For AJ, so often my voice of reason and a source of joy and comfort. You are, as always, super great.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Thank you!
Other Books by Tamsen
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
Chapter One
‡
I feel like I’m deep-water diving and all the air in my tank has run out. I can’t breathe. This cannot be happening. Not Cris, not my Crispin. He can’t be hurt, he can’t be—no, he cannot be dead. His mother would’ve said, right? I don’t think this world is worth living in if Crispin isn’t in it.
I try to pay attention to what his mom is saying on the phone. Though she’s half an ocean away, the distress in her voice is as clear as a bell. I think part of the reason this is so unnerving is that I’m sitting in my office—a place I’ve worked so hard to maintain as a relationship-free zone. But there are benefits to being at work, to having underlings, to being the one in charge. Even though most of me is drowning in an ocean of panic, a small part of me has commandeered the life boats and is shouting orders.
“Where is he?”
“They airlifted him to Queen’s Medical Center in Honolulu.”
I bury the mouthpiece of my phone in my shoulder and shout, “Lucy!”
She flutters into my doorway, eyes wide and darting, a nervous little bird.
“Yes, Ms. Burke?”
“Get me on the next flight to Honolulu.”
“But you have a call with Cooper, and Jack is—”
“Fuck the meetings. I need to be on a plane. Now.”
Lucy stands open-mouthed on my threshold for another few seconds, but then the switch flips and she realizes I’m not screwing around. Once I’m convinced she’s on her way to do what I asked, I turn my attention back to the phone.
“I apologize, Mrs. Ardmore. Please, tell me what happened.”
“Cris took his board up north. He says only people with a death wish go out there in bad weather.”
I cringe. I know why he went up there. The only two things that make me feel like the world isn’t coming apart at the seams are fucking and riding big surf.
“It’s a good thing Holo and Lani were out being as stupid as he was.”
She tosses the names around like I know who these people are. I don’t want to admit I don’t. Me and my stupid rules. I would’ve had dinner with them and met their dog by now if I’d let Crispin have his way. They sound like dog people, right?
“He wiped out on the reef and got pulled under. It took them a while to drag him out. He’s damn lucky there’s cell reception up there. Lani called me after Holo had gotten on the phone with 911. She said he’s a mess. His head, his leg… I’m surprised she didn’t call you.”
Again, me and my stupid rules. Holo and Lani and their hypothetical dog don’t know I exist, so why would they think to call? For the first time in my life, I want to be someone’s emergency contact. I want to be responsible for another person.
I want to be responsible for Crispin.
“I don’t mean to be rude, Ms. Burke…” Tears make her voice shuddery, as if she’s talking to me from under water. Maybe she feels like she’s drowning. I do.
“Please call me India.”
“India. Mary. What’s your relationship with Cris?”
I have no idea what to say. I don’t know if Crispin’s parents know, although the likelihood is not. Even if they did, we don’t have a contract right now. Worse, I destroyed the possibility of having another one in a fit of pique over a goddamn phone call. It wasn’t okay for him to call me at the office, but I could’ve been more sensitive to the desperation that must’ve driven him to it. I curse my overblown, kneejerk reaction, not to mention the obstinacy and fear that kept me from calling and apologizing in the week since I hung up on him. I can’t tell Mary all the details of our relationship even if I wanted to, so I reach for something vague but true.
“We had been…seeing each other.” Such a small, stupid phrase for what we’d had. The intoxicating mix of flawless play and sex, sure, but also the cooking and the conversation, the painstaking yet inexorable way he’d pursued every bit of me, and how I’d enjoyed just being with him.
“You’re not anymore?”
“We had a fight.” The coil winds tight around my heart and my lungs, the words forced through the tension, the regret in my body. Those four words are loaded with so much unsaid.
“Everyone fights, India,” she replies gently. It makes my eyes swim with tears.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
*
Three hours later, I’m in the air over the Pacific. The only things I have with me are my purse, my laptop, and the random files I threw into a roller bag I jacked from an associate. I have no idea how much this ticket cost or even what airline I’m on. I don’t know if I’ll have a job when I get back. I’m not even sure where I left my car. I think I handed my keys to a valet, but it could’ve been some dude getting off his shift at Starbucks who’s now taking a joy ride in my top-of-the-line Mercedes. Well, kid, enjoy. I’ll deal with you later. I have more important things to face.
The truth is, I’m too anxious and terrified to focus on anything. All I hear in my head is Crispin’s mom telling me he’s been in an accident. I thought I couldn’t feel any worse than I have for the past week. I was wrong. He needed me, and I didn’t come. Instead, I was horrid and awful and look what’s happened.
While I wait for the plane to take off, I call Rey.
“What’s happening, hot stuff?”
“Cris was in an accident. I’m on a plane. Can you do something for me?”
“Anything. Tell me what you need.”
