Chapter 16
Sixteen
What the Hell Happened?
“DON’T FORGET THAT CLASS will be meeting in Special Collections next week!” I shout over the scraping of chairs and the shuffling of papers and backpacks. “And if you have any questions about the research paper, please make sure to email me or come to my office hours.”
I don’t know why I bother to try to make announcements at the end of class. Nobody ever listens to them.
It’s a little after two o’clock on Friday afternoon, and I’m finally finished with teaching for the week.
Not that I have any crazy plans or anything.
I’ll probably spend the next few days shuffling back and forth between my bed and my desk, digging myself out from the mountain of shit that’s been piled on top of me this week, just so I can start the whole process over on Monday with a new mountain of shit.
It’s a glamorous fucking life.
I shut my laptop and unplug it from the projector, then turn to slide it into my bag. My phone is stashed in the front pocket, set to silent for the duration of class, and I pull it out, switching on the screen.
Seven missed calls from Seth.
My stomach drops straight through the floor.
As I stare at it, my mind churning, it rings for an eighth time. Hastily, I gather my things and step out into the corridor, pressing the phone to my ear.
“Seth? What’s wrong? Sorry, I was in class.”
“Ezra, thank fuck —” Seth is all business, his voice shaking slightly.
“Dad had some kind of accident at work. He fell off a ladder and he’s pretty banged up.
Knocked himself out, but he’s awake and talking now.
They think he broke a hip and the last I heard he was in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. ”
“Fucking hell —” The linoleum floor of the hallway, squeaking under my feet, overhead lighting flickering slightly. I’m twenty steps to the door. “What does he need? What can I do?”
“Bree and I just got in the car, but we’re going to be fighting Friday afternoon traffic the whole way down. We probably won’t be able to get there until tonight, so we need you to go. Can you do that?”
“Sure, but it’s going to take me a while to get there by train —”
“Talk to Bree, I’m pulling out of the driveway now.”
There’s a brief shuffle on the line, and then Bree’s voice comes through the speaker.
“Ezra? I already called Cole and he said he’s free this afternoon and he can drive you. Can you meet him in front of his building?”
I do a quick calculation of the distance to Cole’s apartment in my head. “Yeah, that makes sense. Can you let him know I’m walking up now?”
“Sure, I’ll send him a message,” Bree replies. “Thanks, Ezra.”
I’m out on the street, my heart leaping against my ribs as my feet pound the pavement.
It’s a hike up Seventh Avenue, hacking through the thicket of other pedestrians, every car horn jangling against my consciousness.
A few blocks in, I start to jog, my messenger bag bouncing against my shoulder with each step.
I try not to think about any of it, not about Dad or Cole or what I might be facing.
But thoughts and images force themselves through the haze, and it’s all I can do to keep my feet moving, to keep from spinning out completely.
By the time I turn onto Cole’s street, there’s a stitch in my side.
I’m out of breath and hot under my tweed blazer, but I push my damp curls off my forehead and I try to pull myself together.
I spot him when I’m about halfway down the street, standing on the sidewalk outside his building, scrolling through his phone with an overnight bag slung over his shoulder.
I’d know his silhouette anywhere — his tall beanpole frame, the sway of his gait, the way his natural confidence shines through in every movement.
But when he turns and spots me coming, I can tell something is different.
Ever since we were boys, Cole has always cared a lot about how he looked.
And in four months of hooking up, I don’t think I’ve seen him with even a hair out of place.
I swear that when he wakes up in the morning after I’ve spent the night, birds must come in the window and make sure he’s fresh and ready before I get a chance to look at him.
But today, he’s dressed in loose-fitting jeans that swallow up his long legs and a gray zip-up hoodie, pushed up at the elbows, a pair of thick-framed glasses on his face.
His hair is pulled back in a bun and there’s two days of colorless stubble covering his cheeks.
And he doesn’t smile as I approach, eyeing me warily as I cover the last few yards before finally nodding in recognition.
“Cole —” I blurt out, trying to catch my breath. “Thank you for doing this —”
“It’s fine,” he replies, his voice barely audible over the sounds of the city. “Come on, let’s go get the car.”
His parking garage is around the corner, and I follow in his wake, watching the pitch and roll of his shoulders. As we wait for the parking attendant to bring his car around, I look him up and down.
