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Ethan
When I open my eyes, I’m in a clean bed in a white room that smells like hand sanitizer. I try to move my arm, but there’s needles stuck in it, tubes trailing away to a bag hanging by the bed.
A woman in a blue uniform bustles in and opens the curtains; she looks surprised when she sees my eyes open. “You’re awake. How do you feel?”
My tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth, puffy and raw. “Where am I?” I croak.
“Two girls called 113, said that you were unresponsive. When the ambulance picked you up, they weren’t there. You had a bad reaction to some stimulants in your system, and your body started shutting down. But you’re going to be fine.” She checks a chart hanging at the foot of my bed. “Are you Ethan Lowe? We only had the ID found in your wallet.”
I nod painfully and the room kind of shimmers around me, making my stomach churn. Taking random drugs because you got your heart broken is some emo teenager level shit. I struggle to sit up, and she helps me raise the head of my bed. “Take it easy. Is there someone we can contact for you?”
Shaking my head, more carefully this time, I watch her check my vitals and take the IV out of my arm. “Can you turn on the news?” I don’t know if it’s too early to be reporting a drowning from last night or not.
“Rest a few more hours,” she tells me as she leaves, “and we’ll see if you’re ready to be discharged.”
I swing my legs off the edge of the bed and look down at the ugly, paper-thin hospital gown. My clothes are on a chair in the corner, but that’s a long way to walk. At the sound of a phone ringing, I look up and realize my cell is sitting next to the table with my wallet, with Peyton’s name on the screen.
“Jesus Christ,” she gasps when I answer. “Where are you? I was supposed to pick you up from the airport five hours ago and you just dropped off the face of the earth.”
“I’m sorry I scared you. I didn’t get on my flight.”
There’s a moment of silence. “Ethan? You sound like absolute shit. What’s going on? Is this about what’s been on the news, about that swimmer guy? They were saying some crazy stuff, E, like sex trafficking or some shit. Is everyone ok?”
“I…I have to stay here longer.” Even if Victor’s gone, if it’s too late to find him, maybe there’s something I can do to get any kind of justice for him. “I’m so sorry. I know Mom is having a hard time.”
“One sec.” I hear the faint sound of Mom’s voice in the background. I don’t think I can talk to her right now without breaking down completely, sobbing like I’m five years old. Peyton’s voice is a little wry when she returns. “June wants you to settle a bet for us.”
“Huh?”
“You and this, uh, boy with the pretty eyes, so to speak.”
“Yeah?”
“Are you guys a thing?”
When I don’t answer, she groans. “June, I owe you so much money.”
“Wait, how the hell does she know?”
“How should I know how mom senses work?” Her voice gets gentler. “Stay as long as you need to. We’re ok. But you need to take care of yourself and him, ok?”
I would, I think as I hang up,if I hadn’t already fucked it up.
In another one of those moments that could be fate or just a bunch of ricocheting pinballs, I hear a familiar voice from somewhere down the hall. “Itoldyou you couldn’t get hypothermia in the fucking summer, you paranoid asshole.”
It’s a good thing the nurse removed my IV, because I would have ripped it right out of my arm on my way to the door. My legs don’t get with the program, and I have to grab the door frame to keep from eating it face-first into the floor. Victor Lang is standing with his arms crossed in front of one of those gross hot-beverage vending machines, kicking it because it won’t give him coffee.
At the commotion, he glances over his shoulder. He looks pale too, his hair a mess, moving gingerly like every muscle hurts. His eyes go huge at the sight of me in my hospital gown with IV tape still dangling from my arm.
“You’re…” He swallows, hesitates, looking everywhere but at my face. Taking one step closer, he stares at the dark needle-bruise in the crook of my elbow with the faintest whine in his throat, like he can’t stand to see me hurt. When he reaches out to brush his thumb across it, my skin burns all over.
At the last minute, he backs up against the vending machine and wraps his arms around himself, biting the inside of his cheek. His voice is trembling too much to manage his old who-gives-a-fuck snark, but he tries. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Seattle right now?”
Victor
I’m not ready. I haven’t braced myself to watch him give me a pitying look, to tell me he’s really sorry for what I went through and he hopes I get the help I need, maybe recommend a therapist.
“You fucking left me behind,” he accuses, his voice all raspy and ragged. “You let me think you were dead.”
