by Kendall Ryan
I remember at Wes’s apartment the other night when he literally swept me off my feet. Thinking about the way he looked at me that night brings back the familiar pressure of tears building that stings the top of my cheeks. He looked at me like that all those years ago too. Why did I think this time around would be any different?
Alex lets out a frustrated sigh. “He’s an idiot, Jane. A huge fucking idiot.”
And I know he’s right. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.
After I get another round of tears out, Alex insists that I at least try to eat.
“Don’t let him win,” he says, slugging me in the arm. “Don’t let him ruin Thai food. Thai food is sacred.”
That gets a snicker out of me.
“Made you laugh. Now you have to eat!” Alex says, a victorious smile spreading across his face.
I roll my eyes, picking up my chopsticks again. The only things I’ve put into my stomach today are black coffee and gin and tonics. I guess I can manage a little food.
It takes almost the full night of us watching game-show reruns on the couch, but I manage to clear my plate. I don’t even mind the curry stains I get on my slinky maroon dress. I’m just happy not to be alone, to have a best friend like Alex who’s willing to show up at the drop of a hat and make things better.
Halfway through our fourth episode of Jeopardy, I nod off, and Alex nudges me awake.
“C’mon, sleepyhead.” He laughs, helping me off the couch. “Let’s get you to bed. I’ve got to hit the road.”
He walks me to my bedroom, turning away so I can change into pajamas. He’s part best friend, part babysitter, leaning against the wall as I brush my teeth. When I’m done, he pulls back the blankets so I can crawl into bed.
“Hey, Jane?” Alex says, his fingers hovering over the light switch. “Don’t text him tonight, okay? Promise?”
I nod my head. That’s a promise I know I can keep.
Chapter Sixteen
Weston
“You get enough to eat, honey?” Mom asks over our thick slices of apple pie.
“God, yes. I’m about to explode.” I lean back with a defeated groan, my chair creaking. “You really pulled out all the stops, Mom. I won’t be hungry for the rest of the weekend.”
Pot roast, glazed carrots, scalloped potatoes, and now dessert . . . I’m so full it almost hurts, but I’m not complaining. Although I am still wondering something.
“So, not that I don’t love seeing you, but was there some reason you were in such a hurry about meeting up?” She’d been calling at least once a day for the past week, asking when was the soonest I could come over for lunch.
“Can’t a mother want to steal a little time with her only child?”
I sigh, but there’s much more affection in it than exasperation. “Of course you can. And I’ve been looking forward to catching up too. It’s been too long.”
“I’m so happy you’re back home. For selfish reasons, of course, but I also know things didn’t go well for you in Philadelphia.” She uses her fork to push a bite of pie around on her plate. “By the way,” she says too innocently, “whatever happened to that Jane girl? She was so sweet.”
My overstuffed stomach twinges, and I give my mom a confused look. “You know what happened, Mom. She dumped me.”
“No, I don’t mean when you were in college,” she singsongs, her eyes sparkling.
“Then what are y—” I almost slam my fork down. “For God’s sake, Mom, not you too.” Did someone take out a billboard or something? Does everybody and their kid brother have an opinion on our relationship? “How’d you even find out about any of this?”
Mom can’t keep her grin contained anymore. “Jane called me last Friday to get my secret chicken parm recipe.”
Shit. It takes me only a second to realize this was for the dinner I didn’t show up to. When I dumped Jane over a goddamn text message because I’m an idiot and a coward, and I knew my resolve would crumple if I saw her in person.
My gut clenches all the way up to my throat. “And she told you we were . . .” Dating? Fucking? Making a huge mistake that would only hurt her in the end? “Involved?” That would certainly explain why Mom was so urgent about having lunch together ASAP.
“She didn’t have to. Calling up your mom out of the blue, asking how to cook what just so happens to be your favorite dinner?” She gives me a sly look and taps her temple. “This old lady can figure a few things out.”
