CURVEBALL

by Mariah Dietz

  My phone buzzes again for the millionth time since I got the horrifying call from Lindsay that Hayden was unconscious. I’ve been ignoring it, not feeling steady enough to share updates with anyone, but I finally reach for it.

  Rachel: What happened?

  Rachel: Where are you?

  Rachel: Did Coen and Patrick really get into a fight?

  I don’t see the rest of her messages because my attention turns back to Coen. “He hit you?” Vehemence deepens my voice and darkens my mood. “He seriously hit you?”

  Coen looks at me, and his eyes appear darker as they dance over my face, concealing something he thinks will upset me.

  “After you guys left in the ambulance, there was an altercation.”

  “What kind of altercation?” I ask.

  Coen glances at Hayden once more and his eyebrows rise and fall before he looks back at me. He licks his lips, and sits back on his heels. “I hit him.” His hand stretches and I see the cuts and tears across his knuckles.

  “Why?” My question is quiet, yet seems to fill the entire room.

  He scrubs his bruised hand down his face. “I don’t know.”

  I stare at him, waiting because that isn’t a good enough answer.

  “She waited five minutes to call the police after he said he needed his shot. Five minutes,” he repeats before clenching his jaw and taking a deep breath through his nose. “Hayden must have told him about us, because when he got there, he tried kicking me out of the house,” his eyes meet mine, reflecting his honesty and defeat, “and I just lost it.”

  “So you hit him?”

  Coen ducks his head, looking up through his lashes at me, shame and exhaustion making him look more vulnerable than I thought possible. “We both got a few shots in.”

  “I’m going to call my lawyer,” I declare. “I’m pushing for full custody.”

  “Ella, I hit him first.”

  “His constant absence could have been what killed Hayden,” I snap.

  “He’s going to make this difficult, and it’s my fault.”

  I shake my head. “He has made my life difficult since I was seventeen, and I’m sick and tired of continuing to give him that power.” I rub my lips together. “Patrick has manipulated and lied and cheated, and I’ve never held him responsible for anything. I’ve never fought for child support, never argued about visitation, thinking it was more important that they at least make an effort—nothing. I’m done. This town can think I am the reincarnation of evil. I really don’t care.”

  “I need to call my sister and see if she can refer me a lawyer.”

  My thoughts come to a screeching halt. “He wouldn’t.”

  With raised eyebrows, Coen shrugs. “It would be within his rights. He has an entire party of witnesses that I attacked him.”

  “Hitting him is hardly attacking him.”

  “I held him up so he couldn’t fall over, so I could hit him again.”

  In my profession, my success stems from knowing what people will do. Understanding that if certain variables occur, they will lead to a specific outcome. However, I have no idea what the outcome is going to be here. I don’t even know how to guess the conceivable possibilities. Pulling my hair back, I sit down and start considering all of Patrick’s traits and behaviors. I’m not a psychologist, far from it, but if there’s one person I know better than most, it’s Patrick.

  “You’ve hurt his pride. He’ll go after yours, but…” I rub my fingers over my throbbing temples. “With me, he always used this stupid town. He knows how to influence people and look like the victim. I think he’ll do the same with you. I think we have to worry about your job more than anything.”

  Coen gives the slightest shake of his head. It’s nearly imperceptible. “I think I quit today.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Ella, I hit a man. I can’t do that, especially not while I’m in my uniform and out on a call.”

  “Ninety-nine percent of the time, of course. But this call didn’t fall into that percentage. You can’t tell me any of the other firefighters across the globe wouldn’t have had the exact same reaction you did.”

  “Babe.” His brown eyes look at me intently, while my mind reels with possibilities and facts. “You moved here at eighteen as a single parent, and the town looks at you as a pariah. Do you really think they’re going to understand my reasons for hitting their hometown celebrity?”

