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I can hear Cross's voice in my head, telling me I don't know anything about Hunter, and I admit maybe I'm star struck. But I just don't think so.
I remember how he stilled under my fingers when I touched his face tonight. I remember the kiss he gave me that night, after…
If he's only a playboy, would he have been as nice as he was to me tonight?
Yes, idiot. That's what puts the 'play' in playboy.
I sigh, because I can't heed my own warning, and all I can think about as I park in front of Crestwood Place is when I'll see Hunter again.
*
Saturday morning, I wake up early and drive into Los Angeles. I could have asked Arnold to take me, but seeing Cross for the first time at this new place is something I want to do alone. I've still got Hunter on the brain, so as I fly through the city, my mind is a tangle of feelings. Worry for Cross. Fear for how I'm going to get him out of this. Longing for his friendship. Hope that maybe when I get there, he'll be magically awake again.
I’m also curious about Hunter. Wildly curious. I’m practically craving him, although all fond feelings vanish as I drive through a dreary patch of East L.A. I pass a familiar-looking exit, then the one that's mine, and I know—I know for sure—that this is going to be that same hell-hole where Mom served a court-mandated week two years ago.
I pull off onto a run-down road, then hang a right onto a dead-end street, and there it is: Sunshine Acres—the building right next door to Sunshine Rehab, where mom was sent by court order. Both buildings are tall and Soviet-esque—completely void of frill; all function. The parking deck is dark and dank, even by parking deck standards. I tell myself my imagination is exaggerating, but I swear there’s a thick layer of grime on everything.
The lobby, accessible from the third floor of the deck, is a vast space under a low-lying ceiling, filled with plastic chairs and smelling of stale carpet. There's a cut-out in the wall where two women and a man sit behind a counter top.
I stop in front of a stick-thin woman with short black hair, and ask for the charge nurse. I'm not nervous, because I know that if she says “No,” I'll come back in a few hours, and I'll find a way to sneak inside. I'll wait for Cross's nurse to take a bathroom break. I'll decide for myself how well he's doing.
The person I think is in charge has a name tag that says OLIVE. She's wearing bright green, sweat-stained scrubs that hug her spare tire and compliment her creamy chocolate skin. She looks me over, from my Ugg Moccasins to my jeans and discount designer sweater and she folds her arms across her chest. "It's Saturday," she says, sounding tired. "What do you want with me?"
I can tell she's a straight-shooter, so I match my tone to hers and cut right to the chase. "My friend Cross Carlson just got here, and I'd really like to see him. I know it's a Saturday, but I'm going out of town tomorrow for a week. I'm asking for a favor. Just this once."
She blinks at me. It's an exaggerated blink, almost comical, and after that she bugs her eyes out, like she's just heard something sensational. "Do you know who's running this place today?" she asks me in a dead-pan tone.
I shake my head, and she says, "Frankie, and Frankie's not here right now. I can let you in this once, but you've got fifteen minutes before Frankie gets back from lunch. If Frankie catches you, you're shrimp."
I frown as she turns, and hustle to follow her down the wide, gray-carpeted hall. "Um, just out of curiosity, what's shrimp mean?"
She shoots me a menacing look. "It means you'll get your head bit off."
I follow her around two corners, and at this point, my heart is pounding. The hall has started smelling more like a nursing home—that smell of soiled linens, cleaning chemicals, and sweat. We pass a row of tiny metal doors, Chiclets punched into the drab, white wall, and I want to turn and run away. Cross can't be here. It was bad enough when Mom was in the psych ward next door, but Mom had earned that.
Olive stops before a small metal door and says, "Better hurry.” I nod and thank her. I push through the door without taking time to calm myself, and the sight of a stained blue curtain dividing the room shocks me. There's barely enough space for a hospital bed between the curtain and the wall, and as my eyes move over the bed's metal rails, I know it can't be Cross because this patient is lying flat on his back with his—or her—head wrapped in gauze, and he or she is intubated. The breathing machine looming beside the bed makes a noise that brings back memories of a childhood full of ICUs.
I'm headed for the curtain, hoping against hope that Cross will be sitting up in his bed, when the curtain parts and a freckle-faced nurse appears. She's frowning like she's confused, and her shirt is tugged halfway over her head, exposing a lacy, black bra.
My heart leaps in elation. Cross...you wicked thing.
Then I smell the vomit. The nurse is holding a garbage bag, I realize. I quickly notice that her pale pink scrubs shirt is flecked with orange bits. Did Cross puke on her?
I frown as she pushes down the shirt.
"What happened?"
"Mr. Russell, next door." She frowns, and I realize she's holding another, clean shirt in her left hand. "What are you doing in here? You subbing for Nancy?"
I nod behind her. "I'm here to see my friend, Cross Carlson."
Her face scrunches, unreadable. "Oh."
I try to see past her, but she's blocking my view.
"Hun, this is the professor." She leans her head back. "Dr. Dottswold."
I look from left to right. "So this isn't Cross's room?"
