Waking Up to Love (11 page)

Reluctantly, Ramona joined her.

• • •

An unexpected gust of cool air brushed across Scott's face. The surface of the Colorado River rippled and changed direction. For now, this place was paradise. Scott tried to forget all his worries and troubles; he tried to wipe his mind clean and just enjoy his surroundings.

He could certainly use a break from all the confusion.

He kept his leg submerged in the rushing waters. He slowly ate the second half of his tuna sandwich, pausing every few bites to throw a few crumbs of bread into the water. He made sure not to throw any of the tuna into the water; that would send the wrong impression to all those fish down there waiting for him to finish the last round of river habitats.

Every day, Scott ate a tuna sandwich with mustard and tomato slices, and every day, he made sure the schools of fish under his feet didn't know that he was eating their cousin.

Quinn and Terry sat on the other edge of the dock, enjoying their sandwiches and Cokes. Miguel had forgotten his lunch, so he'd offered to work through the break and leave a few minutes early at the end of the day. Scott noticed that Miguel conveniently forgot his lunch every time he had a hot date to prepare for. Whatever. As long as he pulled his weight during work hours, Scott couldn't complain.

A floating branch jabbed into Scott's submerged feet. The current was definitely wild today, especially after all the heavy rains they'd been having way upstream. He quickly pulled his legs out of the water.

Next to him, Miguel chucked one of the second to last fish habitats into the river. It landed with a splash before the pair of sandbags dragged it to the bottom. He grunted in self-satisfaction.

Scott noticed that Miguel's ratty sneakers were untied. Normally, this wouldn't be a big deal. BLM guys didn't have the strictest dress code. But their safety code was written in stone—or at least heaps of government paperwork—and a loose shoelace was a definite violation of that. If his shoelace caught on even a single branch, he could get pulled underwater before anyone would even know he was gone.

“Tie your shoes, Miguel,” Scott warned.

His coworker looked at him blankly. “Sure thing, boss,” he said, but he didn't actually tie anything. Odds are, Miguel hadn't read the safety handbook.

Miguel picked up the last of the fish habitats—a small cluster of plastic pipes bound together by dried Christmas tree branches—and hoisted it into the water. If he had listened to Scott's instructions, his shoelace wouldn't have gotten tangled in the branches. He didn't, though, and the weight of the habitat yanked him off his feet. He toppled into the water, his body twisting in mid-air.

If only he had listened to Scott's instructions—

If only—

Miguel was pulled underwater. If someone didn't help him, he would drown in minutes.

Scott didn't have a single thought in his head. His entire body was on autopilot. There was no fear or anxiety in him, only an electric drive, an urge that propelled him forward.

He dove into the river.

• • •

Ramona stepped out of her car, armed with silverware and a Tupperware container stuffed full of meatloaf. “Okay,” she whispered to herself. “You're just dropping off Scott's lunch. No need to be nervous.”

She was nervous, and she really didn't know why. She had a weird sense of foreboding about this afternoon. She was afraid that without his mother there, she'd say the wrong thing, push things too far too fast. No matter how well things had been going the last couple of days, their friendship was still on the mend.

She almost hadn't come, but this whole thing was Debra's idea. “Here. Take this to his work. He'll love you even more.” She was certainly insistent.

Ramona hadn't argued, even though she knew that Scott was probably already eating his trademark tuna sandwich with mustard and tomato slices. It was never easy to argue with Debra McInney, especially now that she was in recovery. Somehow, those extra months of sleep had brought out her argumentative streak. It was like she'd spent all those nights in the hospital stockpiling her arguments, waiting for the moment when she'd wake up and unleash them upon the world.

The other reason Ramona didn't protest to this lunch delivery was that she genuinely wanted to see Scott in his workplace. She hadn't come to visit BLM land for more than a year, and she missed the endless Arizona horizon and the dark blue river. It was such a peaceful environment, so calm and relaxing and—

“Quinn! Go inside! Call an ambulance!”