I can’t decide whether to be relieved that Jane didn’t reveal anything, or frustrated at the lost chance to find out more about what she thinks of me. Then I remember that’s none of my business anymore. We’re over . . . not that we ever really began again in the first place. And it’s for the best.
“So?” Mom coos. I swear she even wiggles a little. “Tell me more! How long have you been dating? Is it official yet?”
“We broke up.”
The words are like glass shards forced up my throat. I stare at my plate so I don’t have to see Mom’s face fall, but I can still hear her disappointment in her voice, and it makes me too aware of how raw I feel.
“Oh, honey . . . I’m so sorry. I didn’t know, or I wouldn’t have brought it up.”
“I know. It’s fine.” My voice is flat, tight with the effort to hold back how sick and spun up I feel.
She reaches across the table to stroke my clenched hand. “You must feel terr—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
There’s nothing to talk about. It’s a done deal. I just have to stay strong and give Jane space. Just have to keep reminding myself that this is for the best.
I must have done the right thing. Because if I didn’t . . .
I can’t let how much I miss Jane tempt me into finishing that thought.
I force myself to pick up my fork and dig back into the pie. Mom’s cooking is delicious as always, but right now, eating feels more like shoveling sand into a hole than a pleasant visit to childhood memories.
For a while, we mechanically chew, swallow, and repeat while painful silence fills the space around us. Then Mom mutters, “What’s that noise?”
I prick up my ears and hear a faint buzz from the mudroom. I left my phone in my coat pocket so I wouldn’t be tempted to check it during my time hanging out with my mom. Normally, I’d ignore it until I left, but the way it repeats sounds like a call rather than a text, and I can’t think who’d be calling me other than work.
I grunt and stand up. “Be right back.”
My phone shows nine missed calls and six voice mails from a number I don’t recognize. What the hell?
I play the first voice mail and am greeted by Alex yelling, “Wes, pick up your fucking phone!” at the top of his lungs.
How did Alex even get my number? But his next words drive every other thought out of my head.
“Coach had a heart attack! The ambulance just took him to Riverview General, and if you don’t go help her, I swear to God, I’ll—”
I click my phone off and jam it back in my pocket. “Sorry, Mom, I’ve got to run.”
“What’s wrong?” She stands up from the dining room table, looking alarmed.
“Jane’s dad is in the hospital. I’ll call you later when I know more.” I yank on my coat, my heart pounding so fast, my hands shake and the zipper gets stuck.
Fuck it. I don’t have time for this. I’ll fix it later. I can handle a little cold wind in the meantime.
“Oh dear, not Ken. That poor man, he was always so good to you. Here, let me pack up the rest of the pie for you.”
“You don’t have to—” I stop quickly to peck her cheek. “Thanks, Mom.”
She presses one hand to my cheek. “Of course. Now, go be with her.”
I’m already in the car and flooring the gas before I realize that I’m supposed to be giving Jane space right now. But none of that matters at the moment.
Chapter Seventeen
Jane
“There has to be some
sort of mistake.”
I’m clutching my cell phone with one hand and the edge of my desk with the other, trying to keep from falling over. I refuse to believe this is happening.
The nurse on the phone is calm and collected, but I’m frantic, praying that she’s got it all wrong, that my father is completely healthy. But she insists on repeating the truth I don’t want to hear. Ken Royce, my father, has had a heart attack and is in the hospital. And from the tone of the nurse’s voice, things must not be looking good.
The walls of my office shift and spin around me as I feel my head go light as air and I let myself fall back into my desk chair.
This is the kind of thing that happens to other people, not to my family. I’m the one who writes the get-well-soon cards, and worse yet, the sympathy cards. I’m not the one who receives them.
Dad is healthy, active, always running around the field and eating a good diet. Just the other day at dinner, he loaded up on second helpings of salad. He’s never given the doctors anything to worry about before. Sure, he’s not exactly young and spry anymore, but his health has always been leaps and bounds better than most men his age. Well, up until now.
