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“No.” I state it with more conviction, cutting him off before he can even say the word.
She’s fine. She has to be fine.
I blink back a tear, turning toward the dark windows again. Silhouetted trees line the edge of the mostly deserted parking lot. It’s long after normal business hours now. Too bad pain and medical problems don’t disappear as easily as the setting sun. Farther past the parking lot, a bird flies overhead, his wings spread wide. Solitary and alone. It dips down before soaring off into the night.
When I first saw the brochure for Seaside, then found our house online, I thought that’s what I wanted. To fly away from all of my failures, start a new life focused on finding myself. I never thought I’d run into Asra, that she was the one I was flying toward.
I’m drawn to her in a way I cannot describe. A magnet I’m unable to resist.
A chill runs up my spine. What if this is serious?
High-pitched steps clack on the hardwood floor behind us. I turn to find the doctor stepping into the waiting hallway.
She stops in front of us. “Miss Romanescu is asking for you.”
We both nod and rush past the doctor to Asra’s room. My feet falter in the doorway while Brendan rushes to her side. She’s still in the hospital gown, the IV still in her arm as she lies half asleep in the bed, her eyes groggy.
“Hey, Little Girl.” Brendan attempts a faint smile. The creases in the corners of his eyes still give away his worry. They’re the same lines darkening mine.
She scratches her arms and forces an equally fake smile. “Thank you for taking me here.”
“Come on now, you didn’t expect us to leave you in a pile on your floor, did you, Prude?”
“Um . . . You didn’t have to stay, though.” She glances away.
“Asra,” I take a few steps into the room, standing beside my brother, “we’re not leaving here until we bring you home.”
She bites her bottom lip, still not looking our way. “You don’t have to . . .”
“What’s wrong with you?” Brendan blurts.
I slap him on the backside of his head and glare at him. But he only shrugs. I shake my head, but nothing can undo his lack of tact.
Her shoulders rise and fall. A tear forms in the corner of her eye. “I . . . I have AIP.”
We both cock our heads to the side, scrunching our foreheads. Those letters mean nothing to me.
She scratches her arms, then shifts in the bed. “Por-porphyria. Um . . . It’s a disorder where basically,” she scratches her legs, her body jerking, “my liver doesn’t break down toxins right, and when I am exposed to . . . triggers, I have an attack.”
I step even closer, barely understanding her with all the itching. “What type of triggers?”
She sighs, still scratching. “For me, stress, alcohol, sun.”
“So this was some sort of stress, panic attack?” Brendan asks.
“No, it . . .” She shakes her head before scratching at her neck and closing her eyes. “I’m . . . I’m explaining it all wrong.”
“It’s okay.” I grab her hand, holding it in both of mine, stopping her scratching. “You can explain it when you’re feeling better.”
She shakes her head, again. “You can leave. I can find a way home.”
“We’re not leaving.” Brendan’s words are absolute, and I know he means them as much as if they came from me.
A tear streams down her cheek as she tries to look at the wall away from us.
“How long have you been going through this?”
“Nine years.”
