awesome reunion with your dad,” I expel the last word like a curse propelled by anger and jealousy.
I wish both of my dads would come back from the dead.
Yeah, and people in hell wish they had ice water.
Nobody cares.
I hear him call my name, right as I hang up.
“Buenos noches,” I call over my shoulder to the guard at the front of the refugee camp, and then jog over to the white van that’s waiting to take me back to my apartment. This is my last week here, and I feel guilty at how glad I am of that.
The conditions here are bleak. This refugee crisis is the worst of its kind in our hemisphere. But for the news coverage it receives, you’d be hard pressed to even know it’s happening.
But teams like mine, from all over the world, have come to help serve the people who are caught in the crossfire of political stagecraft. It’s easy to feel a sense of helplessness, because there’s no hope in sight for an end to the problem.
I climb aboard the van, and before I can buckle up, we’re off. It’s dark in the van, and everyone else is asleep. I pull out my phone and scroll to my favorite torture devices.
Pictures of Regan - a couple of us, but, mostly, just her.
My screen saver is one of her on a paddle board the afternoon we explored the mangroves. She looks like she’s eighteen. Her hair is braided into plaits that run down either side of her head and dangle over her shoulders. Her bikini is a mismatched black bandeau top and bright green bottoms. She’s grinning wildly, her hands lifted in the air over her head, an oar clutched in the left one. Her expression is triumphant.
Worry makes my heart skip a beat every time I think about her alone right now. The upheaval must feel endless.
I’ve started to call her so many times, and each time, I’ve stopped.
She’s so off limits, it’s not even funny. And despite lashing out at Hayes, I don’t want to make things harder for him.
I gaze out at the scenery as we wind our way through the valley. The horizon doesn’t calm me the way it used to. Now, when I gaze out at the place where the sky and earth kiss, all I see is her.
Regan, for me, is what that spot in the distance must have been for the men who were inspired to sail toward it, even though they fully expected to fall off the edge of the world. And just like them, I can’t resist that call.
I shouldn’t even attempt it. I’m not on a ship by myself. My brother is breaking his back to repair what my mother has broken. If I make a mess of things, I’ll take him with me.
And what if Regan never leaves her husband?
Can I risk so much when I’m not sure that the horizon isn’t just an illusion?
So, whenever I’ve had the urge to call her, I write it down in a letter. I’ve got a couple dozen notes that I never planned to mail.
The shuttle drops me off and I trudge into my apartment. I head straight to my desk and pull out the paper and pen I’ve been using and start another letter.
When my ink runs dry, I go in search of another pen. I feel around on the top of my bookcase where I keep my supplies and my hand brushes against a book. I grasp it and pull it down.