The nurse apologizes in a low, somber voice, then gives me information about the hospital, the room he’s in, and what happens next. I scramble to find a sticky note and jot everything down, but my handwriting is hardly legible.
Can’t I stop shaking long enough to write down the goddamn information?
She informs me that Dad won’t be available for visitation for a little while, that he’ll be going through some additional tests. She lists them off, explaining to me what the next steps are, but the medical terms goes in one ear and out the other. I can hardly focus on breathing; I don’t stand a chance of retaining a bunch of medical lingo.
Right now, I don’t want her to tell me the difference between a chest X-ray and an MRI. I want her to tell me my dad is going to be okay. But neither of us knows if that’s true.
I thank the nurse, although I’m honestly not sure what for, and hang up the phone, expecting to burst into tears the second I hit END CALL. But I don’t. Not right away, at least. I’m trembling, my gut wrenching as I stare at the address I’ve written down on the sticky note. But I’m paralyzed. I can feel tears building behind my nose and cheeks, but they won’t spill out.
• • •
When I arrive at the hospital, my mom looks positively wrecked. Her eyes are red and swollen, and I immediately burst into tears when I see her. We stand in the waiting room, hugging for an eternity, until finally I take a deep breath and pull back to meet her eyes.
“Is he going to be okay?” My voice is shaky and soft.
Mom sniffs and tucks her hair behind her ears. “They’re running some tests. I don’t know if we’ll get to see him tonight.”
She didn’t answer my question, but maybe that’s better. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to handle the truth right now.
My stomach is in knots as Mom and I sit down in the vinyl chairs. Silence stretches between us as I hold her hand. And then Wes barges into my hospital waiting room, and every barrier I have comes tumbling down.
“Jane, are you okay?” His voice is exasperated, his eyes panicked. I guess word spreads fast when the head coach is in trouble.
Despite everything Wes has done to me, when he spreads his arms open, I spring out of my chair and run right into them, the tears finally pouring out. For now, I’ll forget that he stood me up, forget that horrible text he sent and how much I’ve been hurting the past few days. None of that is half as important as my dad.
I bury my face into Wes’s chest, and he holds me firmly against him.
“It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay,” he murmurs, cradling the back of my head as I sob into his shirt. “Your dad is going to be fine.”
I feel so safe here in Wes’s arms, that for a split second, I believe him. But then I remember the worry in the nurse’s voice, and my throat tightens again.
“We could lose him, Wes,” I manage to say between sobs, clutching at the dampened fabric of his T-shirt. “We could lose him, and I didn’t even get to say good-bye.”
“Your dad? Hell no.” There’s genuine surprise in Wes’s voice as he pulls me just far enough away from him to look me in the eye, wiping the tears off my cheek with his thumb. “Your dad is the toughest son of a bitch I know. He can fight through anything. You must’ve gotten that from him.”
The corner of my mouth curls into the tiniest smile as I slowly catch my breath, the tears slowing down. He’s right. Dad is tough as hell, and so am I. Neither of us is giving up yet.
“I’m just so scared, Wes,” I say, wiping the tears with the back of my hand. God, I can’t believe how much I’ve cried in front of him these past few weeks. It’s probably more than he saw me cry the whole time we were together.
Wes folds me gently back into his arms. “It’s all right, Jane. We’re all a little scared.” And by the slight shakiness in his voice, I can tell he’s not excluding himself. He smooths my hair with his hand and doesn’t let go until I’ve released the last sob I can muster, my frame falling limp in his arms.
Two hours ago, if Weston Chase would have so much as stepped foot in my presence, I would have called him an asshole and told him to delete my number. But right now, contrary to every ounce of logic within me, there’s no one I’d rather be with.
He guides us to the chair beside my mom, and he gives her a quick hug too, whispering how sorry he is.
Mom gives him a sad smile.
“Sorry about your shirt,” I mumble once the tears subside.
