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I sink to my knees and hold my head in my hands, rocking back and forth like a lunatic, just as I did two years ago on the back porch that has never felt the same since. Only, instead of a cop rubbing circles between my shoulder blades to try and calm a rising dread that can’t be soothed, there’s a young man with apologetic brown eyes crouched down at my side, gripping my shoulders tight, making soft hushing sounds.
“He’s in the best possible hands,” the nurse tells me. “They’ll do all they can for him, I promise you.”
I notice he doesn’t tell me that Rowan is going to survive. I guess they’re not allowed to lie.
30
SUMMER
“Mrs. Lauder?” a feminine voice asks tentatively from the doorway of the ICU waiting room. She’s a nurse I’ve seen pass by a few times—a small, skinny slip of a thing that Ms. T would’ve insisted on feeding up.
I suppose no one can decide what relation I am to the man they’re trying to save, so I just nod. Mrs. Lauder has a nice ring to it, and I might as well play pretend until someone comes to tell me that Rowan is gone, and I attempt to pick up the pieces of my third life, wondering if there’s any point carrying on. My first life ended when I met Ben, my second life ended when I lost him, and my third life began when I let that hunk of wood go and chose to hope for more with Rowan, and I don’t think I have the strength left to start a fourth.
“That’s me,” I say, looking up from a watery, bitter cup of coffee that someone put in my hand, though I haven’t touched more than a drop.
The nurse approaches, holding something in her hand. “This was dropped off by the police. Personal effects for your… um… for the patient.” She clearly still can’t decide who I am to Rowan, but she can’t exactly kick me out for not being his wife or being a relative, or they’ll be the ones looking like they have zero security measures in place. “I thought you might want it, to keep hold of until he wakes up.”
“Is he going to?” I ask, my throat dry.
“He’s still unconscious, but they managed to stabilize him, and everything is looking… promising,” the nurse replies, softly sympathetic. “I’m sorry I can’t say more, but there’s a chapel if you want to pray.” She must notice my expression as she hastens to add, “If that’s not your thing, there’s a decent cafeteria and they should be serving breakfast soon. It’s just that it might be a really long wait until we have more news for you.”
I raise my cold cup of coffee. “I’m fine where I am, but thank you.” I pause. “What about Levi Montrose? Is he dead yet?”
The nurse blinks in surprise. “Uh… no, he’s not dead. He’s—well, I’m not really allowed to discuss other patients.”
“Not even the ones who put the person you love in the hospital?” I press, leveling a cold gaze at the woman. It’s not her fault. I don’t blame her, but I need something to keep me going. I need to know that Levi is suffering for this.
For a moment, I’m certain that the nurse is going to stick to her guns, but as she casts a quick glance behind her to make sure we’re alone in the waiting room, she hurriedly whispers, “He’s not doing so well. Severe trauma. If he wakes up, he’ll likely wish he hadn’t, which is—in my personal, unprofessional opinion—exactly what drunk drivers deserve, especially those who were eight times over the limit.” She shoves a plastic bag into my hand and, with that, she’s out of the door.
As I settle back into the uncomfortable chair—vinyl-covered, foam poking out, probably hasn’t been replaced since the seventies—I let the muffled soundscape of the ICU wash over me: mechanical beeps, running feet, low chatter, the animal groan of someone in pain. I’d give anything to be by the water, on my little beach with Rowan beside me; my head on his shoulder, his arm around mine, alone together in the peace and quiet. Hell, I’d give everything I have to be back in his ICU room, with him awake and alert and holding my hand, so I can make sure he hears me when I tell him that I’m in love with him and that I was an idiot not to just take things one step at a time.
It’s then that I remember what the nurse put in my hand—Rowan’s “personal effects.”
But there’s only one item. A phone, wrapped in a Ziploc bag. It’s somehow less beaten up than Rowan himself, with one crack in the corner of the screen, spiderwebbing across the black mirror. He keeps it in one of those heavy-duty cases favored among Midwest dads, and if he makes it through this, I’m going to make sure he sends a congratulatory email to the manufacturer.
Carefully, I take out the phone and press the “on” button at the side. The screen bursts into life, flashing up an image of Grace and Rowan that damn near shatters the last couple of pieces of my weather-worn heart. They’re at the beach somewhere I don’t recognize, throwing up peace signs: Rowan has a bucket on his head, wielding a shovel like a sword, while Grace sits up on his shoulders, seemingly whipping a towel around her head like a lasso.
Impulse makes me swipe to open the phone, though I’m fully expecting it to be password protected; he works in the digital world, after all. But it takes me right through to his home page, no password or ID needed. There are no messages, no calls, but there is a strange red banner running across the top of the screen. It pulses slightly, and it takes me a minute to realize what it is.
I drag the notification bar down. There’s a recording. Actually, it’s still recording, racking up the hours since the crash.
“What were you filming?” I wonder aloud, tapping the ‘stop’ icon.
I’m well aware that it’s a huge breach of privacy, and I’m an asshole for doing this, but I can’t help scrolling the recording back to the very beginning… and I can’t look away as it starts to play.
At first, there’s music in the background.Fleetwood Mac,I think, though it’s tinny. And Rowan is there in the driver’s seat, bopping away like the cool uncle at a concert, grinning as he drums his fingertips against the steering wheel. He’s in one piece, both of his eyes are open, there aren’t any tubes or wires sticking out of him, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look more handsome.
He reaches for something underneath the phone, and the music fades down to the slightest hum. His eyes, shining bright, flit toward the phone; his grin widens, plumping up his cheeks.
“This is it, folks—the moment you’ve all been waiting for. We are live at five with Tommy Hudson on the decks, coming to you with the latest jams all the way ‘til seven,” he says, in a chirpy, Radio DJ voice. He laughs at himself, and I laugh with him. “And boy, have we got a surprise for you. We’ve got us a lovesick caller in need of a little advice. Rowan from New Orleans, the floor is yours.”
I stare at his beautiful face, struggling to believe that he’s the same man lying in a hospital bed, dangling on a thread of survival.
“In all seriousness,” he continues. “We’re on a very important mission tonight. This morning. It’s, like, four o’clock so I guess it depends on whether you’ve gone to bed or not. I haven’t. No time for sleep when the future is waiting, y’know? Now, could this wait until the sun comes up? Sure it could, but where’s the romance and drama in that?”
My heart pinballs up into my throat, my stomach dropping like a stone, and what’s left in between stretches out until I think, for a minute, that I might be sick. And as he keeps talking about why he didn’t just call me, a cold ripple of unease pinches down the back of my neck, icy sweat beading on my brow, saliva filling my mouth. I shoot up and lurch toward the trashcan in the corner, crouching low so I’ve got somewhere to throw up when it comes.
“… Here’s how I’m hoping it’s going to go: I slam the car door, hop over the gate, sprint down the path and there she is,” Rowan’s voice continues to say, as I balance the phone on my thigh, clutching my stomach, “running out onto the porch because I’m there, just like I promised. She might give me a smack, too, for basically dropping off the face of the digital world for three-ish days, but…”
