Chapter 31 Stefan
Stefan
Seven days after the fall
New York, NY
"NYU Langone." The voice that answers when I make it through the automated system is cheerful, professional, and polite.
It's time to be brazen, bluff my way through. "Could you transfer me to Evan Marquez's room, please?" I ask, trying to sound equally polite, professional, and cheerful.
"Do you have that room number, sir?" Her voice has gone a little bit harder, as if she's used to weeding out people. The hospital, according to its website, is famous for working with athletes. She probably is.
Which means I have another hurdle to jump through before I can see Evan.
"I don't," I admit. "His sister told me he was here.
I've been looking for him. I'm his boyfriend.
" Is that even still true? And will my claim help or hurt me?
Will she feel sorry for a worried boyfriend or assume that I'm some kind of stalker. But I don't know what else to try.
"Can I get your name, please?" Her voice is crisp. Still professional. Which is more than I expected after my rambling explanation.
"Stefan Petryk," I answer.
I assume she'll brush me off. Instead, she gasps. "Stefan Petryk?" Her voice is all but a squeal. She's gone from professional nurse to fangirl in about half a second. Oh, thank fuck. I can use fangirl. I know how to deal with fangirl. "The figure skater?"
"That's the one." I keep my voice calm, trying to sound a little bit flattered that she's recognized my name. Like it's not an everyday occurrence, and she's something special. "You know who I am?"
"Oh my god," she gushes. "I'm like your biggest fan. You were so close to getting that quint last year. It was amazing. You're amazing."
Well, this is a good sign. "Thank you," I say. "I really appreciate that." Maybe she's somehow missed the news this week, and I'm still in her good graces.
"And I'm sure you had a very good reason for punching Alexandre Boudreaux," she adds. "He seems like such a dick."
Ok, maybe she has heard the news. Maybe my fans don't all hate me. That would be nice. "Yeah, he can be, um... But we both messed up. It's all getting dropped." I hope to god sometime soon. "It was a misunderstanding." I might as well be graceful about it.
"Wait, oh my god." Her voice is suddenly breathless, hushed. "Evan Marquez is the mystery man, isn't he?" This is clearly a dream come true for her, getting to confirm all the gossip.
This one, though, will go in my favor. I've been trying so hard to keep Evan uninvolved, but if it means I can get to him, I'm willing to do just about anything.
And the hospital has been discreet so far.
She was, until she learned who I was. "This can't make it to the press, because I'm trying really hard to keep him out of it.
But, yes. Things were kind of chaotic—" It's one way of describing it.
"—when he fell and I haven't been able to figure out how to get in touch with him.
And since I'm not identifying him, nobody's updating me. "
"Oh god, that's so sad." She sounds genuinely sympathetic, and now I really like this woman.
"Thank you." I'm still using my PR voice, but I mean it. "I know you can't give me any details, and I truly respect that, but it would be so helpful if you could just—help me get to him. I just arrived in New York, and I’m trying to find him.”
"I can’t give you his room number," she answers, but then her voice goes softer, almost a whisper. Which means she's going to help me. Oh, thank fuck. “But I think I can come up with an alternative.”
It’s far more than I’d hoped for. "You are my favorite person in the world," I answer, and I mean it. "What's your name? I will bring you an autographed anything you want."
"Bridget," she giggles. "I'm at the front desk. Just ask for me when you arrive, ok?"
"I will absolutely do that. Will you still be there in an hour?"
By the time I hang up, my heart is pounding. I'm going to see Evan again.
My phone rings as Bridget is leading me up to Evan's door. I want to ignore it, but it could be one of my parents. I didn't tell them where I was going. They might be worried if they stopped by to see me and I wasn't home.
It could be TAFS informing me I’m back on the team. I doubt it, after only a week, but I can hope.
So I pause, motioning for Bridget to wait for a second. She does, tapping her foot, impatient, but who could blame her? I'm impatient too. Knowing Evan is on the other side of the door makes every cell in my body desperate to walk through it.
But when I fish my phone out of my pocket, my heart stops. The name on the screen is Evan Marquez. My knees go weak, and I'm clutching the doorframe, about to fall over, I'm so relieved.
