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I brake and ease my car to the shoulder behind Parker’s truck. Cold air nips at my cheeks as I jog up to the small crowd.
“Excuse me!” I’m breathless when I reach them. “Sorry to interrupt, but can you tell me what happened here?”
Please, no.
I know now that Parker’s my perfect match.
My Mr. Right.
Now I’m standing next to his truck, and I can see that the windshield is smashed and there’s an angry dent in the front fender. The hood’s crumpled.
This world’s not always filled with sunshine and roses. I know that. Bad things happen. But the universe can’t be so cruel that it’d serve up my Mr. Right with a side of delicious fries, and then… take him away, before I have a chance to tell him I love him, can it?
That’s what I want.
I want to look Parker in the eyes and tell him how I feel. How I’vealwaysfelt.
It takes me a moment to realize I’m crying.
A weathered woman in her sixties grips my upper arm. “Ma’am, are you a friend of his?”
“Yes—yes, a friend.” And more than that. Much more. I hope. I look over at the truck again.
This can’t be happening.
She goes on. “Well, we’re not supposed to gab about our calls. There are all sorts of laws about that, these days. But you look like you’re about to pass out right here on the sidewalk. You know what we call that, in the first responder community? An incident within an incident. So you ask what you need to ask, and I’ll do my best to tell you what I can.”
For the first time, I realize that her fleece has a white letters stitched on the lapel: EMT. and she’s in uniform pants, too, and black work boots.
“Is he—Is he okay?” I stammer, while trying desperately to stop my hands from trembling so bad. I glance over at the truck again and spot a dark stain on the driver’s side window. Blood.
That doesn't help.
I look away. “What happened?”
“Accident, honey, can’t you see? A truck hauling logs fish-tailed, came right on over into his lane. Nothing he could do about it, except try to get out of the way, which he did. See how he’s on the shoulder?” She points toward the truck, and I try to look that way but the sight of the smashed windshield—and blood smear— catches my eye and more tears blur my vision.
I swipe my eyes clear. “Is he okay?” I ask again.
“Paramedics took him and the boy to the hospital. If you like, when we’re finished up here, we can give you a lift over. We’re waitin’ on the sheriff to get back. Shouldn’t be more ‘n ten minutes. I take it you’re gonna want to see him?”
I do. And not just want. Ineedto see Parker, and I don’t want to wait ten minutes.
I’ve seen the hospital. It’s on one of the side streets I’ve driven down, on my way up to Parker’s trailer.
I thank the EMT as I back track toward my Prius. Inside, I crank the heat in an attempt to ward off the chill that’s making my teeth rattle.
It doesn’t work.
My tense jaw is sore and hands are ice cold as I approach the clinic’s front doors.
I jam my hands into the pockets of my fleece and try not to start crying all over again as I near the front desk.
A young woman with a nose ring and long, wavy brown hair looks up from filing her cherry-red nails. She stops chewing her gum long enough to mutter, “What’s up?”
“I need to see Parker Manning. Is he here?”
A vision of a careflight pops into my head. Then a different possible scenario: the back of some ambulance filled with paramedics, carting him to a nearby town. Somewhere bigger than this five-bed clinic. A place with actual surgeons on staff, and maybe a receptionist who isn’t filing her nails and looking at me like she’s bored out of her mind.
