Finding Focus (15 page)

I bark out a harsh laugh, shaking my head. “For your information, I
was
working when I got the call from your dad.” I carefully place my mug on the side table and brace myself for where the conversation is headed.

He frowns and gives me a disbelieving look. “Then why weren’t you home?” he asks, and it’s more of a challenge than a question.

“Because I took a freelance job in Louisiana. For Piper. She called the day you left and asked me to do an article on a plantation down there.”

“A
freelance
job?” he asks, rolling his eyes. “Dani, you know those don’t lead to anything permanent.” The way he shakes his head at me makes me feel about two inches tall. I want to scream or hit him—or both.

“I-I’ve never felt more creative and free.” I stand up and pace the living room. “Since college, it was the first time I actually loved what I was doing.” I turn to him, silently pleading for him to get it—to get me. I
need
him to understand. “I’d lost it, Graham. Whatever
it
is—my passion, my mojo, my muse—I didn’t feel inspired anymore. Every day was mundane, and I was so bored. I know that’s why I was fired. I wasn’t bringing anything fresh to the table. But while I was on that plantation, I got
it
back. Taking that job was the best thing I could’ve ever done.”

“Well, it sounds miserable to me.” He shifts his shoulders and stares at the ceiling, no longer facing me.

“It wasn’t. It was great.”

He looks toward the window, his face contorted into a frown. I’m not sure whether he’s mad because I didn’t tell him about the job or because I took the job in the first place. “Who the hell wants to be in all that heat and humidity every day? I hope they at least paid you well.”

His words fall heavy on my heart. I feel the lump in my throat trying to surface, but I tamp it down. “It’s not always about the money, Graham,” I whisper, shaking my head. Realizing we’re not going to see eye to eye on this, I let the subject go. I don’t have it in me to argue with him anymore and he probably shouldn’t be getting worked up like this in the first place.

I walk back to the kitchen and only once I’m in there do I let my tears fall. The fact that Graham can’t be happy for me, that he can’t just be happy that I’m happy . . . it hurts. I’ve always celebrated his accomplishments and supported him in his endeavors. If he’d have told me he wants to quit his job and start peddling papers in Central Park, I would’ve been on board. I continue to hide out in the kitchen until I feel like I can walk back through the living room without letting him know how much his words affect me.

An hour or so later, I’m showered and dressed, feeling marginally better.

“I’m headed to the market. Do you want anything specific?” I ask Graham, who’s propped himself up in bed and is going to town on his phone with his good hand. I’m surprised the pain pills he took earlier haven’t knocked his ass out yet.

“I’ll take some sparkling water and those little rice crackers if they have them,” he says without looking up at me. “Oh, and could you get me some hot and sour soup? I’ve been craving that.”

“Sure,” I say, nodding. “You gonna be okay while I’m gone?”

“Yeah, I’ll just call Sharon if I need anything.”

Of course you will.

When I get out on the sidewalk, I take a deep breath in an effort to clear my mind and regroup. If I don’t let this shit with Graham go, we’ll be at each other’s throats for the next month. I had hoped this would bring us closer, help us remember what’s important. Hopefully, now that everything is out in the open, we can begin to work through it.

Hopefully.

I exhale a heavy breath, willing myself to believe it.

Standing at the corner, waiting for the light to change, I feel the vibration from my phone in my pocket and pull it out to check the incoming message.

Micah: In your absence, I’ve taken over the role of family photographer.

I glance up to see the light has changed and it’s now safe to cross. After I’m on the other side, I open up the message and see the picture attached. It’s of Deacon and he’s sleeping with his mouth open and drool on his chin. I laugh out loud and text back a laughing emoticon with tears coming from its eyes.

A few seconds later, my phone buzzes again.

Micah: Hope NYC is treating you well. If not, La will gladly take you back. ;)

Sheridan

THINGS BETWEEN GRAHAM AND ME
have calmed down. We haven’t argued anymore, but we also haven’t talked much, either. I get him what he needs and help him when he needs me, but other than that, we’re just sharing space. Instead of this bringing us closer, I feel like we’re drifting further apart.

Other than a few phone calls from Piper, my texts with Micah are the highlights of my days.

Me: How’s the party?

Micah: Deke and Tucker are doing drunk karaoke, and the dogs just swiped a plate of pork off the table. Mama has declared the party “utter chaos” and is searching for more wine.

Me: Sounds like fun to me.

Micah: Yep, just a typical Friday at the Landry Plantation. Too bad you can’t put that in your article.

Me: I could make a last minute change.

Micah: I’d hate for you to compromise your integrity. It’s really something you should experience firsthand.

Me: Wow, you sound . . . sober.

Micah: Autocorrect is a great thing, Dani.

Me: LOL. Happy birthday, Micah.

Micah: Night, Chuck.

Sheridan

GRAHAM’S PHYSICAL THERAPIST STOPPED BY
yesterday and introduced herself as Kaitlyn Thomas. She was a younger woman, pretty, with long dark hair, almond-shaped dark brown eyes. I groan, knowing the flirting won’t stop when Nurse Sharon is out of the picture.

Couldn’t they have sent some big, burly dude to be his physical therapist?

Kaitlyn is supposed to start with some simple exercises at the beginning of next week. If everything goes according to plan, he’ll have his cast off in four more weeks, and that should be the same time he’ll start the more intense physical therapy.

We’ve only been at this for two weeks, but I’m already counting down the days. I’m not cut out for the nursing field. Luckily, Micah is never too far from his phone. I tap out a text, realizing just how much I count on him to keep me sane.

Me: So glad I didn’t go into the medical field.

Micah: Being a nurse ain’t your thing, I take it?

Me: Definitely not. I’m not sure whether it’s me or the patient, though.

Micah: How’s what’s-his-face doing?

Me: Graham is as grumpy as ever.

Micah: You know I’ll gladly kick his ass for you, right?

Me: It’s not quite that bad. I won’t deny dreaming about hiding his wire hanger so he can’t scratch his leg, though.

Micah: Damn, you’re meaner than I realized. I like it.

Sheridan

SAUSAGE.

Oil.

Flour.

Milk.

I check to make sure I have all the ingredients to make my granny’s recipe for sausage gravy. This morning, I woke up craving it. Maybe I really need her, or the memory of her—regardless, some serious breakfast cooking is about to go down in my kitchen.

I take out my granny’s old cast iron skillet and pile the ingredients on the counter beside the stove. Graham is preoccupied with Nurse Sharon, who brought him a chocolate croissant and an Americano for breakfast. She didn’t ask me if I wanted anything. Come to think of it, she pretty much acts like I’m not even here. But that’s okay. Croissants are great, but nothing beats my granny’s gravy.

I overhear Sharon telling Graham he no longer needs to use the sling for his arm, which makes him happy and more mobile. He’s starting to go stir crazy, but I can’t blame him. I mean, at least I get to go out and run errands. He’s stuck in that bed. I help him change positions as frequently as possible, but there’s only so much you can do when your leg must remain completely immobile.

To save time, I pop open a can of biscuits and place them on a baking sheet.

“Hush, Granny.” I smile to myself, knowing she probably wants to march down here, scold me for using biscuits out of a can, and make her famous cathead biscuits, which gained their name from literally being the size of a cat’s head. “I don’t have time, nor enough flour,” I mutter, bending down to make sure I have the flame just right before pouring a little cooking oil into my skillet.