  “Yes!” I cry. “Because I’m who made him a celebrity. I didn’t do or say anything when the rumors began because I expected him to stop them. I thought there was no way an entire town would really believe it, and I certainly never thought they would ever hold on to the rumors for so long. In high school, rumors filtered in and out on a daily basis. If I had known then that I would still be called a whore every time I walked through the produce department, I can guarantee you I would have done things a little differently.”

  “Where did the rumors even begin?”

  “I have asked myself that question a million times,” I tell him. “All our discussions were by phone or in writing or in one of our houses. And I never screamed at him. Never threw something at him. Never threatened him. None of it. I kind of wish I had since everyone thinks I did.”

  “His wife?”

  “I don’t think so. Lindsay and I have a very strange relationship, but I’ve never felt like she hated me. Honestly, I think she blames Patrick, though she’s never outright told me so. She can’t have kids, so I think in some ways she even blames herself, which is complete bullshit.”

  “And fuckface probably lets her.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he does. Patrick can’t accept responsibility for anything. If he does anything wrong, there’s going to be ten reasons for why it happened, and they’re all someone else’s fault. ‘I hit the mailbox because they built their house too far to the west and you get blinded by the sun as you come up around the bend, and the weatherman said it was supposed to be cloudy, and the deejay on the radio was talking too loud, and my wife called me, and I had just saved ten people’s lives on my last shift and was too tired, so clearly, it’s not my fault.’”

  Coen smiles, and having it be the first time I’ve seen it today makes me realize how concerned and worried he is. I scoot my chair a little closer to Hayden’s bedside and take one of his hands in mine. It’s pliant and warm, as though he’s asleep in his bed at home, and my chest aches, that special spot in my heart tearing.

  “I shouldn’t have let him go tonight. If I hadn’t, we wouldn’t be here. Hayden wouldn’t be in a hospital bed with wires tracking his brain activity and tubes breathing for him, and you wouldn’t have had to save his life, or have gotten in a fight with Patrick, and I’d be at home getting Hayden ready for bed and waiting to hear from you.” I can see the alternative so perfectly and clearly, it’s difficult to realize this is our reality instead.

  His hand brushes the length of my back. “Life is too short to think like that. We’ll get Hayden home and back to feeling better, and then I’ll figure this mess out. It’s not going to be a big deal. The most important thing right now is that Hayden gets better.”

  Neither of us sleep or even try to. I am too afraid Hayden will wake up or that I’ll miss something—anything that will give us more news. Coen looks exhausted, but I stopped suggesting he go home and rest after the second time when he leveled me with a silent glare that he maintained for a solid minute before reminding me he would be with us the entire time. When Hayden was six and continually got tonsillitis and eventually had to get his tonsils removed, Patrick only stopped by at the end when he was already in recovery, and when Hayden’s been sick with the flu, it’s always been me who stays with him and rubs his back and watches his favorite bad cartoons. Now, while I endure one of the hardest and worst parts of being a parent, I’m grateful to have someone next to me to help dull the fears and watch him when I have to step out to use the restroom.

  It’s the middle of the night when I pick up my phone and se
nd an email to Mr. Hakes, explaining to him that I won’t be available today, giving him a brief recount of Hayden’s situation.

  Then I text Rachel, and my emotions begin to drown me once again.

  Me: He went to Patrick’s for a birthday party for his dad, and the cake they served had peanuts either in it or was exposed to them. He had a horrible reaction and no one there knew how to help him. Coen’s station was the first one there, and they had to restart his heart.

  Her response is instant, even though it’s the middle of the night.

  Rachel: Oh my God. Ella. Are you okay?

  Me: Once he wakes up and they can tell me he doesn’t have any brain damage from the lack of oxygen, I will be.

  Rachel: He’s not awake yet?

  Me: They gave him something to help him sleep, saying it would help him most.

  Rachel: How can I help?

  A figure in the hallway pulls my attention from my phone.

  “Oh, no,” I mumble quietly, Rachel’s inquiry forgotten.

