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“I’m so sorry,” she finally says. “Something came up, I had to go to the hospital.”
Instantly, every trace of annoyance disappears. “Are you alright?”
“I just… I’m so sorry. I should have let you know first—"
“I asked you, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m fine.”
“What hospital are you going to?”
“What hospital? I’m…”
"The ambulance is going to Mercy General," I hear someone say from the background behind her
"You're in an ambulance?" I ask.
"Um...yes, but it's not what it looks—"
I hang up. I hate that she's downplaying it and giving me nonspecific answers. It’s clear she doesn’t want to share what's going on, but if it’s bad enough that she’s in an ambulance, it's enough to keep me on edge.
And I can't take being on edge.
“Cancel all my appointments for today,” I bite out to my PA as I storm out. I make it to my car, zip out of the parking lot and complete the rest of the one-hour trip in about forty-five minutes. I'm pretty sure I break a few state and city laws, but I don't give a damn. The urgency beating at me won't let me decelerate, pushing me to go even faster. There's a tightness in my chest I can't identify but I know it won't leave until I know what happened to her. I have to see with my own eyes that she’s okay. It's the only way I can move on and focus.
I storm into the emergency waiting area, ready to raid the entire building looking for her if I have to. Fortunately, I don't because she’s sitting a few rows over with her hands over her head.
Relief floods through me. If she's sitting in the waiting room, then she's not in immediate danger. They wouldn’t have her out here if she was. So, it means she must be okay for the most part. Right?
I stand for a few seconds, slightly lightheaded from the relief that floods through me. Suddenly, she gets up and starts pacing. When she gets to the end of the room, she turns, and even though she's facing me, I know she doesn't see me. Her eyes are looking through everything and everybody right now, lost in her thoughts. I can see the stress lines across her face. She may be physically fine, but her mental torture is apparent in her face.
She starts chewing on a fingernail and doesn’t look up when I approach. I’m standing right in front of her as she turns to walk across to the other side. And I’m still standing there when she returns.
Only when she practically runs into me do her eyes blink up.
Her face goes slack with shock.
“Maddox?” Disbelief is clear in her tone, and it’s a little insulting.
“What? You thought you could tell me you’re in the hospital and I’m not going to rush over?”
“But…" She shakes her head. "I told you I was fine.”
“You’re not fine,” I say, pulling her tortured finger away from her mouth. “Fine people don’t destroy their nail beds.”
She looks down and sighs. “Sorry. I always do that when I’m stressed, I don’t know why.”
“Are you apologizing to me or your nails?”
That gets a little smile from her, but it’s gone almost instantly. It has no chance of survival because it's not even real humor behind the smile, and it has to battle with every other emotion for control of her features.
“But I really am okay,” she continues. “Physically, anyway. So, you can go now if you want.”
“Relax, I just got here.” I take her elbow and steer her into a seat, sitting beside her and getting comfortable. “Now, why don’t you tell me what’s going on with you?”
She looks reluctant to talk but she can probably tell I’m not going anywhere without the story. So she resigns. Her mouth opens up but before she can say anything, the emergency doors swing open and a harried young-looking doctor holding a clipboard cries out, “Mimi Lawrence?"
“Here.” Ava shoots to her feet and speed-walks to him at the speed of light. “Yes, it’s me.”
