Page 31 of Distant Shores (Stapled Magnolias #2)

ADAIR

I propped my knee on the bench and watched the sunrise through the second-floor window.

This had quickly become my favorite refuge—the place I’d bandaged Ireland’s knee before knowing her name.

It was Friday morning, and I ached all over after finishing my second overnight shift at Zinnia House.

I’d spent countless nights working out of the fire stations back in Georgia, but I’d had a rhythm there. And two functional ankles.

This was different.

I’d taken to coming back to this bench during my short breaks. The second floor was a little quieter than the others, the residents here in later stages of disease and less mobile, which made their proximity to the ground floor, and therefore ambulances, more ideal.

It was a difficult truth, but a practical one.

Once the sun had fully risen, I took a few cleansing breaths, then grabbed an elevator down to the first floor.

Delly was walking in just as the elevator doors opened, looking about the same as I felt after our first few days of work.

Dog tired.

This was new to her. Delly was working as a caregiver, since she didn’t have a degree yet, and that was a taxing job too.

The long shifts. Making decisions that could have major consequences.

Not to mention that we were learning everyone’s—co-workers and patients alike—names, preferences, moods, and quirks.

It was a lot.

It was made roughly a thousand times worse by the fact that I hadn’t laid eyes on Ireland since that night on the couch. Since I’d kind of tried to kiss her. Or made it seem like it enough to alarm her.

And the frame just remained on the coffee table, empty.

Ugh.

I held my arm through the elevator opening and waited for Delly to come in. We hadn’t quite established any sort of routine yet, but there was an unspoken agreement between us to see Pops as often as possible.

The third-floor nurse on duty waved us on when we passed the circulation desk. A good omen, as was seeing the door to Apartment 3A propped open.

One of the caregivers was cleaning out the fridge, an open trash bag beside her. She eyed us kindly as we passed by to knock on Pops’s bedroom door.

It swung open shortly after I knocked, and he eyed us for a long moment, confusion in his gaze. My stomach squeezed in dread but relaxed when his eyes cleared, and he offered us a small, tired smile.

“Mornin’, Pops!” Delly said, blowing past the moment as she threw her arms around his waist.

He chuckled and pulled her in for a hug, meeting my eyes over her head. “Hey, kids. Y’all are lookin’ plum tuckered. Everything all right?”

“All good,” I assured him, and Delly pulled away from the hug and murmured her agreement.

“Breakfast would help,” Delly said. “We’ve about burned through our biddy supplies.”

Pops raised his bushy eyebrows at her, and I held back a snort at that description of the welcome baskets. Delly had been a rapt audience when I recapped their delivery and planned on paying Miss Lenny a visit this weekend to thank her.

Pops looked like he wanted to ask but then seemed to think better of it.

“Here,” I said, brushing by Pops and addressing the caregiver. “Let me grab that while I’m here. I’ll take it out.”

She smiled at me in thanks and handed it over, still open.

Delly relayed her weekend plans to Pops while I went to tie off the bag, my gaze snagging on something on top.

A Styrofoam takeout container with a drawing on top.

I carried the bag to the corner of the room to hide what I was about to do, but something about the drawing—balloons and dance shoes—rang like a warning bell.

The box was a bit worse for wear, and my thumb dipped into the gaping side of the container accidentally when I took it out.

Lordy , please don’t be mustard.

The lid opened with a sad little pop , and my eyes widened. A single piece of cake laid on its side with a lone candle hanging on for dear life in the icing. But it was the words scrawled in marker on the upper lid that demanded my attention :

Happy Birthday, Ireland Hope Sewell

Dancing through life since May 7

After that, there were several marked out years, with holes poked through the lid in some spots where Beck had presumably gotten agitated and forced the marker’s tip through.

Oh no .

The information processed as I whipped out my phone to double-checked the date.

Today was May 10.

Which meant Ireland’s birthday had been three days ago. The day we’d all been in the cafeteria together—the day we’d moved into the house.

And when Beck had flipped out, saying he was missing a birthday party….

He’d meant Ireland’s birthday party.

He really had missed it. And her birthday, it seemed.

We’d all missed it.

And her cake was in the trash.

“Baby, you’re not making any sense. Please start over from the beginning for me.”

I was going to murder my best friend for making me say it all again.

Putting that cake back in the trash had haunted me all throughout our breakfast with Pops.

I’d debated with myself fiercely about what to do with it, and in the end, I’d taken a photo of it before putting it back in the trash.

Then Pops had lost his train of thought enough times for Delly to notice and give me a worried look, which compounded the dread cooking inside me.

“Cole, you’re not listening. And don’t call me baby. What would Gary think?”

He scoffed. “I don’t care what he thinks. He irons his socks. He irons in general. I cannot with him.”

“Uh-huh.”

This was just one complaint on a long list lodged against his new roommate. He’d been texting me Gary’s offenses regularly the past few days, and I wasn’t sure any of them were valid, honestly.

