I set my feet. I take the instrument. I begin again.
Sixteen
Henry
I’m not supposed to be here.
The doctor said another week of rest, minimum. My mother echoed it with that sharp tone she uses when she’s not taking no for an answer. But sitting around the ranch house staring at the same set of ceiling beams was driving me out of my mind. My head feels clearer now, the dizziness not quite so sharp, so when Dad offered to drive into town this morning, I grabbed the chance to tag along with him.
The Steel Foundation offices sit on the edge of Grand Junction, an unassuming brick building with wide glass doors.
Dad doesn’t say much as we park. He cuts the engine and looks at me. “I still don’t think you’re ready for this, Henry.”
“I’ll go crazy if I sit around twiddling my thumbs another day,” I tell him. “I need to work. I need to feel useful.”
His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t argue. He never does when he knows my mind’s made up.
Inside, the familiar hum of printers and voices steadies me. This place has always been more than a job. It’s part of my family’s legacy. Something good in a world that often feels like nothing but bad.
Brad is at the reception desk looking over Bobbie’s—the receptionist’s—shoulder. He glances up, and his eyes widen. “Henry. What the hell are you doing here?”
“Good morning to you too, cuz,” I mutter, heading past him toward my office.
“Wait a second.” He jogs to catch up. “You’re supposed to be in bed. You had brain surgery two weeks ago.”
I wave his concern away without looking at him. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” He grabs my elbow, and I wince before I can stop myself. The grip isn’t hard, but my nerves are still shot, my head still tender. Brad sees it and swears under his breath. “Jesus, Henry. Go home.”
“I said I’m fine.” I shake him off and keep walking. “Don’t you have work to do?”
He follows me anyway. “Yeah, keeping my idiot cousin from dropping dead in the middle of the hallway.”
“Relax.” I fake a laugh. “I’m not that fragile. Technically I’ve been cleared to drive short distances.”
When I boot up my computer, he finally sighs. “You’re impossible.”
“Thanks.”
The truth is, I don’t feel fine. The screen’s glow burns behind my eyes, and my temples throb before I’ve even finished the first email. But I force myself to keep going. Funding proposals, donor reports, upcoming events. The work is endless, but it’s the kind of endless that gives shape to the day. And right now, I need shape more than anything.
Anything to keep my mind off her.
Hours pass. I get through three proposals, two staff check-ins, and a call with one of our partner clinics. My handwriting wobbles when I sign off on paperwork, but it’s still legible. I pretend the pain behind my forehead isn’t there.
By late afternoon, Brad storms into my office again, arms crossed. “Eight hours. You’ve been at it eight hours. Congratulations, you proved your point. Now go home.”
I lean back in my chair, pinching the bridge of my nose. My head feels like it’s caught in a vise. I don’t admit it to him, but the thought of moving makes me nauseated.
Dad appears in the doorway not long after. He must have coordinated with Brad, because the two of them exchange a look before Dad says, “Let’s go, Henry.”
For once, I don’t argue.
The drive home is quiet. All I can think about is the pounding in my skull and the gnawing ache in my chest that has nothing to do with surgery.
Tabitha.
I no longer have any work to keep myself from dwelling on her. The woman I pushed away. And now she’s staying away.
