Page 11 of Distant Shores (Stapled Magnolias #2)

IRELAND

“ M iss Sewell?” Director Links asked when I failed to respond to her spiel. “Are you there?”

I swallowed hard and slipped into the dark dance studio for privacy. “Yes, I’m sorry. I’m here.”

“We’ve set the meeting for tomorrow morning at nine. Does this work for you?”

No. “Yes, of course.”

“Perfect. It’ll be the usual team meeting first to discuss the roommate and any concerns. Then we’ll have a meet and greet for Mr. Sewell and Mr. Smith to see how he and your dad get on. Sound good?”

No. “Yes, ma’am.”

“If everyone is agreeable, you’ll need to meet with the finance department afterward to sign off on the new pay structure.”

The call had finally come. They’d found Dad a potential roommate, but what I hadn’t conceptualized was that it also meant our bill would go from wildly ludicrous to just plain outrageous .

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll remember.” I was proud of how even my voice was, if nothing else.

“Good. See you then.”

I stared at my phone for a long while after she hung up.

There wasn’t enough Play Doh in the world for me to get these demons out, and the next best thing to do would’ve been to call someone. To talk it out.

But I’d learned my lesson with that. I couldn’t, wouldn’t, put myself through it again.

Last year’s soundtrack was a constant shuffle between “Let us know if you need anything,” which meant nothing, and “That’s just terrible, what a shame,” which meant even less.

Memory disease was volatile and unpredictable, especially Dad’s.

The people he’d considered friends let his outbursts ruin their friendships instead of looking closer, and I guessed it was easier for them to cling to resentment than reconcile with a man who may or may not remember them.

Sasha, my old college roommate and business partner, had technically been my closest friend, the person who should know me best, but even she’d sung the tune of “Tell me if you need me” that was the only song our small town in Northern Alabama seemed to know.

But to be fair, I hadn’t known what I needed.

Still didn’t.

Except for a bed.

I scuffed my shoe across the gaffer tape on the studio floor as I thought about Liem. He had literally just told me to text him. But he’d also said he was going on a date.

Maybe I’d text him tomorrow to see how it went, and if it felt right… maybe I could bring this up with him.

If nothing else, hearing about his dating life would be a good distraction .

The decision unfroze me, and I walked out of the dark studio. There was one thing I could allow that I’d denied myself for months.

A large group clustered together in front of the common room down the hall, socializing loudly before bingo that was about to start in…

I squinted at the hallway clock.

Forty minutes.

I quickened my pace to the locker room, grabbed my clothes, and hurried back into the studio, closing the door quietly behind me.

My relative anonymity here was one perk of Dad not venturing over to the Locc enough to be known. They’d yet to catch pity for me, and that’s how I needed it to stay.

I traded my grass-stained jean shorts for my skin-tight dance shorts, then sat on the floor, tying on my pointe shoes.

I should’ve put on toe protection or even cushioned them with a piece of napkin, especially since I hadn’t worn them since December.

But… I needed it to hurt.

Once the ribbons were tied off and tucked the way I liked them, I tested them out, bouncing on the balls of my feet one at a time. The silence in the room pressed on me, so I walked to the ancient stereo and jammed the necessary buttons to fix it.

The speakers crackled to life, and the first song from the burned CD of my most dramatic, soul-crushing classical music playlist began.

The first was a piano arrangement of the Russian folk song “Dark Eyes.”

My reflection lacked any detail as I strode across the floor, making me nothing more than an anonymous dancer.

One hand resting on the barre, I began a warm-up sequence, starting with ankle rotations, and only allowed a small hiss to leave my lips when the scrapes on my knees pulled during the following pliés.

My mind eventually wandered to earlier in the day, the routine giving my brain space to process.

What art did for Dad, dance did for me. Which was maybe another reason I’d avoided it.