“So,” Cole started, “you’re living at an old folk’s home with your sister and a mysterious woman whom you flashed your bikini areas to barely a day after learning her name. And then you found out that it was her birthday days after it happened and want to know if you should get her something?”

I yanked at my hair, wishing I could pace my room more effectively than with the stupid hobble I was currently doing.

“I want to say that you have it all wrong, but essentially, that’s what has happened.”

“Well, this is easy,” Cole said, and being the moron I am, I actually felt relieved before hearing what he had to say. “It sounds like you already gave her something unforgettable, my friend.”

I collapsed onto my back on the bed. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

I blew out a breath. “That’s debatable right now.”

“You don’t love me enough to flash me on my birthday, though,” he lamented.

“The debate has ended. Our love is over.”

“Awww,” Cole cooed through the phone. “I’ll win you back. Maybe Cosmo has an article about this online. ”

“ Cosmo ?” I asked.

“You know, the magazine,” he said, as if I were playing dumb.

“Why would I know about that?”

He made an annoyed sound. “Do you even want solutions, Addy?”

I sat up and shifted so I was sitting against the headboard. “I do, man. I want her to be comfortable here, but I feel like I’m messing up. And then I almost, kind of… tried to kiss her the other night.”

Cole gasped, and I could picture him shooting to his feet. “How did you not tell me this before?”

“I was getting to it,” I grumbled.

“What happened? Did little sis kill your moment or something?”

“Honestly, I wish she’d interrupted sooner, to save me from my insanity.”

He was silent for a beat. “So, what happened?”

I took off my glasses and set them on the bed beside me, rubbing my eyes with one hand.

“She panicked, man. Flinched back like…. I don’t know.

I don’t know .” My voice had turned a bit pleading and a lot pathetic, but I didn’t rein it in.

Not for Cole. He’d seen me at my worst, and I’d seen him at his, so there wasn’t any reason to filter myself.

He made a disgruntled noise. “She probably remembered how you looked naked, right at the wrong time. Or the right time, maybe. It would startle anyone, especially considering how modest you usually are. All covered up in your flannels and whatever.” He whistled, then laughed.

“I bet it’s hard to dress like that down there, isn’t it? ”

It was. Not so much that I’d actually bought myself any shorts, but one more evening of this coastal humidity in my jeans and I’d probably be ordering some .

Just… not jorts.

An image of Ireland in her ripped-up jean shorts flashed through my mind, and I gripped the phone tighter.

They definitely worked for her.

Just not for Pops. Or me.

“Okay, okay,” my best friend said. “Here’s what you need to do.”

I put my glasses back on. “Tell me.”

“First of all, get some exercise this weekend. Whatever you have to do to achieve that, do it.”

“There is a gym, and I think I saw something about fitness classes at the Locc. I’ll look into it.”

“It’ll be good for you. You’ve been on your ass for too long. Speaking of… do you have a doctor for your ankle or foot or whatever down there yet?”

“I have a lead,” I hedged.

“Well, make it a reality. I need you to take care of you first. Then and only then we can really start tackling your hot-roommate-traumatized-by-your-bare-ass problem.”

I frowned. “I never said she was hot.”

“I drew a conclusion,” Cole deadpanned.

“So… about the present?” I asked.

Cole blew out a breath. “Something small and practical.”

I thought that over, a couple ideas immediately coming to mind. “That’s smart.”

“I know,” Cole said. “I’m devastating in both mind and body.”

“Goodbye now,” I said dryly.

He chuckled. “Goodbye, Addy. You’re welcome for the sage counsel. I love you.”

I cracked a smile. “Love you too.”

I grabbed my nearly forgotten ice pack I’d brought in here, propped my foot on a mound of pillows, and applied it to my ankle. Or foot. Or whatever.

It was a complex injury, so Cole had actually been pretty spot-on in that description.

Leaning back onto the pillows with a relieved sigh, I started my research.

First, I sifted through as many articles about Parkinson’s and dementia as I could handle.

Once I was sufficiently sick to my stomach from all the terrible stories, I moved onto researching Ireland’s gift.

I needed to find something that would make her life easier. Better.

Something that would make her smile.

The problem was… I didn’t actually know much about her. She danced, rode her longboard, liked mustard on her fries.

None of that was actionable. Unless…

Hmm.

Two ideas struck me at once, and I made a note on my phone to research the first one later. Then I made a quick call to Jillie for the second.

I couldn’t do a damn thing about the tremors in Pops’s hands or the confusion in his eyes, but I was going to fix this.

People deserved to have their birthdays celebrated. I mean, I didn’t know for sure that she hadn’t had some kind of celebration that afternoon, but something told me she hadn’t.

Something told me she had no expectations for it, and that was what was met.

Small and practical.

Technically both of these ideas fit the bill, and since there was rain in the forecast the entire weekend and my ankle was unsuited for walking, I had plenty of time to make them happen.

“Adair,” Jillie answered after several rings. “Everything okay?”

“All good,” I said. “But I need your help with something.”