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“Please. Just tell me. Is he okay?” I asked.
Her face softened in sympathy. “His oxygen is low. We’re concerned that he’s developed pneumonia as a result of the flu, and we’ll be bringing in X-ray equipment to confirm. If it’s pneumonia—or, frankly, even if it isn’t—once he’s stabilized, we’ll be sending him upstairs so we can monitor his breathing and get him started on some IV meds. Why don’t you go to the cafeteria and get some dinner? He’ll be resting and won’t even notice?—”
I snorted. “Oh, he’d notice. And so would I. I’m not leaving.”
She studied me as if to see how serious I was. I crossed my arms over my chest and stared her down the way I stared down rival CEOs during intense boardroom negotiations.
She sighed. “Fine, but you need to move back and sit over there.” She pointed to a makeshift waiting area—three hard, gray chairs set along a wall between a laundry bin and a vitals cart. “You’ll be able to see when things quiet down, and they’ll let you back here again.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but fortunately, McGee yanked me away and sat me down before I could.
“You can’t control this, boss,” he reminded me. “And throwing a fit won’t help.”
I remembered Reagan telling me almost the same thing the first night we spent together—was it really just two weeks ago? Sorry to break it to you, but there are some things in life you don’t control, and you don’t get to have a tantrum about them. Ironically, I’d never felt as out of control in my life as I had in the days since he’d said that.
“He couldn’t breathe,” I told McGee. My voice cracked. “And here I am, sitting in the most uncomfortable torture chair anyone’s ever invented, wearing a paper mask, like a useless lump of shit. Why have millions of fucking dollars if I can’t make sure something like this doesn’t happen? What if—? What if he—? I haven’t even told him…”
McGee’s bruised eyes held an expression of mingled affection and pity. “Look around, Thatcher. He’s not coding. Nobody’s panicking. From what I saw, Reagan has one of those nose things for oxygen, but he’s not on a ventilator or whatever. They just needed to get your giant ass out of the way so they could treat him.” He bumped his shoulder into mine. “So instead of thinking up worst-case what-ifs, think about what if he gets the treatment he needs? What if he’s wide-awake tomorrow, giving me shit and turning your whole life upside down? What if you get a chance to tell him all your big, schmoopy love-motions. ’Cause that’s way more likely.” He leaned his huge frame back in the creaky plastic seat and crossed his ankle over his knee. “And I personally can’t wait for it. Thatcher Pennington is all up in his feels. Fucking finally.”
I glared at him, but activity behind Reagan’s curtain saved McGee from getting a fat lip to match his nose and eyes. A short while later, a young doctor came over. “No one’s officially read the X-ray yet, but I’m pretty confident it’s pneumonia. His ox levels are stabilized, so we’re starting him on medicine now and will begin breathing treatment upstairs once he’s admitted.”
“To a regular room?” McGee demanded. “Not ICU or whatever?”
The doctor seemed shocked we even had to ask. “Definitely not. Standard medical floor. It might take a few days, but your, uh… loved one… is going to be okay.”
That look of surprise convinced me she meant it, and the relief that flooded my bloodstream was sweet… though it left me nearly as shaky as my earlier panic.
When the doctor walked away, McGee chuckled and bumped my shoulder again. “You know that doc thought Reagan was your son, right?” he said in a low voice.
“Jesus,” I muttered. “Thank you, McGee. That’s just what I needed to hear right now.”
“Think maybe I should go back there and tell her some of the things I’ve heard the two of you get up to?”
“Shut your mouth,” I warned, but the smile in my voice probably ruined the effect.
“Just sayin’. Not very parental, if you ask me. Oooh, or maybe she thought I was your son,” he suggested, wiggling his pierced eyebrow. Despite the mask he wore, I could tell his trademark shit-eating grin was in full effect. “That would make Reagan your son-in-law.”
I elbowed him. “You wish.”
McGee laughed and dropped his teasing. “Hell no. Too mouthy. I like ’em cuter and sweeter, like—” He broke off, looking vaguely guilty, and cleared his throat. “Ah. Like no one in particular.”
I stared at him. “Wait. Have you been holding out on me? Did you break your no-hookups rule?”
“No! I mean, not exactly? I’m into someone,” he admitted. “Really into him. But I’m not saying anything else until I know he’s into me.” His cheeks flushed, and his biceps rippled as he shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “It’s fucking weird, man. I’ve faced big-ass motherfuckers in the cage, and I’m all, ‘Let’s fucking go.’ Zero nerves, all adrenaline. But wanting someone this much?” He shook his head, mystified. “Makes my knees weak, it’s so terrifying.”
“McGee,” I said wryly, wrapping a companionable arm over his shoulders, “I know exactly what you mean.”
* * *
The hospital room was dim, and the steady, low beep of the cardiac monitor assured me Reagan was still comfortably asleep. The doctor had come in a few hours ago to give an official diagnosis—pneumonia, as a complication of a severe flu infection, just as they’d thought. With the help of IV meds and a breathing treatment, Reagan’s fever had subsided, and his oxygen levels were stable, but given the extent of his illness, his body was worn-out. “He’s asleep, and it’s the best thing for him, so don’t be surprised if he doesn’t wake up for hours,” the doctor had warned in a tone that added an unspoken “…so stop harassing us about it.”
I was trying my best, but where Reagan’s struggle had left him exhausted, it had left me restless and on-edge. I wanted a task. A goal. A target. Something to do or fight or protect or solve.
When McGee took a break to grab some food, I refused to go. Instead, as I stared at Reagan in the semi-darkness, listening to the beeping, I remembered I’d promised him I’d call JT… which, I realized with some chagrin, I probably should have done earlier since no one in Honeybridge knew anything about Reagan’s condition.
When I pulled out my phone, I had thirteen missed calls and twenty-two messages from JT alone, plus several more from January and Layla. I ignored those.
When JT answered, he sounded distraught. “Thatcher? Oh, thank fuck. Reagan hasn’t replied to me all afternoon. If I need to come out there, I will?—”
