29. Kendall
Chapter 29
Kendall
As Ashton picks up the phone, I can see that he’s angry about the Ash misunderstanding, and he has a right to be. As I process this new information, I feel progressively shittier. I can’t even fathom how pissed I’d be if our roles were reversed.
Whatever Ashton hears on the other end of the phone call makes all the blood leave his face.
“What happened?” he demands.
I strain to hear, but I can’t.
“Allergic to what?” Ashton shouts.
I can’t hear the answer to this either, but Ashton grits out, “She’s your fucking daughter. It’s your job to know.”
Okay, so I guess it’s one of his parents, and the person in trouble is his sister.
My already-hammering heart speeds up. I really like Jordan, and if something bad has happened to her?—
“Did they let Mom ride in the back?” Ashton half asks, half demands.
“Good,” he says next. “Keep me posted. I’m heading to the airport now.”
Hanging up, he looks at me, eyes wild. “Jordan had an allergic reaction. Dad doesn’t know to what. She’s being driven to the hospital as we speak. I’m going over there.”
“Which hospital?” I ask.
“Boston Medical Center,” Ashton replies as he steps over to the curb and hails a cab.
I blink. “Boston?”
“She went to visit our parents,” he says over his shoulder.
Oh.
A cab stops and he jumps in. On impulse, I join him.
“What are you doing?” he demands.
“Coming with you,” I say with a confidence I don’t feel.
“Did you not hear? It’s in Boston.”
“Right,” I say. “I don’t mind the trip.”
“It’s going to be dangerous.” Before I can clarify as to how, he tells the cabbie to get us to JFK and promises him a hundred-dollar tip if he can make it there in a half hour.
“Make it three hundred,” the cabbie counters. “And if I get a ticket, you pay it.”
“Deal.” Turning to me, he says, “Now please get out.”
“No.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Speeding doesn’t scare me. In fact, it sounds kind of fun.”
“You’re slowing me down,” he says. “Please just?—”
“Can you just take me? Please?”
“Fine. I don’t have time to talk you out of it.” Turning to the cabbie, he says, “Let’s go.”
The guy punches the gas, and we torpedo forward.
I bite my lip and sneak a glance at Ashton. “Can we talk?”
“No,” he says without looking up from his phone. “You’ve slowed me down enough already. I’ve got to make arrangements with my dog sitter and get plane tickets.”
Ah. “Okay. Get me one too? I’ll pay you back.”
He grumbles something unintelligible, still without looking up, and stays on his phone for the next fifteen minutes—which makes him miss the car-chase-like maneuvers the cabbie pulls on FDR Drive.
“Did you get them?” I ask him when he finally looks up.
He nods. “If we make it there in a half hour, we’ll have twenty minutes to board.”
In other words, our chances are pretty slim.
“I have TSA PreCheck,” I say, trying to stay positive. “Do you?”
“Yes,” he says, then winces as the cab zooms across traffic from the middle to the right lane, cutting off a giant truck in the process.
I want to remind the cabbie that if we’re dead, he won’t get paid, but I don’t, as that might piss off Ashton even more.
Then again, maybe I should say something. The cabbie cuts off a bus and nearly collides with a Tesla Y, all in the matter of a millisecond.
Meanwhile, Ashton looks so worried I can’t help but put a hand on his shoulder.
Frowning, he shrugs off my hand. The rejection stings, but I dare not ask if he’s acting this way because of the Ash debacle, or if he’s too stressed for touching right now in general.
“She’s going to be okay,” I say as soothingly as I can.
Ashton gives me a sideways look. His voice is tense. “We don’t know that.”
“Don’t EMTs have EpiPens? That’s what she needs.”
He clenches his teeth. “She asked me to go with her. Maybe if I had, her life wouldn’t be in danger right now.”
“That makes no sense.”
In reply, he checks his phone and frowns. I sneak a peek at his screen and see him texting his dad.
You there yet?
No reply comes for a few silent minutes, so Ashton makes a call, but no one picks up.
“Call the hospital,” I suggest. “They should be able to say if she was admitted.”
“Thanks.” He looks up the number and calls it. After a terse conversation, he hangs up with a curse.
“They said it could take up to an hour to triage her, then half an hour to register and admit. And who knows how soon after that she’ll actually see a doctor.”
“We might get there before that,” I say.
He frantically taps at his phone, then nods. “The flight is an hour and ten minutes. The cab ride from BOS to BMC is fifteen minutes without traffic.”
“Call your dad again.”
Ashton does, then tries his mom—to no avail.
By the time he finally gets through, we have reached our destination, so Ashton tosses a bunch of money at the cab driver and stays on the phone as we rush through security.
“Did you hear that?” I ask him when an announcer mumbles something along the lines of, “Last call for Boston flight.”
Nodding, Ashton grabs my hand and launches into a sprint.
Panting, I do my best to keep up, and we just barely make it before the gate closes.
“So? What did you learn?” I ask once we’re in our seats and I’ve caught my breath. I’m still sweaty from the mad dash, though, and more than a little annoyed that Ashton looks as cool as if he’s been lounging on the couch instead of sprinting at full speed through half the airport.
I guess being in crazy good shape pays off in all kinds of situations.
“She did get epinephrin,” Ashton says. “But she’s still pretty swollen. They’re waiting for her to get admitted.”
“Ah.” I buckle myself in.
Ashton hides his phone and sits in tense silence as the plane takes off.
Why is he not talking? Is it worry about his sister, or is he still mad at me?
I wrack my brain for something to ease the tension, but the best I can come up with is a suggestion to order some food.
“Right,” he says. “We never ate that sushi.”
