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I’m sick to my stomach over all of this. My friend, one of the sweetest people I know, drugged, shoved in a trunk, and now so frightened and hurt.
When we get to the hospital and we’re wheeling her stretcher inside, Ari clutches at my hand. “You’re not leaving, are you?”
I brush my hand across the top of her head. “I’ll be in the waiting room; as soon as they tell me it’s okay, I’ll be right beside you. Alright?”
Lips quivering, she gives me a little nod. Her voice is so tiny as she answers, “Okay, Cash.”
Once Ari disappears into the emergency room, I sink into a nearby chair. My legs are weak, I feel wrung out—I’ve dealt with hundreds of calls, but never someone I knew so well.
Ben drops down beside me. “You doing okay?”
I drop my head in my hands. “Fuck.”
His gaze is dark with concern. “Is she—are you two together?”
Sighing, I shake my head. “No. But I’ve known Ari since high school. We were good friends, and we’ve stayed in touch since then.”
My jaw clenches, shooting pains radiating down my neck. “But she’s special. And the thought of someone doing that to her, and seeing her so hurt. It’s just… Fuck.”
“She’s going to be okay,” Ben says, sounding a lot calmer than I feel. “Everything we saw, it doesn’t look like anything serious. Painful, yes. Bruises, some bad road rash, but I think she got lucky.”
“Lucky would be not ending up in the trunk of a damn car to begin with,” I grit out.
He sobers, his jaw tightening. “I know.” After a pause, he stands and claps me on the shoulder. “I have to get back to the station. Are you good here? Need anything?”
Shaking my head, I say, “I’m good. Thanks for letting me ride along.”
“Of course.” He shoots me a little reassuring smile. “She’ll be okay. I’m sure of it.”
Once Ben is gone, I’m left to stew in the waiting room. Minutes tick by as I alternate between worry and rage—worry that Ari’s injuries are more serious than Ian and I thought, and rage at the guy who caused her injuries to begin with.
I wrangle a phone from one of the nurses—mine is still at the station—and call my assistant to let her know I won’t be in to work in the morning. It’s already nearing midnight and I have no idea how long I’ll be at the hospital. All Idoknow is I’m not leaving until Ari asks me to.
Guilt hangs heavily on my shoulders. I’m not sure why, but I feel like I should have protected her. Like I should have known Ari was in danger.
Maybe if I’d seen her more often. Maybe I would have known if she was dating someone dangerous, if she was being set up on a blind date, and I could have done something about it.
Ari’s been back in Sleepy Hollow for a few months now, and I’ve only seen her a handful of times—there’s always a reason to stay home and text instead. Too tired, an early morning meeting, our schedules don’t match up—
Considering Ari was my closest friend in high school, those are pretty lame excuses.
We still text, like we always have—Ari will share something funny one of her students has done, or I’ll tell her about a great new author my company signed that I think she might like. We FaceTime for holidays and birthdays and nights when one of us has a story that’s too complicated for texts. And when one of us is struggling—like when Ari’s grandmother passed away, or my grandfather told me about his terminal diagnosis—the other is always the person we’ll call.
That was enough when Ari was living hours away in Chicago or Atlanta, working for Teach for America. But now that she’s back in town, I should have made the effort to see her more often. Even though we’re both busy, we could have met up for coffee or dinner once a week.
Was I avoiding the way she makes me feel when I see her in person?
I don’t know. Maybe.
But that’s not a good excuse. And I’m definitely going to be checking in with Ari alot more now.
“Mr. Chatham?” A white-coated man comes into the waiting room, looking years too young to be a doctor. I know most of the emergency room doctors by now, but this is either a medical student or a new hire.
My gut is twisting and cramping. He doesn’t look like he’s about to give me bad news, but then again, most doctors have indecipherable expressions. And I’m not family, so he may not tell me anything at all. “Yes?”
He pauses, eyeing me speculatively. “You’re waiting for Ariana Quinn, correct?”
“Yes. How is she?” Impatience has me jumping to my feet.