“How long have you worn glasses?”
He glances over at me, and his eyebrow twitches. There are dark circles under his eyes and his cheeks look hollow. “Since I was fifteen.”
I can’t help frowning. “But I’ve never even seen you with contacts —”
Cole shrugs. “My eyes have been bothering me a lot lately and they seemed like too much of a hassle.”
The ride through the West Village is mostly quiet.
Cole is drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, checking his mirrors as he navigates his sports car through the city traffic.
The top is up, and so we’re sharing close quarters, the small cab stuffed with thick silence.
I can’t get a read on his mood, and I don’t know what to say to him.
But as we join the line of cars for the Holland Tunnel, I try anyway.
“Um — how have you been?” I venture cautiously. “Because you seem — I dunno —”
“Ezra.” The word is a complete sentence, thudding onto the console between us, but he takes his eyes off the unmoving traffic in front of us to pin me with his piercing gaze.
“I can do this for you today, because I know your dad needs you. And I bet you’re freaking out, and we can talk about that if you want.
But I can’t — I can’t talk about you and me right now.
I’m just — I’m not in a good place with that. I don’t think I can handle it.”
“Okay.”
The cars in front of us begin to inch forward, and Cole eases off the brake, a muscle twitching in his jaw. And I lean my head against the window, the cold glass soothing my skin as I gaze up at the tall buildings surrounding us. It’s going to be a long ride.
***
“Hey, Dad.”
I’m hovering in the doorway of Dad’s room, with Cole peeking over my shoulder. Dad is lying in a hospital bed, swathed in blankets, a nasty bruise on his forehead. When he hears my voice, his eyelids flutter, and he raises an arm with a tube dangling from it.
“Ezra —”
Cole’s hand is on the small of my back, a reassuring touch, gently pushing me forward, and I take the hint, stepping into the room.
There are two hard chairs next to the bed, and I stride forward, moving one of them a little closer and settling down next to Dad.
He looks so small lying there, all the fight gone out of him, and I shudder involuntarily.
Harsh overhead lighting. The sound of a gurney outside, rattling down the hallways. Machines beeping. The strong smell of cleaning products. Cole settling beside me, not touching but there. Breathe in four counts, breathe out four counts.
“What the hell happened, Dad?”
His face creases in the hint of a smile. “I was trying to install some crown molding — knew I should have moved the ladder, but I thought I could reach —”
I shake my head. “Dad, you would have killed me if you ever saw me do something like that.”
“You were always so careful.” Dad reaches toward Cole. “Besides, the most dangerous thing you ever did was bringing this lawsuit waiting to happen onto my construction site. Son, have you learned how to operate a nail gun without killing someone yet?”
Cole grins, and it’s like sunshine peeking from behind a cloud. “Not yet, sir, but I’m still holding out hope that Ezra is going to teach me someday.”
There’s an ease to it, the way Cole draws Dad out and keeps him engaged.
Cole cracks jokes, and Dad laughs, and even though I can tell Dad is in pain, grimacing from time to time, he’s in good spirits.
But at the same time, it feels fragile, as if the moment is made of glass.
When Cole looks at me, he hesitates, a tremor in his voice before he turns back to my dad.
I don’t know how to act, and I keep my arms folded tightly across my chest while the nurse checks Dad’s vital signs, rocking slightly in my chair.
By the time the doctor comes in to confer with us, there’s a rushing in my ears, and I feel vaguely ill.
“You gave everyone a scare, Mr. Callahan, but you’re in good hands and you’re going to be fine,” the doctor says, folding her arms across her chest. She’s a few years older than I am, with straight dark hair pulled back tightly from her face.
Her employee badge reads CATHERINE STRAHAN, MD.
“Is it alright if I share your medical information with your son and his friend?”
Dad nods. “Sure, Ezra’s here to make sure I don’t get into any more trouble.”
“I can tell he’s going to have his hands full with you,” Dr. Strahan laughs. “The X-rays are back, and we’ve confirmed that you did indeed fracture your right hip, and you need surgery to replace it as soon as possible.”
“Replace?” I cut in.
“Yes, due to the severity of the fracture and your father’s age, replacement is the best course of action,” she replies smoothly.
The rushing in my ears gets a little louder.