“I can do that. She’s at Sundale Central Hospital, right?” It wasn’t the fanciest hospital, but it had the best emergency room in the country.
“Yes. She broke both of her legs in the crash and got a concussion.”
I wince. “That probably explains why she sounded so weird.”
“Yes, you’re probably right.”
“I’ll call you as soon as I speak to her, and I’ll try her mother’s assistant in the meantime.”
“Thank you.”
“I love you,Eomma.”
“I love you too, Monika.”
I get the strangest feeling that she’s relieved to be able to hear my voice. Which just makes me feel like shit. My mom was panicking and Cynthia, for all her faults, was hurting, while I was getting that good monster dick.
The car glides to a stop in front of the hospital, and I don’t bother to check my appearance before going to the front desk for Cynthia’s room number. The nurse shakes her head, then seems to do a double take at my ID, eyes widening as she says, “You’re Monika Neumann?”
I nod. “I am. Can I see Cynthia?”
“Well, she’s meant to go into surgery in less than an hour ... but I suppose if you’re quick ...”
“I’ll be quick.”
The Indian woman with twice as many curves as I have rises and quickly leads me down a series of hallways, some bustling, some eerier than others. “I saw the pictures you took of Cynthia and Taranis tonight.”
“Pictures?” I didn’t take any pictures, just that one video.
She nods. “At first, I thought it was so romantic, but then I wondered if something wasn’t wrong, considering that Taranis hasn’t so much as called to check on her.” She gives me a curious look, asking questions I’m not going to answer.
“I haven’t seen the pictures. I just sent a video to the PR team.” The nonanswer doesn’t seem to please the woman, who gives me a pout. Luckily, we soon arrive at a door with a whiteboard mounted to the front that readsMin-hyuck, Cynthia.
“You have twenty minutes. Don’t make me regret this.”
“I won’t.” I hustle inside, the door clicking shut at my back.
Cynthia and I stare at each other. She’s way more alert than I expected her to be. She’s hooked up to IVs and has her legs wrapped in thick layers of gauze all the way up to the thigh and all the way down to her feet. They hang suspended off the bed in these sad-looking gurneys. And she doesn’t look pleased to see me. In fact, she looks downright terrified.
“Cynthia?” I say hesitantly, like I’m speaking to a wounded animal, which, I guess, in a very real sense, I am. “You okay?”
She rifles desperately through the front pocket of the oversize hoodie she’s wearing. It’s not hers. She doesn’t own an oversize anything. Her fingers are fumbling as she pulls out a phone—a phone that looks like it was brought here straight from the nineties. The little brick of a Nokia is gray, with buttons and no touch screen. I shake my head. I don’t understand what’s happening.
My voice is laced with confusion as I take a step toward her uncomfortable-looking bed. “My mom was freaking out. We haven’t been able to get hold of your mom yet.”
“I don’t want my mom to come here. I just want you to take this before they come back.” She sniffles and starts to shake, glancing around the room as if she expects the walls to open their mouths and eat her up. “Take it. Please. I should never have gotten involved. I should never have tried to steal your man.” She starts to weep openly, and ... she’snot a cute crier. It’s the ugliest I’ve ever seen her, and that, more than the sight of her two mangled legs, is what strikes fear into me and even a little bit of compassion for her.
I approach the side of her bed and place my hand on her arm. She bows her head and cries in earnest, her face puffing up and turning red. She pats my hand, and I place my other hand awkwardly on the top of her head. Touching her like this makes me realize I don’t have anywhere near as much experience as I should comforting people. This feels all kindsa weird. Shit. Am I just as out of touch with humanity as Taranis is? The thought gives me the heebie-jeebies. So does touching her hair. The worst part is that I expected her to push me away, but she doesn’t. Instead, she just sobs there for another couple minutes.
“Don’t cry ... You’ll be okay. They’ll do the best work on your legs. You won’t even see the scars.”
“Scars?” she wails. “I’m gonna have scars?”
“No! I just said you won’t be able to see them! They probably don’t ...” My voice fails me because the nurse did just say she needs to go into surgery. How do you perform surgery without cutting anything open?
“You’re such a bitch . . .”
Not the first time I’ve been called that tonight. “So I’ve been told.”
