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You should call any family or friends.
I step forward dumbly, until I am before a chair and I turn, sinking into it, my hand loosening around her wallet and phone, the items sliding into my lap. Call family or friends.
Friends. Madd doesn’t really have a lot of friends. We have a big group that we hang out with—several of the guys professionally surf, and all of the girls hang out together. But they are the type you call when you are five blocks away and have a flat tire. Not when you are on life support and might not last the night. Madd and I could disappear from this stretch of beach and it’d be weeks before anyone noticed.
Family. Madd’s entire family consists of one drunk individual. A mother who I vaguely remember being in Tuscany. But I’ll call her cell, just to make sure. I open her phone and scroll down the numbers, looking for ‘M’. Just one contact line up from it, my breath stops.
Lover.
Him. If I love half of her heart with my whole one, this man has claim to the other half. The other half of that heart that is struggling to beat. I have seen his name displayed on her phone before. But never have I had the desire to call. I have no need to disrupt the perfection that is our life, no need to rock that boat. I know nothing about this man. He may be married. Older. Younger. Black. White. He is wealthy, I know that, her wrist and ears often glittering with presents, the new convertible in our garage proof of that. I know that he wanted her to have a steady man, is regretful of his time spent away from her. That is either because he doesn’t care, because she is a piece of ass who he uses when he can—or because he loves her and wants what’s best for her. And knows she would not put up with being put in the corner. Played with when he has time and otherwise ignored. There is so much I don’t know about this man. So much I never wanted to find out. But here I am, her phone in my hand, his name staring at me.
I am torn. She never wants us to meet. Wants our lives to play out separately. And I am torn between respecting those wishes and knowing what I, if I were him, would want. To hold her warm hand in mine in case it went cold forever. To hear her soft breath before it stopped eternally. If she wakes, she may hate me for it. But if she doesn’t, I might not forgive myself for taking this moment from him.
PAUL
I press the CALL button, working through words in my head, steeling myself for an unknown outcome. How will I react to hearing his voice? Will he be friendly? Cold? Will I leave a message if the machine comes on? The female voice surprises me, chirping through the receiver with friendly efficiency. “Hey Madison.”
I look at the phone, at the words ‘Lover’ clearly displayed on the front. I have dialed the right number.
“Madison?”
I clear my throat. “I was trying to reach...” I feel sluggish, like my brain can’t formulate a single articulate sentence.
“Stewart? You were calling for Stewart?” the perky voice asks helpfully.
Stewart. That is his name. A name that inappropriately brings to mind visions of my brother’s face. A brother I haven’t thought of in some time. I swallow, returning to the uncomfortable task at hand. “Yes. Is he available?”
“Mr. Brand is in a meeting right now. Does Madison need me to interrupt him?” her tone is distractingly cheerful, so much so that my brain takes a moment to catch up, to focus on the insanity that just left her lips.
“Mr. Brand?” my words come out unintentionally harsh. “Stewart Brand?”
“Yes. Is there a problem?”
My head comes up with a jerk and my eyes open wide, moving wildly, trying to sort out the disaster unfolding before me. I hear her voice, in my ear, the words twisting around into unintelligible forms. I close the phone, spots appearing before my eyes and I try to breathe, try to focus on what is before me and what is important. Madd. Lying a few walls away. Dying.
But my brain won’t release itself, won’t step away from the bomb that was just dropped in my lap. Stewart. My older brother. Fucking Madd. Touching her skin, holding her body, kissing her mouth. My brother. He is the one who has the other half of her heart. He is the one that I share her with. He is the one who dictated a second boyfriend; he is the one too busy to fully occupy her bed, her time.
Stewart.
My brother.
The one who beat up Noah Richardson when I was eleven because Noah wouldn’t stop bullying me. The one who coached me through asking Nicki Farrahs out when I was too chicken. The one who explained sex and going down on a girl and who bought me my first box of condoms. The one who punched me in the face and blames me for causing our little sister’s death. The one who told me never to step within a mile of him ever again. The one who wouldn’t return my calls for five years, until I finally gave up and stepped away from the tattered remains of our family.
Stewart is Him. Stewart is Lover.
The phone rings in my hand and I see his moniker pop up on the screen. Before I can second-guess the action, I walk over and hand it to the ER receptionist. “Please explain to them about Madison Decater,” I request softly.
The woman shoots me a questioning look and then glances at the phone and flips it open. “Venice Regional ER,” she says into the phone.
I walk back to the chair and watch her face, watch her lips as they mouth words I can only guess at. Wonder who is on the other end. If it is Stewart or the cheerful female. And wonder what I will do when he walks through these doors. And if she will still be alive when he does.
STEWART
We are in the middle of a deposition when there is a knock on the door and Ashley steps in. I look up with a warning look, one that softens instantly when I see her face. I hold up a finger, pausing our attorney, the transcriber looking up in surprise when the room falls silent.
She moves quickly to my side and leans forward, her lips close to my ear. “It’s Madison. There’s been an accident.”
I close my eyes, unprepared for the words. Not again. Not after Jennifer. I slide back my chair, standing, and meet the attorney’s eyes. “I have personal business to attend to. We will need to reschedule.”
“Personal business?” the man stammers. “Stewart, it took a month to coordinate this.”
I ignore him, following Ashley out of the room, my hand on her back, pulling her into my office and shutting the door. “Tell me. Everything.”
She shakes before me, her voice trembling, all traces of cheer and professionalism drained from her body. “A man called, from her phone. He wanted you, but hung up when I told him you were busy. It seemed odd... so I called back to get his name, a message, something. A woman answered, someone from the hospital. She said that Madison was in a surfing accident and is on life support. That she might not make it through the night. That any close family and friends should come now.” Tears well in her eyes and she steps forward, touching my arm. “I’m so sorry, Stewart.”