Dozens of care-team meetings replayed as if on a reel, and I weighed them against the countless hours of research I’d done. There were a lot of potential improvements for Dad on the horizon. But change could also invite disaster, and we’d really just started to settle in here.

The music swelled and shifted, and I transitioned out of warm-ups and into short sequences, testing my joints and balance as a flash of flannel danced across my memory.

I’d flirted with consequences of disregarding risk by taking that curve so fast today, nearly hurting that guy in the process.

I had to be more careful.

I extended into an arabesque as the exact pattern of the flannel and the silver gleam of the crutch formed in my mind and then blurred as I spun.

Him, standing in the middle of the road, unsure where to go.

With my right foot in front in fourth position en l’air, I used my hazy form in the mirror as my spot and moved into fouette.

On the seventh turn, I wobbled, my ankle turning when I tried to correct it.

What color were his eyes?

I hadn’t looked closely enough.

Panting, I lifted my gaze to the spot in the mirror I’d abandoned at the first sign of distress .

I was that guy. I’d been him for months.

Out of place, not sure where I should be.

Unsteady.

The music reached its first major crescendo, and I leaned into the pain of my abused muscles, launching into an especially difficult combination that cut diagonally across the floor.

And then… I let myself feel.

The pain, inside and out.

Just enough to make room for whatever came next.

By the time I was too breathless to continue and the new blisters on my feet were numb, I folded, slumping to the floor.

Just two more minutes.

In two minutes, I would be stronger. I would be better.

Then, on shaky legs, I got back up.

In the dark studio, I peeled off my pointe shoes, hissing when the blood flowed freely again.

When I got back to Dad’s apartment, he was quiet as I guided him through his nightly routine and tucked him into bed.

All night, my anxiety lay awake with me on the couch, shuffling through my playlist of questions about the future that haunted me on loop.

Director Links was all sharp lines and poise at the head of the conference table.

I glanced down at my grungy With a Flourish School of Dance T-shirt and black jean shorts, wondering if it was customary to dress up to meet your dad’s potential new roommate.

That hadn’t been on any of the Alzheimer’s forums .

Dad tapped his box of crayons on the table, entirely unbothered by it all. His breezy linen shirt and pants were clean thanks to the prompt in-house laundry service we paid a fortune for, and his deep blue eyes had been clear all morning.

“Mr. Sewell, can I get you anything?” Nurse Emily asked from the other side of the room, where she was leaning against the wall as she peeled an orange. She always seemed to have some sort of fruit with her.

“Some paper wouldn’t go amiss,” Dad said as he scraped the small cardboard box across the gleaming tabletop.

Director Links smiled and produced a piece of paper from the briefcase by her feet, then slid it across the table to Dad.

He thanked her as he pulled a green crayon from his box and started doodling.

Director Links clicked a few buttons on her tablet before getting to it. “Mr. Sewell. Miss Sewell. Do either of you have any questions about what we’ve just discussed before we bring in Mr. Smith?”

“Just one,” I said when Dad didn’t speak up. “What happens if this doesn’t work out?”

Dad glanced up from his drawing, a small frown on his face.

Director Links smiled her best professional smile at me. “Then we meet again and discuss. We pivot. We do everything we can do to find the best possible situation for Mr. Sewell and Mr. Smith.”

“You can trust us, Ireland,” Nurse Emily said from the corner as she dropped the last bit of orange peel into the trash can with a soft thunk . “We’ve got your back. Both of you.”

Dad upended his carton onto the table, spilling out the rest of the colors, then focused back on his work with more gusto than before.

He didn’t seem to want any part of this.

“Well said, Emily,” Director Links praised as she stood up from her chair. “I’ll let Mr. Smith in now, and we’ll go from there.”

When the door opened again and I sensed new people entering the room, I kept my focus on Dad, who didn’t give them any attention either.

“Come on in,” Director Links said, and heavy footfalls sounded against the floor.

Dad tossed the green crayon away with a clatter and started folding the paper.