I order the overpriced turkey and Swiss sandwich, while he gets the chicken Caesar wrap.
We eat in silence. My sandwich tastes like paint chips, and I’m not sure if that’s because of the lower air pressure, the airline’s crap sandwich-making skills, or the fact that Ashton is still visibly upset—for which I can probably take most of the blame.
“Hey,” I say when the meal is over. “Can we talk about that whole Ash misunderstanding?”
His frown deepens. “Not now. Please.”
“Right. Makes sense.” And it sucks ass, but I can’t exactly make him talk. And maybe he’s right not to want to hash out things now. He might be too worried about Jordan to talk calmly and rationally.
Still, in my head, I play out the possible conversations that we might have, and they only end up making me feel worse about the whole thing.
As soon as we land, it’s full speed ahead again. Talking on his phone with one hand and grasping my hand in the other, he pulls me through the crowds of passengers. His touch, though hurried and careless, grounds me. He only releases me once we’re settled into another cab.
“What did they say?” I ask after Ashton offers the current cab driver the same deal he made with the one in NYC.
“She just got admitted,” he says. “Waiting for a doctor.”
“I see.”
The rest of the ride happens in more silence, but at least it’s blissfully quick.
When we get to the emergency room, three people jump from their seats and approach us: two older adults who are likely Ashton’s parents and an attractive woman about my age. All three of them are dressed in that understated yet posh way that all but screams “old money.”
When Ashton spots the younger woman, he halts in his tracks, and his expression darkens—an impressive feat, given his mood on the way here.
“Gwyneth,” he says in a voice so icy it makes the way he’s been talking to me during this trip seem warm and fuzzy. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
The older woman who’s most likely his mother clutches her pearls, literally. “Is such vulgar language necessary?”
Ashton’s reply sounds like a low growl, and Gwyneth takes a step back before saying in a breathy voice, “I happen to know Jordan. We took Intro to Computer Science together. And Intro to C++.”
“Yeah, sure.” Ashton’s voice drips with sarcasm. “You’re practically BFFs—except for the part where she hates your fucking guts.”
“You’re upsetting your mother,” his—I presume—father says coldly. “If you must know, I invited Gwyneth after you told me you were coming here. I didn’t realize you’d have company.” He gives me a cool once-over. “I had hoped that maybe you’d come to your senses and?—”
“Do not finish that sentence,” Ashton snaps, then turns to the young woman. “Gwyneth, you’d better go.”
“No,” his mother says. “She’s been useful. I want her to stay.”
“And how has she been useful?” Ashton demands.
“She got us access to the hospital system,” his mother says. “Told us which doctor Jordan’s speaking with and what university he got his degree from.”
Ashton whirls on Gwyneth. “You hacked into the hospital’s system? You realize that can get you a visit from the FBI?”
His father finally looks at me. “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?”
Ashton’s jaw flexes. “Later. Right now, I’m going to see my sister.”
Grabbing my hand again, he strides over to the reception desk, where we learn where to find Jordan and provide our IDs to get visitors’ passes.
A short walk later, we stop next to a bed with a swollen-looking Jordan—who beams a megawatt smile at her brother and then at me.
“You’re here,” she says, her words slightly slurred.
He puts his hand over hers. “Of course.”
“You really didn’t have to come all this way,” she says. “This is just allergies.”
He gives her a glare. “You know anaphylaxis can kill you, right?”
She sighs. “So the doctor just said.”
“What else did he say?” Ashton demands.
“He thinks I reacted to my morning bacon.”
“Bacon?” he asks incredulously.
She nods. “Said this might happen if I eat any meat from a mammal. But obviously, more tests are needed to be sure.”
“All… mammals?” Ashton looks dubious.
“I know,” she says. “If I were a cannibal, I’d be screwed.”
Ashton frowns. “This is serious.”
“I know,” Jordan says. “The next time I get tuna, I’ll have to make sure it’s dolphin free for the sake of self-preservation.”
“How could you just become allergic to meat all of a sudden?” he asks. “You’ve always eaten it without any problems.”
“It’s that stupid tick,” Jordan says. “That’s what clued the doctor in. He thinks I developed something called alpha-gal syndrome—and no, that doesn’t mean I’m the type of gal who can lead a pack of werewolves.”
Ashton runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve never heard of that.”
“Me neither,” Jordan says.
“I’m so sorry,” I chime in. “That sounds horrible.”
Jordan waves that away. “I can still eat fowl and seafood. Or maybe I’ll become vegan—and finally prove that I’m better than everyone else.”
“Whatever diet you decide on, I know a good nutritionist who can help you make a meal plan,” Ashton says.
Jordan wrinkles her nose. “Speaking of unpleasant things, did you run into our parental units and Gwyneth on your way here?”
“Yes.” He grimaces. “I can’t believe Dad called her.”
“I can,” Jordan says. Turning my way, she adds, “Not sure if Ashton filled you in, but Gwyneth is the woman our parents wanted him to marry. They started pushing for it almost as soon as Ashton started dating her back in college, and they kept pushing for it even after Ashton broke up with her. They just couldn’t accept that Ashton wasn’t ready for such a serious commitment, and especially not with a stage-five clinger like Gwyneth.”
Seeing my shocked expression, she nods. “I’m not kidding. And telling us whom to marry is just the tip of the iceberg. They wanted us to go to the school they chose, get jobs they approved of, and?—”
“And your life would only be the better for it,” says their father, who’s clearly part ninja.
I turn and see both of his parents here, but thankfully, Gwyneth is not with them.
Which is good, because, for no reason that I can explain, I want to locate a scalpel and stab a bitch.