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This is what happens when I take time for myself. I do something dumb like fall halfway in love with the wrong person, and then wallow in despair when I’m reminded that it was a stupid idea. And while I’m wallowing and feeling sorry for myself, I selfishly neglect the person who is supposed to matter the most. I took two days off from seeing Dad. I wanted to prove to him I wasn’t hovering, but I also wasn’t interested in fending off questions about Erik Varg and the best date of my life.
And because I stayed away, I missed the early warning signs.
It only took one look at his face yesterday to see the strain and I wanted to yell, cry, rage. How could he not tell me something was wrong? How could he not have contacted his surgeon? His doctor? Somebody? The man had the audacity to tell me I was overreacting, but if that’s true then why did they put him on the surgical board this morning, dress him in a paper gown, and have the surgeons in his room talking through the potential complications if they don’t go in and remove the dead tissue from around his stoma.
I’ve watched enough hospital drama shows to know what the words “excise” and “necrotic” mean. Would he have called me when they told him surgery was the only option left?
I squeeze my hands around the plastic arms of the waiting room chair, feeling the ache in my bones as I breathe in two-three-four and out again.
Routine surgery. This is all just a regular, everyday occurrence for the doctors. An uncommon, but serious, complication. The surgeon is confident they can fix it.
Don’t worry.
Don’t. Worry.
Don’t.
Fucking.
Worry.
Someone’s damn phone is ringing. Not just vibrating, but full-on sound. The marimba grates against my already frayed nerves, and I clench my eyes closed, determined to block the sound from my brain. What I want to do is turn around and glare at whoever couldn’t turn their phone off. What could be more important than the reason they’re here in this surgical waiting room?
My pulse is pounding, pounding, pounding in my ears and I want to sit here and stave off the waves of nausea by not moving a single part of my body, but I can’t seem to stop my leg from shaking. I press my hand down on top of my thigh and it doesn’t help. Now the movement is even more obvious. I shouldn’t be shaking. There’s nothing to worry about. Don’t worry. Don’t.
The phone goes silent, kicking over to voicemail—although that’s even more frustrating. If you’re going to let your phone ring and ring and ring while people wait for the worst news of their lives, then the considerate thing to do would be to answer it—and I suck in a lungful of air. The chair makes a god-awful screeching noise as I shift in my seat, but I ignore it. My hips and back are killing me from a night crammed into the extra chair in Dad’s room. The nurse was nice enough to let me stay even after visiting hours ended, which was a godsend because I’d been trying to figure out how to wedge myself underneath Dad’s hospital bed to avoid being kicked out.
The ringer goes off again, and I look around the waiting room. Maybe a well-placed glare will remind them that the polite thing to do would be to turn off their cell phone, except…except I’m the only one in this particular room.
That can’t be right. Who ever heard of an empty hospital waiting room? Even this early in the morning, I expected more people to be packed into the plastic chairs, staring at the door. I’m the only one.
Which means the ringing phone is mine, but it can’t be. I have it on Do Not Disturb. Jen’s at work. My principal knows I’m unavailable. Dad’s in OR 2 under general anesthesia. Who else would be calling? Who else would need me? The ringing stops and starts up again and I fish my phone out of my pocket just to prove to myself that I’m not losing my mind. But I must be, because there’s Erik’s name scrolling across my screen.
He must have bypassed my do not disturb settings, but I’m not sure why he’d have done that. We never talk on the phone and I haven’t texted him in almost two weeks. That choice was a conscious, if painful, one. Space is necessary. It’s getting harder and harder to remember that he isn’t mine. That he never will be. While I think there’s a chance he wants to be more, how would it even work? He isn’t here in Quarry Creek and I’m not leaving my dad. I love my job. I love my house. I love Jen. I love all the memories packed into this city and its streets and its people. I even love its goddamn hockey team, something I never thought would be true.
I’m still staring at Erik’s name when the phone goes silent and the door to the waiting room swings open. It’s okay. I probably wasn’t going to answer it, anyway. Even as my thumb still hovers, ready to swipe yes on the call, even as my chest aches and my eyes burn. I can’t. I feel like an addict in the middle of a detox. If I give in now, if I hear his smooth honey voice, I’ll be right back to where we were when I put space between us. I can’t handle that again. Not now. If I thought the last two weeks were hellish, well, it’ll be even worse trying again. I don’t know if he’s left a voicemail, but I’ll have to delete that too. And still I clutch my phone and wait for it to ring again. He’s tried—I assume they’ve all been Erik—three times so far. Surely he won’t give up now.
I can almost imagine what he’ll say.
“Hey, Cooper. Were you going to send me to voicemail again?”
I choke on a laugh, because I can just hear the words in his voice and god I miss him and god this day fucking sucks and I would give a lot to be back on our date. Back on the ice together, or even in his mom’s kitchen. Before his past froze me in place and I made things weird. Before I pushed him away again and he went. The burn in my eyes is overwhelming and I feel the hot liquid seep down my cheeks.
What is fucking wrong with me? I’m crying over a guy—even if it’s Erik—while my dad is being cut open again. I’m the worst daughter ever. Something could happen to him and when the doctor comes out to give me the gut-wrenching news, I’ll be sitting here with tear tracks on my face and everyone will assume I’m crying for my dad. And god that’s even worse. Maybe I should step into the bathroom, splash some water on my face, take a lap around the empty halls, something to get myself back under control, but I can’t move from this spot.
“Baby, hey, I didn’t mean it,” the voice in my head says and then a heavy weight wraps around my back, a hand cupping my shoulder as it says, “Don’t cry, Quinn.”
Because the voice in my head was never in my head. It was Erik, and he’s sitting in the seat next to me, pulling me against his broad chest, as his lips press to my temple. Erik, who’s still holding his sleek, black cell phone. The one he just called me on three times. Erik, who saw me avoid his call and is still wrapping me up in his warmth. Who knew where I’d be even though it’s a school day and I didn’t tell him about my dad.
“How?” My question is barely intelligible through the waterfall of tears. They won’t stop now. Like someone yanked the cork on the Hoover Dam and now 9.2 trillion—actually with current droughts, it’s closer to 3.5 trillion—gallons of water are flooding into all the surrounding states.
How is he here?
How did he know?
How am I supposed to do this?
“Your people were worried about you, so we activated the phone tree.” He turns me so I can rest more of my weight against him and it’s the most comfortable I’ve felt in at least forty-eight hours. Possibly the last three-hundred-and-thirty-six. “Jen knew something was going on with your dad, but not the details. When she couldn’t get ahold of you, she called Vic for my number, and Vic called me. Actually, I was on the phone with my mother when Vic came in, frantic.”
