I glance at Ethan’s face to see how he’s doing and my eyes are instantly drawn to the side of his head where the stitches are still all visible from his surgery.
When Mom and I flew out to the hospital after Moira’s phone call, she, along with the help of one of the doctors, explained to us what had happened. Ethan had suffered from a chronic subdural hematoma. The doctor said that it was normal after experiencing a head injury, as Ethan had in the crash, to have headaches. The symptoms of a chronic subdural hematoma don’t usually appear until a few weeks after the initial head injury, and then progress gradually. We all knew that Ethan was suffering from headaches, but thought it was normal. He’d been feeling dizzy more and more, and didn’t have an appetite, but with everything going on it was overlooked as stress. I certainly hadn’t picked up on it, and I’m the one person that spent the most time with him. Sitting in that hospital realizing that almost ate me alive with guilt. The doctors—and even moreso, Moira—had assured me that a chronic subdural hematoma can be difficult to detect and can go unrecognized for some time. I was so mad that no one had warned me to look out for signs that I shouted at the doctor before breaking down in floods of tears. It was only luck that he happened to be in the hospital when he collapsed, and he had access to treatment so quickly.
He catches me staring and squeezes my hand again. The side of his head had to be shaved, so now he’s sporting a cut that’s super short at the back and sides, and then messy and longer on top. Only Ethan could make post-op hair look sexy.
The minister finishes his reading and invites one of Frank’s superiors up to speak a few words. Ethan stiffens as the gentleman in uniform talks of what a well-respected police offer, member of the community, husband and father Frank was. I’m half-expecting that he may stand and leave, but he doesn’t. Instead he sits and listens, and I can tell that he’s trying hard.
“I’m going for a drive with Blair,” he announces to his mom, after the millionth person comes to speak to him at the wake, telling him how sadly missed his father will be and what a great guy he was.
“Okay, sweetheart,” she replies and my mom, who’s sipping a cup of tea next to her, smiles her approval. He takes my hand and wastes no time leading me out towards my car in a hurry. We step out onto the lawn, and he pauses and takes a long deep breath.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I am now. I’m so glad to be out of that damn house! I don’t think I could have stood there a second longer and listened to anyone else tell me what a great guy he was.”
I don’t blame his eagerness to get out of the house, and in truth, it was getting to me too. It’s hard to stand back and listen to people speak so highly of someone that you know is undeserving of their ill-placed praise.
“Jackson and the guys are still in there; do you want me to go and tell them we’re leaving?”
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll text them. I just want to get out of here now. Do you mind driving?” he asks, and I smirk.
“You’re going to let me drive your car?” I ask hopefully, knowing full well he doesn’t entirely trust me in his Camaro because I suck at driving stick.
“Not a chance, Princess, that’s why we’re standing at yours.”
“Huh, fine.” I sniff and then stick my tongue out.
“You’re acting like a child, Ms. Thomas,” he states mockingly.
“Whatever—you know you love it.” I smile and open the passenger door for him.
I’m grabbed by the waist as he pulls me tightly into him, slamming his lips against mine and pinning me against the side of the car.
“Yeah, I do,” he murmurs through our kiss and I feel myself melt into him. He taps my butt and instructs me to drive him to the beach, so that’s what I do.
We sit on the cooling gold sand for a long time, staring out at the ocean before he decides to finally speak. “I talked with my doctor yesterday,” he informs me, and I pause. He’d never mentioned that he had an appointment. “I told her how I was feeling, about some of the morbid thoughts I had. I told her about the abuse with Dad and she’s referred me to a psychotherapist.”
I whip my head around so fast in surprise that I unbalance myself and have to throw my arms out, to keep from toppling over. He smiles down at me and nudges his arm against my shoulder.
“Relax, that doesn’t mean I’m a psycho,” he says widening his eyes in a demented fashion and I laugh.