Page 51 of Don’t Say Mafia

“Yes,” one of them said. “Ride with us.”

I climbed inside, my hands clenched in my lap as the ambulance doors slammed shut with a final, terrifying thud, and the vehicle lurched forward, its sirens wailing into the night.

I stared at Ryan’s face, pale and slack beneath the mask . . . and I started sobbing. Pressing my hands together, I closed my eyes and prayed to anything that would listen.

But I didn’t just pray that he would live.

I prayed that if he did, I’d finally have the strength to leave him.

The doctor stood with a clipboard tucked against his chest, speaking carefully, like each word had been measured before it was allowed out. I caught fragments at first. Elevated heart rate. Respiratory distress. Admitted in time. And then the words that knocked the ground out from under me.

“We found multiple substances in his system,” he said, “including fentanyl.”

I shook my head before he even finished, a reflex more than a choice. “No. That’s not . . . He doesn’t— He wouldn’t⁠—”

“It doesn’t always come from intent,” the doctor said gently. “We’re seeing this more often. Laced product. People not knowing what they’re taking.”

I forced myself to look at the doctor’s face, and there it was. That softening around the eyes. That careful tone meant for people who had already been through too much.

Pity.

It slid over his expression like a filter he didn’t even realize he was using. And I knew it instantly, because I’d seen that look my entire life.

Teachers had worn it when I showed up without lunch money. Counselors had worn it when they asked if everything was okay at home. Strangers had worn it when they saw the bruises and pretended not to. Even cashiers sometimes, when my card declined and I tried to laugh it off.

It was the look that said you poor thing.

My chest burned, and I pressed my palm against it, as if I could hold the pain in—like if I kept enough pressure there, it wouldn’t spill out and swallow me whole. “Is he going to be okay?” I finally asked.

“He’s stable,” the doctor said. “We’re monitoring him closely. He was lucky.”

Lucky.

The word felt wrong . . . too light for what had almost happened.

I nodded because it was easier than trusting my voice, then turned away before the tears could fall in front of him. They came anyway, a torrent that blurred the hallway until all I could see was the beige floor and the toe of my shoe.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand and forced myself to breathe. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. It was funny, I’d married Ryan thinking I’d never have to try those old therapist tricks again, and here I was . . . trying them almost every day.

When I finally pushed open the door to his room, the sound felt too loud.

Ryan lay in the hospital bed, unnaturally still, his skin almost translucent against the stark white sheets. Tubes and wires threaded from his body, looping and blinking in ways I couldn’t decipher, as if they were writing a language I didn’t know how to read. His chest rose and fell in a measured rhythm, and for one terrible second I just stood in the doorway, watching it, afraid that if I moved—if I breathed too loudly—it would falter and disappear.

As I watched, his eyes fluttered open, focusing slowly. When they landed on me, they filled immediately.

“Oh—” His voice broke. “Eden.”

I crossed the room and took his hand, trying not to grip it as hard as I wanted to. “Why?” I asked. The word tore out of me. “Why, Ryan?”

His mouth trembled, and he swallowed hard. “I didn’t know,” he said hoarsely. “I swear. I didn’t know it was laced. I didn’t know.” Tears slid down the sides of his face and disappeared into his hair. “I wouldn’t do that to you. I wouldn’t.”

I nodded automatically like I believed him . . . but I was beginning to wonder if there was anything he wouldn’t do to me at this point.

“It was a bad day,” he rushed on, like if he kept talking he could get me to understand. “The interview went awful. I messed it up. I could tell right away. They were looking at me like I didn’t belong there.”

I kept nodding, my neck apparently having come loose until I’d turned into a bobblehead.

“I was so pissed at myself,” he said. “So angry. I just wanted my head to shut up for a minute. Just one minute. I didn’t think⁠—”