“Mr. Sewell, Miss Sewell, I’d like you to meet Mr. Smith.”

I tore my gaze from Dad’s precise movements and pushed my chair back to stand up, but a gruff, deep voice with a Southern drawl stopped me.

“Don’t get up on my account, darlin’.”

I reacquainted my butt with the cushioned chair and looked toward the man who would be Dad’s roommate.

He was relatively tall with short grey hair and a big bushy mustache, and he was wearing a plain T-shirt tucked into a well-worn pair of Wranglers. At first glance, he seemed several years older than Dad, but in good physical health.

In short, he looked like the TV dad in every drama about ranches, horses, or mountains that had ever aired.

I’d bet money I didn’t have that he was wearing scuffed boots.

But really, it was the flannel behind him that begged for my attention and had my mouth parting in a silent gasp when I looked its way.

Him .

The man from yesterday.

Nurse Emily interrupted my view of him when she hurried over and pulled out a chair for him. “Here, let me help you,” she said with a sweet, bright smile.

There was no better representation of the differences between us.

She helped him into a chair. I’d made him fall.

Or, at least, I didn’t keep him from falling, though I did jam that crutch under his arm… and then bailed without seeing if he needed more help or if he was hurt.

Ugh.

He sat down carefully, color rising on his cheeks as he thanked her. He was wearing glasses today, and I was taking them in when his gaze flicked down her legs, which were covered in soft pink scrubs.

He frowned and looked away from them, seeking me out next, as if he sensed I was watching, but then Director Links cleared her throat, and I looked down at my lap.

“Shall we get started?”

We all mumbled our agreements, the awkwardness in the room palpable. Dad dropped an intricately folded piece of paper onto my lap, and I glanced up at him with a questioning frown.

He just smiled at me, but there was something sad in his eyes I didn’t understand. “For a sad song and a rainy day, Dancing Queen,” he murmured.

“Now that we’re all seated, allow me to make introductions,” Director Links started, taking control of the room.

I slipped the note into my pocket and focused on the meeting.

Director Links inclined her head at me and Dad in that professional way of hers. “This is Mr. Sewell and his daughter, Miss Sewell.”

The older man across from us nodded in acknowledgement. His eyes skirted over Dad briefly, but his expression was completely neutral, not seeming at all bothered that Dad hadn’t even glanced up at the introduction.

“And, as you’ve probably guessed,” Director Links continued, also unbothered, “This is Mr. Smith.” She paused as she looked at flannel guy for a second, then glanced at her tablet. “I’m sorry, sir, can you remind me of your name?”

Nurse Emily, who had taken a seat at the table, leaned forward in anticipation of his answer, her hands clasped in front of her. I bet they were sticky from that orange.

Blinking at the stray thought, I frowned as I realized I’d leaned forward, too, then subtly sat back in my chair. Flannel guy smiled almost shyly at Director Links, and my gaze was drawn to the divot in his chin covered by a light scruff.

“Adair Jacks,” he said, still smiling softly, his voice deeper than I remembered.

“Adair,” Director Links repeated, and I swore I heard Nurse Emily sigh dreamily.

She should probably go wash her hands.

Dad tucked his hair behind his ear and finally looked up at Mr. Smith. “And who are you?”

My gaze, which had been drifting back to flannel guy—Adair—snapped to Mr. Smith.

This would be telling.

Mr. Smith didn’t miss a beat. “I’m Wilbur Smith. I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Sewell.”

“Hmm.” Dad eyed him suspiciously. “Call me Beck. Mr. Sewell was a mean fucking drunk.”

Mr. Smith’s mouth lifted in the corner and tipped his chin up. “Wilbur.”

“Wilbur,” Dad repeated.

I let out a relieved breath but sucked it right back in when Dad casually stuffed his crayons back into their carton and added, “Tell me, Wilbur…. What demons are haunting you today?”

The silence that followed was, well…

It was somethin’.