We talk until an indignant flight attendant nearly snatches my phone away. The flight is a living nightmare. Six hours of wondering what’s happening to him, if he’ll be alive when I get there, what kind of shape he’ll be in if he is. All I know is he was in a serious enough state the big island hospitals couldn’t handle it and Mary was on her way to Honolulu. Goddammit, Crispin. Why the fuck do you live on a rock in the middle of the fucking ocean? Why can’t you live somewhere more sensible? But taking Crispin out of Hawaii…
I don’t bother cracking my laptop. I can’t work. There’s not even Wi-Fi on this plane. I almost curse out the flight attendant for that, but instead, I sit, stare out the window at endless ocean, drub my heel, incessantly check my watch. I’m generally considerate of other people when I travel and my constant twitching must be maddening to my neighbor, but I can’t bring myself to care.
When we land in Honolulu, I check my phones for messages. I have several, no doubt irate voicemails from Jack on my Blackberry and two texts on my personal cell. The first is from Rey, sent right after take off:
Matthew on his way. If you need anything else, just ask. ILYK
And the next from Mary a couple of hours ago:
Arrived at QMC. Cris in ICU, serious but stable.
That’s the best news I could hope for given the circumstances, but it does little for my nerves. I text them both back, letting them know I’ve arrived while I endure the painful taxi to the gate. When the plane door opens, I shove past the other passengers and run through the terminal, looking like a very well-dressed bat out of hell. The sun and warmth that greet me when I clear the doors make me feel chilled and wrong. How can something so awful be happening in such a beautiful place? I cut the line for cabs, ignoring indignant shouts and cursing, and climb into a yellow taxi with a plastic lei draped around the rearview mirror.
“Queen’s Medical Center. I’ll triple your fare if you get me there in ten minutes.”
The cabbie does me one better, arriving in eight minutes. I thank him by slapping a hundred-dollar bill into his palm. To be fair, it’s all I have, but he doesn’t know that. His shout of “Mahalo, lolo wahine!” follows me through the sliding glass doors.
*
“I’m looking for Cris Ardmore. He was airlifted in from the big island maybe eight hours ago?”
“And you are?” The bored-looking nurse behind the desk is unimpressed by my urgency, and I want to scream at her, I’m Joan of fucking Arc and you’d best get out of my way. Instead, I’m stunned into silence. Explaining that I’m his sometime-submissive is not going to get me in to see him or even get me any information on his condition. Fuck.
“I’m India Burke,” I stall until I can formulate something reasonable to offer. “I’m Mr. Ardmore’s—”
“Fiancée,” supplies a soft, authoritative voice to my left.
When I glance over my shoulder, I see the woman who must’ve borne and raised Crispin. The resemblance is unmistakable. I could’ve picked her out in a crowd even had I not seen her photograph before. Her straight salt-and-pepper hair is cut in a severe bob at her chin and her eyes are a brighter blue than her son’s, but other than that they look eerily alike. I wonder if Crispin’s dad, Mal, has aged this well. The woman looks phenomenal, more like she and Crispin could be brother and sister instead of mother and son. It’s disconcerting, but I can’t show it. Not right now.
“Mary!” My cry, tinged with relief, is only slightly an act.
“India, nice to see you again.” Her eyes are imploring me, ordering me to play along. I am more than familiar with this look and more than willing to play. It’s what I do best. She embraces me, and I don’t resist.
“I wish it were under better circumstances.” My words are muffled in the cotton shoulder of her dress.
She pushes me away, holds me at arm’s length, and studies me before taking my hand. “Come, India. I’ll take you to him.”
The bored nurse looks like she’s going to protest, but a quick, daring glower from Mary shuts her up and she turns to a monitor instead of confronting us. Yep, I’m more than familiar with that look, too. Can Mal turn this on as well? If so, I’ll be in trouble with these people. As it is, I’m the teeniest bit glad that, for now, Crispin’s unconscious.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be overly familiar, but they wouldn’t have allowed you in otherwise. Strictly immediate family.”
Gone is the teary woman from our phone call. I’m glad. I wouldn’t be able to deal, and I’m thankful that, after some time to gather herself, Mary seems as capable of affecting stoic as her son. Also like Crispin, regardless of the coolness she can project at will, underneath it all she’s warm. Despite her apology, she’s not dropped my hand. I’m uncharacteristically glad for the human contact as we walk down the sterile halls.
“Please don’t apologize. You didn’t have to, and I don’t know what I would’ve done if they hadn’t let me see him. How is he?”
“Better than they first thought, but he’s still unconscious. He might have to do some rehab for his leg—”
Oh, Crispin is going to hate that. From the exasperated glance Mary throws me, she’s thinking the same thing. We manage to smile at each other, tight-lipped but hopeful. Stubborn Crispin. Our stubborn Crispin.
“But he should have full use of it back. The ribs he cracked will be uncomfortable, but not dangerous. Of course, there are cuts and scrapes. They’re worse than usual, but he comes home with those on a good day.”
I know. I’ve always liked the stark white scars that litter his tanned flesh. Proof of a life well-lived, evidence of his passion for being out on his board at sea, not caring what toll it took. A vestige of the reckless adolescent lurking behind the façade of a responsible adult.
