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“They’re not allowed to have visitors, and even then, it’ll only be with the parents’ permission.”
“Where are their parents, then?”
“Their parents don’t know yet.”
“How is that possible?”
“They’re on a flight right now,” he says. “Police are going to notify them whenever they land. That’s all I know right now son.”
My world falls apart in an instant, and I slump into a chair.
I wonder if this is my fault, if maybe they argued about me when Scarlett revealed the truth. Even though I overhear the whispers about the culprit being a drunk driver, a man who is “also in critical condition,” my heart feels like lead.
For hours, I see people coming and going, hear people asking questions that are asked yet never answered. Before I know it, Scarlett's mother is kneeling in front of me and clasping my hand.
“They're in a shared recovery room, Easton,” she says, “The seventh floor, 713. You can go see them whenever you're ready.”
* * *
If the laminatedidentification charts weren’t hanging from the end of their beds, there would be no way to tell the difference between Scarlett and Tully.
They’re both wrapped head to toe in bandages, with metal splints protruding from their legs and tubes flowing from their mouths to massive machines.
A nurse is adjusting an IV bag and writing down a few notes. Her eyes meet mine and she averts her gaze.
She tries to walk past me, but I gently grab her hand.
“Wait,” I say. “Can I ask you something?”
“Depends on what it is.”
“On a scale of one to ten, how bad are their injuries?”
“Sir, I don’t think that’s something I can say. You’d need to ask for their parents’ permission and then the doctors would have to—”
“Just fucking tell me.” I cut her off. “You don’t have to give me exact facts, just give me an idea.”
She looks over at the beds and sighs. “Without being too specific, one of the girls is a ten.”
“And the other?”
“The other girl is atwenty…and that’s if she’s lucky.” She walks away without saying anything else.
Letting out a breath, I set a bouquet of flowers next to Tully’s bed. Then I walk over to Scarlett’s, placing her favorite rose bloom on her nightstand before sitting next to her.
“Don’t fucking leave me…” I say. “We’re supposed to finally be together this year.”
There’s no answer from her lips. Just the soft buzzing and humming from the machines.
Undaunted, I place a hand over her casted wrist.
“Let’s pretend I climbed through your window tonight,” I say. “I have a hypothetical question for you…”
37.5
EASTON
Two Weeks Later