A panicked scream ripped through the silence, and Ramona recognized the voice right away as Scott's younger coworker, Terry. She'd talked with him a few times in the past, but his voice had never sounded that terrified.

Right in front of her, Ramona saw a large figure dive head-first into the river. She didn't see his face, but she could tell from his wide frame and her own panicked intuition that the figure was Scott.

Scott McInney diving into dangerous waters.

Scott McInney playing the hero.

Her
Scott McInney.

In the sudden rush of fear, she didn't realize that the Tupperware fell from her hands and landed on sandy ground. She didn't realize that she sprinted toward the dock like an Olympic gold medalist. She also didn't realize—and this was probably for the best—that she was screaming bloody murder.

Quinn rushed toward the water. Terry ran for help. And the river's surface didn't break.

He was down there, and he wasn't coming up.

Her first thought was:
What will Debra think?
She pictured herself walking back to McInney Manor, breaking the bad news to Debra. “I'm so sorry,” she'd say. “There was an accident.”

She pictured Debra's face as it crumpled in horror.

Don't jump to conclusions,
Ramona told herself.
He knows what he's doing.

Her stomach twisted around itself, wringing out all her gurgling stomach juices like a wet towel. She could barely breathe. Scratch that. She couldn't breathe. She could only stand, and pray, and wait.

He didn't break the surface.

The Colorado River swirled and rushed and churned. It moved south, just like it had for thousands of years, frothing around the edges and hiding countless branches and rocks.

She waited.

Oh God. She could feel the hope slowly deflating from her breathless body.

She waited.

He wasn't coming up. There was no other way to look at it. He'd dived into one of the deadliest sections of one of the deadliest rivers in America, and he wasn't coming up.

She waited.

Ramona felt like she was having a near-death experience, except Scott's life flashed in front of her eyes instead of her own. She saw glimpses of him as a kid, chasing after her, laughing, being a wild child. She saw a teenage Scott walk down the hallways of their high school, waving casually at her and lugging his football equipment. She saw—

She saw the surface break. She saw a shape appear out of the water. She saw Scott.

Scott walked onto the rocky bank, while Miguel limped along next to him. Water dripped down both of their breathless, heaving bodies. Miguel could barely breathe. Scott looked exhausted, but otherwise okay.

Something must've hit Miguel across the forehead—A rock, perhaps? Or a submerged tree branch?—because his forehead was gashed open and blood trickled into his eyes.

“Get the first-aid kit,” Scott shouted toward his coworkers.

Quinn, the gray-haired guy with the trucker mustache, already had the first-aid box opened and ready to go. Scott eased Miguel onto the sandy ground, and Quinn dabbed the moisture away from his forehead before applying a bandage.

The younger kid—the surfer dude whose name Ramona always forgot—gave Scott a towel of his own. “You did good, man,” he said.

Scott tried to answer, but he was too out of breath.

At that moment, as she watched Scott use the towel to wipe river water off his face and arms, Ramona came to a realization:
I can't live without him.
The thought was as terrifying as it was liberating. She needed Scott McInney in her life, and not just as a friend.

It wasn't just a hero fixation, either, although the way he rose out of the water like a muscle-bound Aquaman certainly didn't hurt. No, Ramona wasn't the type of girl who needed a man to dive in and save her.

When Scott dove into the water, she'd had the awful feeling that she'd never see him again. She'd pictured him trapped under the current, thrashing and thrashing and then going still. And it was that image that made her come to the realization. She'd thought she'd lose him forever, and she was terrified.

Ramona watched as Scott leaned against the nearest tree, catching his breath and regaining composure. He didn't seem aware of her presence at all.

I need Scott McInney,
she decided.
I need him, before it's too late.

And even though this was a sudden realization, it was something she'd kept inside her for months. Years, even. In fact, this was probably why she hadn't been sleeping. She was incomplete, and she finally knew why.

Now, all she had to do was act on it—just not today. Before anyone could notice her presence, she picked up the spilled meatloaf, backed into her car, and drove away. Things would have to wait.

Jeffrey reached for a dinner roll, but Scott swatted his hand away. “Wait till your grandma sits down,” he whispered.