We’ve been following the signs to the ICU and soon arrive at another set of sliding glass doors with a cheerful hibiscus design etched in it. The nurse behind the desk looks sympathetic instead of bored. Her day must consist of one long stream of anxiety and heartbreak, although hopefully punctuated by the occasional exclamation point of good news.
“Hello, Mrs. Ardmore. And you must be Ms. Burke?”
“Yes.” I’m surprised I’ve been announced, but pleased to be included. Mary must’ve told her I was coming.
“If you’ll sign in.”
I let go of Mary’s hand to take the clipboard and scrawl out the required information. It’s annoying anything as trifling as paperwork is standing between me and Crispin, but I won’t be rude to this merciful woman. When I’ve finished (having mindfully printed “fiancée” in the Relationship to Patient column, something I never thought I’d see) and give back the clipboard, the nurse pushes a button and the door slides open.
Mary lays a hand on my shoulder before we walk through. “You know he doesn’t look like himself, right?”
All I can do is nod. She’s trying to dull the shock, but it’s going to be awful.
“Okay, let’s go see him.” She urges me down the hall, not dropping her hand.
He’s at the far end of the ward, after a few empty beds and a couple of patients—some with family members by their sides, some all alone. I hate that he’s lying here, exposed for anyone to see. I resolve to get that taken care of as soon as possible. He’d hate it, too. There’s a reason Crispin lives wedged between the ocean and the jungle and not amidst other people.
I want to drop my things and run to him, but I keep a measured pace with Mary, my bag rolling too noisily beside me. When we’ve reached him, my instinct is to take one of the chairs with its back to the wall and a view of the ward, but I force myself into the lone seat on the other side, attempting to shield him from prying eyes. It’s a small gesture, but there’s not much else I can do.
I look him over from head to toe, and it’s all I can do to keep from bursting into tears. Everything about this is wrong. The flatness of him, the way he’s surrounded and invaded by plastic and metal and machinery—it’s all wrong. He looks dull, diminished, painfully lifeless. Crispin should be surrounded by wood and sand and water, things that give and breathe. This is horrifying. It’s hard to believe this is the man I know.
I close my eyes, lay my hand on his, and pretend he’s asleep. At least he’s warm. He’s always warm. His body provides comfort even when his words can’t. I sit for a few minutes to settle myself before I look at Mary. This must be excruciating for her. I rack my brain for something to talk about, to distract us both. Mal. I’m a bitch for not asking before. I clear the tightness from my throat.
“Mary, I feel terrible. I should’ve asked how Mal is.”
Bad enough for Crispin to be stupid and reckless, but not bad enough for Mary to stay in Kona is my guess.
“Mal?” She cocks her head, puzzled. “Mal’s fine. Why do you ask?”
“But last week…” My brows crease in confusion. “Cris said he was sick. He—”
“Oh, yes. We had a scare for a few days, worse than usual, but Mal’s at home. He was puttering in the kitchen when I called to let him know I’d arrived. Moussaka, of all things. The man cannot be stopped.”
The corner of my mouth tugs up. Of course Mal was in the kitchen. His moussaka is to die for, I’m sure. But if Mal’s been fine for days, why was—
Guilt
rips through me from my head to my toes. Crispin was out on his board because of me. He’s hurt and broken because of me. I tamp down the sick rising in my throat. Distance, India, you need some distance. Crispin is a grown man. He makes his own decisions. Taking his board out in bad weather was his call. You didn’t force him to do anything. But I’m not going to be able to sit at his bedside for another minute without losing my shit. I need a distraction.
“I don’t mean to be callous, Mary, but there are a few things I have to take care of and I can’t do it here.” I wave at the “No Cell Phones” signs plastering the ward, hoping she’ll take my meaning. “Would you mind if I excuse myself? I want to be with him, there’s no place I’d rather be, but…”
“Of course. You got here so quickly you probably didn’t have time to tell anyone where you were going. I understand.”
“Is there anything I can get for you?”
*
I call Jack first, expecting to be met with at least five minutes of screaming or a simple “You’re fired,” but he surprises me.
“You have sixty seconds to tell me what the fuck happened to you today.”
I close my eyes and sigh. This is something I never wanted to do. For the first time in the three years I’ve worked for him, I have to be a person, with feelings, in front of Jack.
“A man I’ve been seeing was in an accident this morning. He’s in the ICU in Honolulu, and I left to be with him.”
There’s a second of what I assume is shocked silence. As far as Jack knows, I never go out on dates, never mind have a boyfriend. To be fair, I don’t.
“Is he going to be okay?”
“They think so, but they’re not sure yet.”
There’s a pause on the other end, and I feel the need to fill the void.
“Look, Jack, I’m sorry. Leaving without telling you was inexcusable. I left you in the lurch, and I would understand if you want to send me packing. I can at least smooth things over with Cooper before I go, and—”
“I’m not going to fire you.”
“You’re not?”
“No. Did you think I was going to fire you for being human?”
Intimate Geography Page 1