He looks down at his tear- and snot-soaked T-shirt and shrugs. “I don’t think that’s really what’s important right now.”
He’s looking at me, but I don’t want to look him in the eye right now. I might start crying again for different reasons. I’m glad he’s here, but we can’t just pretend things are fine between us.
For almost a full minute, we remain like this: him looking at me, and me looking anywhere except directly at him. I can’t. It hurts too much.
Weston leaves to get my mom a cup of coffee, and when he comes back, he’s also carrying a couple of water bottles. I eagerly take one and drink. I have no idea what time it is, or even what day, my brain is so clouded by everything.
“Are you planning on staying here tonight, Mrs. Royce?” Wes asks my mom.
She blows on her coffee and takes a sip. “Yeah. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself in that big, empty house.”
“I’ll stay with you,” I offer.
Mom reaches for my hand and shakes her head. “Your father will be busy with tests tonight, and I’m sure we won’t get any answers until tomorrow. Why don’t you come back in the morning?”
I don’t argue with my mom. Part of me wants to stay here with her, and the other part of me wants to go lie in my bed and cry myself to sleep.
“I can swing by your place and pick you up an overnight bag,” Wes says.
Mom nods. “Thank you, Weston.”
“Do you want me to take you home?” Wes asks, now looking at me. “It’s probably not safe for you to drive right now. I want to be sure you make it home okay.”
“A ride home would be great, yes,” I say, glancing up at him, and Wes looks relieved that I actually accepted his offer.
Yes, I’d rather get home without his help, but I also know I shouldn’t be on the road if I could burst into tears again at any second. I have to hope this will all turn out okay. It’s all I have right now—hope that Dad is strong enough to fight through this horrible nightmare.
I give my mom a squeeze, and make her promise to call if there’s news. Then I follow Wes out to the parking lot, and he opens the passenger door of his rental car for me. I wonder if he’ll ever get around to actually buying a car of his own. As we drive through the outskirts of Chicago, I try to focus on the skyline, the planes flying overhead, anything that will keep away the thought of Dad lying alone in a
cold, sterile hospital bed.
Wes turns on my favorite hip-hop station, but for once, I don’t feel like singing along. I don’t even feel like talking. I just keep my eyes locked on the road ahead. I’ve got to keep moving forward. That’s all we can do.
When we get to my street, Wes zooms past it, and I shoot him a confused look.
“Food. You should eat,” he says bluntly.
He pulls the car into a drive-through and places my usual order for a cheeseburger and onion rings without asking. His memory is like a steel trap. He pays for the food, and the girl in the drive-through hands over the greasy paper bag.
“Comfort food,” he says with a grin as he passes it off to me.
My stomach is still uneasy with worry, but I munch on a few onion rings on the quick drive back.
We pull up to my apartment building, and I’m surprised when Wes shifts the car into park and turns off the engine. I was expecting him to just drop me off and go.
“Is it okay if I walk you in?”
First the drive-through, now this? Is this his definition of an apology? Part of me wants to give him shit for it, but I’m too exhausted to bicker. I just want to eat and go to bed.
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
I unclick my seat belt and hop out of the car, Wes trailing closely behind me. Once we’re inside, I kick off my shoes and plop down on the couch with my legs crossed, my bag of comfort food nestled in my lap.
“Can I grab you a plate?” he asks, and I shake my head, reaching into the bag for another onion ring.
Should I ask him to leave? Should I ask him to sit down? My head is too much of a war zone right now to know what I want. Other than this burger. I know for sure that I want this burger.
“You can sit,” I finally say politely.
It feels weird to have him standing there in the kitchen, but I know if he leaves, I’ll be alone with the thousand and one worst-case scenarios running through my brain. I flip on the TV to the game-show channel to keep the awkward silence away as I work through my bag of fried food.
It’s barely eight, but I’m fading fast. The sooner I get to sleep, the sooner tomorrow comes, and maybe tomorrow the nurse will call back. Maybe tomorrow, I’ll get to see Dad.
