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I start to relax, when his phone buzzes in my hand and I frown when I look down and see that he has six missed calls from Ford and a new text telling Foster to call him back ASAP.
“Ford’s been trying to get ahold of you,” I say, passing him his phone.
“I’ll call him back in a minute,” he tells me.
His phone starts to buzz again, this time with a call, and he sighs, giving me an apologetic look.
“Go ahead. I’ll just be here eating all of the good pastries.”
He grins at that and heads into the living room as he accepts the call.
“What?” He answers, and I roll my eyes at his way with words.
I open the bag, pull out a coffee cake, and break off a piece.
“What?” He asks, quieter this time, and I can tell right away that something is wrong.
I drop the baked goods and take a step towards him when he turns, his eyes locking with mine.
“I’ll be there in ten.”
He hangs up, and I walk towards him.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“My dad… he was in a car accident early this morning,” he says, and my stomach drops.
“Is he…” I ask, not able to finish that sentence.
“He’s still alive, but he’s unconscious. Ford is with him at the hospital.”
“Let’s go,” I tell him, already stuffing my feet into my sneakers.
I grab my keys, and we jog down the stairs and over to my car. Foster tries to open the passenger door for me, but I shake my head.
“I’ll drive you.”
I hurry over to the other side of the car and climb in, cranking the engine and pulling out onto the street. The hospital is only a few minutes away and we ride there in tense silence.
“He’s going to be fine,” I try to reassure Foster, and he nods.
He reaches out, taking my hand in his and squeezing. I squeeze him back.
“I’ll drop you off at the door and then go park,” I tell him, but he shakes his head stubbornly.
“There’s a spot there.”
I follow where he points, and we park, both hopping out at the same time. As soon as we’re headed to the front doors, he grabs my hand again.
Foster is normally the calm, level headed one, but I can feel him panicking right now. I don’t blame him. The Miller boys are all close. I don’t know what Foster or Ford would do if their dad passed away.
“We’re looking for Frank Miller,” I tell the receptionist at the front desk.
“Room three hundred and two,” she says after a minute of typing on her computer.
“Thanks.”
We head towards the elevator and ride up to the third floor in silence.