  Coen sits up. “What?” He turns to look out the door.

  “I just saw Tony, Rachel’s ex-husband.”

  “Rachel was married?”

  I nod. “They got divorced last year. It was ugly. He accused her of all kinds of things.”

  “Why’s he here?”

  “He’s a nurse,” I tell him.

  “God, I hate small towns,” he grumbles.

  “He’s a good nurse, but still, it seems like there would be some kind of rule about why he shouldn’t be caring for Hayden, doesn’t there?”

  But Coen doesn’t get the opportunity to answer because Tony appears with Hayden’s chart in his hands.

  “I saw the name, and had hoped it wasn’t you. I’m so sorry, Ella.”

  I swallow my discomfort and thank him.

  “It’s good to see you. I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.”

  “I’m Coen, Coen DeLuca.” He offers his hand to Tony.

  “Tony Kosta,” Tony says, shaking his hand. “I hope you hit that son of a bitch a lot harder than people are saying.”

  Coen lifts an eyebrow. “There’s a rumor starting that I didn’t hit him very hard?” The note of sarcasm in his voice is nearly undetectable, but I see the humor in his eyes, confirming its presence.

  “Said you missed, and he got you on your back before you could him. That you only managed to get a cheap shot in at the end.”

  Coen chuckles and shakes his head, but he doesn’t disagree or tell him more. “I like that version better,” he says.

  “That guy had it coming,” Tony says. “I wouldn’t mind punching him a few times myself.”

  I try to hide my surprise as Tony checks all of Hayden’s vitals again.

  “He’s looking good,” Tony assures me. “I don’t doubt that the doctor will unhook a few of these machines when he gets in.”

  Every muscle in my body relaxes, slouching into the chair. Coen wraps an arm around me, pulling me against his side and kissing that spot right above my temple again.

  “That’s great news,” Coen says.

  When Tony leaves with the assurance that the doctor will be in within a few hours, I turn to Coen. “How do you know so much about medicine?”

  “Well, each shift at a firehouse has a medic on because we’re the first responders to any nine-one-one call.” He lifts his hand into the air, palm up as though weighing a decision—or possibly his thoughts. “I wasn’t interested in that at first. I was in one of the biggest firehouses in the country, and I loved it. I lived and breathed for my job. I was young and stupid, and I thought I was invincible, and if there was a job that sounded even remotely dangerous, I was in. Then when Carina was in her accident, everything just changed. I’ve played that scene out a thousand times after looking at all the reports, considering if they had done something different, just one or a dozen, would the outcome have changed? Would she still be alive? No one did anything wrong. They went by the textbook. I just wanted to be able to know all the textbooks. All the methods. Every theory, every option so that if I ever had the chance, I could save someone since I wasn’t there to save her.”

  My eyes are glazed with tears as I lean further into him, still keeping hold of Hayden’s hand. I hate that the reason I have Coen to thank for saving my son’s life is the loss of his sister’s. Nothing about that seems fair or right.

  “Why did you transfer out of DC?”

  “They didn’t have any medic positions open, and down here I could work and train, and still have my spot while I worked in the hospital.”

  “You worked in the hospital?”

  I can’t see him nod from where I’m resting against him, but I can feel it. “In the ER for six months.”

  It doesn’t come as a surprise, not really. I only saw a brief glimpse of him on duty last night, and it was obvious he had been in charge, and while riding to the hospital, the medics had made a comment that something had been done well to which another responded that it was because Coen had done it.

  “Why don’t I grab some breakfast? You have to be starving. Coffee with two creams?”

  I nod, my thoughts still on a younger Coen changing his entire life’s path because of a tragedy that led him here.

  My phone buzzes, and I take a deep breath. I need to call my parents and tell them what happened. I should probably be checking in with work to make sure someone received my email about being out today. I’ve been worried Patrick has messaged me and will randomly show up because I’ve been avoiding my phone except for filling Rachel in.

