Waves - Book #2 [completed]

50 ~ Pluviophile

Pluviophile
noun
a lover of rain; someone who finds joy and peace of mind during rainy days

Mason's dad is the most relaxed hospitalized person I've ever met. He's smiling - still a bit dizzy - and bear hugs all of his children and grandchildren as best as he can lying in the hospital bed before giving his wife a coyer but soothing grin, kissing her cheek affectionately. His gray hair is mussed and matted, and he's got a scruff going that tells me he hasn't been able to shave for a few days. But somehow he doesn't look too out of it, managing to still have an commanding yet welcoming aura around him.

"You scared me, John," Susan murmurs, her light hair falling out of her conservative bun as he reaches for her hand, squeezing it and brushing his thumb over her knuckles.

"I know. I'm sorry. I promise I'll take better care of myself."

She sniffles, nodding and wiping at her eyes as they exchange a few more whispered words. Their interaction radiates how much they still love each other after all these years together.

"And who's this young lady?" the older man asks, his smirk partially covered by his wife's body doesn't hide the spark in his eyes. I can see now where Mason gets his features from. The straight, strong nose and the sharp jaw that's hidden under Mason's beard most of the time.

Mason, who's stepped partly behind me, splays his hand on the small of my back, nudging me forward. "Dad, this is Riley, my girlfriend." His usual swagger is laced with pride as he introduces me as his girlfriend for the second time. His hand twitches, sliding a bit lower.

"That's a sentence I never thought I'd hear," his dad deadpans, the skin around his eyes crinkling with amusement.

Mason gasps. "Dad, why-" his shoulders sag and he swipes out his palms. "Just why?"

He ignores him. "Riley, I'm John, father and proud grandfather of the bunch."

"Hi... sir. How are you feeling?" Suddenly self-cautious, I angle my arms awkwardly in front of me. The long flight and train ride have me look disheveled as fuck. My clothes are wrinkly and feel icky, and my skin's pale and dry. Add the rain to make my hair extra frizzy and I sure resemble a rat crawling out of the gutter.

"I'm doing okay, I guess. But I can't wait to get out of here." His smile is a bit strained.

"Same," I croak.

I hate hospitals. I thought that in New York hospitals would look different, fancier maybe. But they don't. They look the same. Intimidatingly large buildings. Blank walls and eerie atmosphere. Hushed conversations in long corridors with squeaky floors. Silent tears of either pain or joy – no in between. It's either black or white.

Black with no end.

Uninvited memorier food my system. Memories of seeing the love of your life wither away slowly. The knowledge that I'll never hear his voice or laugh again. Never see him smile again. Never see the twinkle in his eyes again. The endless rhythmic beeps and hollow noises machines make...