Page 60 of The Heartbreaker Next Door

I ran to my SUV, keys in hand, and nearly mowed down a retiree power-walking with her dog around the property. My Jeep Cherokee, with Paw Patrol stickers in the window and one defiant “Nevertheless, She Persisted” bumper decal, was parked right in front of the building, so I didn’t have to go far. The engine coughed awake, and I was on the road, praying to every deity I could conjure that Maverick was okay.

On the way, I called Dean. I told myself that the motivation to reach out to him was purely professional. I had to let someone know where I was. But if that was the case, I could have called Selma.

The truth was, I just wanted to hear his voice. Being a single mom with no family support was lonely and scary. Having another adult to speak to, one who is responsible and, on some level, cared, was more rare and precious than gold. But I didn’t let myself dwell on that. I was still an independent woman.

He answered on the first ring, voice as steady as if he’d been waiting for disaster. “Felicity.”

“Hey. Maverick had an accident at preschool, and I’m headed to the ER. I don’t have details yet,” I said, as calmly as possible, even though my hands were shaking so hard I could barely steer.

He didn’t pause, didn’t waffle, just went straight into action mode. “I’m an hour out with Damon at an auction to pick up the horses my mom is rescuing. Don’t panic, drive safe. Call if you need anything. I mean it, Felicity. Anything.”

I knew that he was there picking up the horses that Selma wanted to rescue. I didn’t know they were an hour away.

Just hearing his voice made me feel better, but there was no way I’d tell him that. “Thanks, I’ll text when I know more.”

The call disconnected, and the drive to the hospital was a blur. I don’t remember the stop signs, only the nausea that grew with each mile. By the time I parked, my teeth were chattering, and when I looked for my phone, I found it in my lap. I grabbed it and rushed inside.

The reception desk at the emergency room was manned by a woman who wore exactly the air you’d expect from someone whose job was to absorb everyone’s stress, pain, and insurance disputes: bored and totally in control. I barely remembered my own name, but I managed to state it, and before I could finish the word “Foster,” a nurse appeared like she’d been waiting for me to materialize.

“You’re here for Maverick?” she asked.

“Yes.” I nodded so hard I was surprised I didn’t give myself whiplash.

“I’m Holly, I’ll take you back.” She was compact, maybe five feet, all curly auburn hair and no-nonsense sneakers, but her presence was absurdly calming. She projected Mom Energy in the way that only comes from being asked about a hundred questions before breakfast.

I followed her, and she leaned in with a conspiratorial smile. “He’s okay, Mom. There was a lot of blood, and head wounds can look really scary, but he’s doing good.”

My knees almost gave out, but I forced myself to keep up as she ushered me down the hall. She pulled out a card and touched it to the scanner mounted on the wall, which caused the double doors to buzz before they parted automatically. We walked through them into the E.R., which reeked of antiseptic and fear.

Holly kept up her steady patter as we walked down the corridor. “When he came in, we did a full neurological exam, checked his pupils, reflexes, and balance, and asked him who his favorite superhero was. All responses appropriate for age, though he did argue that Spider-Man could definitely beat Batman in a fistfight, which led to a seven-minute debate between two nurses.” She gave me a wink, like I was in on the joke.

I tried not to sound desperate, but my voice came out less like a question and more like a prayer. “So he’s…really okay?”

She squeezed my arm like she’d done this for a thousand nervous mothers. “He is. He is going to need stitches, since it’s on his face, we called in plastics. And the doctors are going to keep him for a few hours for observation since it was a good knock, but I think the worst part is the amount of paperwork you’ll have to fill out when you leave.”

A small amount of relief washed over me as I wiped my eyes, and then realized I’d smudged mascara all over the back of my hand. “What about his brain?” I managed. “Did you do a scan?”

Holly’s face took on a rare blend of sympathy and authority. “We take head injuries seriously, but unless a child’s symptoms or exam suggest something more, we avoid unnecessary scans. CTs are hard on little bodies. His exam was perfect, so the doctor felt comfortable holding off. Really good news.”

I exhaled so hard I thought I’d pass out. “So what do we do now?”

We stopped at a cheerful little exam room with murals of cartoon crabs and smiling sea stars. “He has a mild concussion, and a nice shiner coming on. We’ll send you home with instructions, but you’ll just keep an eye on him, check for vomiting, worsening headaches, things like that. The worst part right now is the cut above his eyebrow. Faces bleed a lot, but the wound’s clean. The doctor wants a few stitches, nothing fancy. He’ll even get a cool sticker afterward.” Holly pushed open the exam room door and gestured me in.

I nodded, but my eyes were already glued to the small figure on the exam table. Maverick. My son. I’d seen him every day of his four years and somehow, at this moment, he looked simultaneously five months old and fifteen years.

He was tiny, dwarfed by the hospital bed, but sitting up on a mound of baby blue blanket. His cheeks were streaked with dried tears and more than a little blood, but he was upright, alert, and apparently locked in a very serious conversation with Clarissa, the aide for his preschool class, who sat beside him like a white-knuckled assistant coach.

Mav’s face was a mess. There was blood smeared along his left eyebrow, and a gash that was still oozing sluggishly from the center. The area around his eye was already turning into a dramatic purple bruise, the kind that would have me answering questions about child safety for a month.

“Mommy!” he cried the instant he saw me, and suddenly he was out of the blankets, launching himself at my midsection with all the subtlety of a linebacker.

I caught him, ignored the streaks of blood, and held him so tight I worried I’d break something. He squeezed me back, then pulled back and informed me very matter-of-factly, “Don’t worry, they said I’m not going to die.”

I felt Clarissa stiffen beside me.

I tried to smile as I assured him, “Of course, you’re not going to die.”

He wriggled a finger at his busted eyebrow. “But they said I have to have needles in my head.”