  There are several unread messages and a few missed calls from both Patrick and Rachel, and a few dozen emails.

  Work is a low priority right now, but keeping Patrick away is at the top of my list, so I open his messages first.

  Patrick: We need to talk.

  Patrick: I’m coming by the hospital in an hour.

  I check the timestamp and then the clock and realize he’s going to be here any moment.

  “Shit,” I hiss. I’m not sure if Coen’s absence is a curse or a blessing. Maybe if Patrick shows up while he’s still gone, I can get him to leave.

  “Hey.”

  Startled, I look up and find Rachel in the doorway with two coffees in hand. I stand up, but don’t move closer. I still can’t release Hayden’s hand, afraid he won’t keep fighting as hard as he’s been if he doesn’t know I’m here.

  Rachel’s eyes flood with tears. She sets the coffees down on a small table and comes over to us, careful as she wraps her arms around me.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” she says.

  “Me either.”

  “What have they said? Are there any updates?”

  Tony’s name is on the tip of my tongue, but I stop and realign my words. “They think the doctor will remove some of the machines when she comes in and checks on him.”

  “That’s good.” Rachel takes a step back and reaches for Hayden’s other hand, which has a clip on his finger to measure the oxygen in his blood.

  “It is,” I agree. “I hate to ask you this, but you’re here at the best time. I really could use your help. Patrick’s on his way, and though he never shows up when he says he will, he’s supposed to be here any moment. Will you stay with me? I’m afraid I might try and claw his eyes out if I’m in here alone with him.”

  “Do you really think I’d stop you? I’d be holding him down.”

  “Whose phone is that?” Rachel asks, grabbing the cups of coffee she had set down.

  “Oh, um … it must be Coen’s. He came last night.”

  Rachel’s eyes are still rimmed with red, but they widen and she smiles. “Do you like him? It seems like there’s something going on between the two of you.”

  I stare at Rachel, my heart skipping beats.

  Does she know?

  Will this be easier if she already assumes?

  Harder?

  Is she going to hate me?

  “Do I like Coen?” I repeat the qu
estion back to her, sounding trepid and guilty.

  She stares at me, her blue eyes wide, pleading with me to say no.

  “We’ve become really close,” I begin. “I mean, he’s so great with Hayden, and…”

  “He’s so great with Hayden!” She emphasizes the point, and I blindly believe she’s thinking this is a good idea. That Coen might be the right man for me. “I’m being so ridiculous,” she says, laughing as she leans against the foot of Hayden’s hospital bed. My breath catches, relieved this is going to be so much simpler than I had feared. “I mean, I know you don’t like Coen like that. He’s a firefighter. He’s single and doesn’t have kids—and the biggest point—you like Garret.”

  The name doesn’t even register for several seconds, then I realize she’s referring to Outdoorsyman.

  “It was one date,” I remind her.

  “Sure, but every relationship starts out somewhere.”

  My head pounds. “I … I really don’t want to talk about this right now,” I tell her.

  Footsteps have us both turning before we can make it to neutral territory, and Patrick appears, his face heavily shaded with bruises that I try really hard not to react to.

  “Fall down some stairs?” Rachel asks.

  He doesn’t even acknowledge her. “They said he’s improving.”

  “They said Lindsay waited five minutes to call nine-one-one.”

  Patrick cocks his head to the side. “She was scared.”

  “Your wife was scared because my son was having an allergic reaction that she’s known about for the past eight years?”

  “Elle,” he says my name softly, in a tone that I know from years of apologies and pleas.

  “Ella,” I correct him. “My name is two syllables and always has been.”

  “He’s going to be okay.”

  “Thanks to Coen, not you.”

  Anger flashes across his face, narrowing his eyes and thinning his lips. “He was doing his job, Ella. Since when does that deserve your highest accolades? You’ve always gotten pissy at me when I have to go save people’s lives because you think I’m working too much.”