“Oh,” Jeffrey said, sounding grave and adult. “Of course.” He folded his hands in his lap and waited politely. Even though his dad wasn't even in the same time zone, he made sure to keep courteous and polite. Ramona watched him with amusement. At times, he acted like a typical seven-year-old—ice cream on his face, mud on his jeans—but other times he acted like a miniature businessman, just like his father.

“She'll be back in a second,” Ramona assured him. “She's just scooping up the last dish.”

Jeffrey nodded. “No hurry.”

Ramona and Scott exchanged smiling glances. He still hadn't mentioned the near-drowning, to her or to anyone, but she assumed he'd hold off on that particular story until Debra and her heart had made a full recovery.

Scott sat next to her, close enough for her to feel his warmth. He'd just taken a shower to wash off all of the grime and dirt from his job, so he smelled fresh and clean. His hair was still a little wet.

Jeffrey sat across from them, wearing the Pokemon T-shirt he'd worn at least once a week for the last year. It was starting to unravel around the edges, and the ironed-on Pikachu looked faded and droopy, but it was his favorite.

Rob's chair was empty, of course, but Debra set a plate for him anyway. She was just like that.

Finally, after two minutes of Jeffrey desperately trying to stop himself from fidgeting, Debra walked into the dining room with the last bowl of mashed potatoes. “I hope everyone's hungry!” she said. She looked like she'd just stepped out of a Thanksgiving greeting card, or a kitchen catalog.

Scott leaned over to Ramona and whispered, “This is her first time cooking since she woke up.”

It took a few seconds for Ramona's brain to register what a big deal that was. All her adult life, Debra's identity had been tied up with her cooking skills. Every birthday, every holiday, she spent more time in the kitchen than with her guests. She loved to cook. She was proud of her skill in the kitchen. Now that she was cooking again, it meant that she was finally—
finally
—back to normal.

Debra slipped a little as she placed the bowl onto the table.

Well,
Ramona thought,
she's
almost
back to normal. She's still too weak.

Jeffrey looked at the steaming mashed potatoes with wonder in his eyes. Without thinking, he reached toward the bowl with his hands. Debra slapped them away.

“I'm sorry, Grandma,” Jeffrey said.

“It's okay.” Debra slid the serving spoon across the table.

Jeffrey served himself, and then—with some effort, because his arm span wasn't very long—he reached across the table and served Debra, Scott, and Ramona, too.

“Thank you, Jeffrey.”

“Thank you, Jeffrey.”

“Thanks, big guy.”

Jeffrey smiled, showing off his latest missing tooth. “I wish Dad was here,” he said, “so I could give him some potatoes, too!”

Everyone dug in. The McInney family wasn't the type to say grace before meals. They only went to church on Christmas and for funerals. Plus, Debra always said that if you wanted to thank someone for the delicious food, it might as well be her. God didn't slave over a hot stove.

After a few delicious mouthfuls, Ramona turned toward Scott and whispered, “Could you pass the salt?”

He did, and their fingers touched for the briefest of moments. They exchanged smiles.

“How was work, son?” Debra asked.

“Uneventful,” Scott lied. Ramona wasn't surprised that he avoided the topic of almost dying. Perhaps he'd tell her one day—and perhaps Ramona would tell
him
that she saw him dive into the water. One day.

Debra then turned toward her fake daughter-in-law. “How's the job hunt going?” she asked.

Ramona had to think of an answer fast. While she worked full time at the library, her sister was currently unemployed. In fact, Nessa hadn't held a steady job since sophomore year of high school, when she'd worked at the hot dog place that always gave her free bottles of ketchup.

“Still looking,” she admitted.

“Any interviews this week?” Debra pressed.

Ramona glanced at Scott.
What should I say?

“She got a call-back from a perfume store at the mall,” Scott said. It was a complete lie, but it seemed plausible. There were a few places at the mall that could be dubbed “perfume stores.” And while Ramona couldn't breathe in places like that, it seemed like a natural fit for someone like Nessa.