Thank fuck.
He's calling me. He doesn’t hate me.
Instead of answering the phone, I let go of the frame and open the door, not bothering to knock.
Bridget tries to stop me, saying something about how he might be sleeping. How she should go in first, make sure it’s ok. I ignore her and step through.
And there's my Evan. Looking pale. Washed out.
Eyes closed. Nothing like his usual vibrant self.
He has a bandage stuck to one side of his head, and I wince.
My eyes blur for a moment, a puddle of red growing around him in my memory.
I blink myself back to the present, raking his still form with my gaze.
I can't make out any other obvious damage, but there's a blanket covering him, and one side has a bigger lump underneath it. A cast?
His phone is sitting on his chest, on speakerphone, still ringing. So is mine, all but forgotten in my hand. Rather than answer a call from ten feet away, I hang up, glancing around.
It’s a private room, not large, but not tiny, with a big window along one wall. The sill and every other horizontal surface in the room is covered in flowers—enough that the room smells like a meadow instead of sick people.
A woman is sitting beside his bed, reading. His mother, I’m sure.
Evan’s eyes open as I stand, hesitant, at the door.
He frowns down at his phone, then his head turns slowly towards me.
Dark rings are etched around his sunken eyes.
I want to fall at his feet and cry. Has it been like this for him all week?
Without me here to comfort him? To stay by his side? I am the worst.
When he sees me, his eyes rake over me, taking me in, just as I did him. And my heart stops again when a hint of light enters their dull depths. He even manages something like the beginning of a smile. "Stefan," he says, and my name sounds like an exhale of gratitude. "You came."
Bridget lets out a little squeak, then I hear her clap her hands over her mouth. I don't bother to look at her. Just stride forward until I'm standing next to Evan's bed. And then kneeling next to it, clasping his hand and bowing my head over it. "Fuck, Evan, I'm so sorry."
A stir across from me, and I wince. Probably shouldn’t be cursing in front of Evan’s mom. But all I really care about is the man lying in front of me.
I stare at his hand, thin and pale under mine. I can't see his expression, but his hand wiggles away. I let it go, the lump in my throat growing. Tears prickling. He doesn't forgive me. How could he? How could he forgive what I did to him?
But a moment later, that hand settles on the top of my head. Joy rushes back to me. Is it forgiveness? It feels like it. And oh, fuck, I love this man.
It’s not a new thought. Not anymore. But it’s different, thinking it when he’s here, in front of me.
Even more concrete. A knowledge so deep that it brings peace with it.
As if my heart has been yearning toward him forever.
And he’s here, in front of me, alive. "I was so scared," I manage to mumble.
His hand pets my hair, and my mind stops questioning. He has forgiven me, if he ever blamed me to begin with. "I didn't realize you didn't know," he answers. "I only just found out you haven’t been getting updates. I'm sorry too."
When tears touch the back of my hand, I realize I'm crying. "Are you ok?"
"Better now." His voice is full of bravery. Or I just think it is because I know that he is so brave. I still can't see, but his voice also tells me he's trying to smile again. "I'm so glad you're here."
The air moves as Evan’s mom stands, then walks past me. Evan jumps a little, like he'd forgotten she was there, but doesn't say anything. The door clicks softly as it closes, then the clack of two sets of footsteps retreating breaks the absolute silence of the room.
Bridget deserves so much more than the autographed picture I found deep in the recesses of my backpack.
I'll frame the picture, send it with a fruit basket, maybe.
Or one filled with candy. Or both. Tickets to the next competition in New York.
A picture of Evan and me together once he's healed. Yes, that.
Because I am not letting this man go again.
I want to interrogate him, find out everything that's happened to him since he fell, since before he fell, since the moment I let him out of my life. And I want to know how he feels. Has he missed me?
Can he truly forgive me enough to trust me again? Will he let me love him the way I want to? Does he want me back in his life? Can we have a future?
But when I raise my head to look at his face, even though a small smile is on his lips and that glow is in his eyes, he's still covered in fatigue. And pain, if the creases by his mouth are any indication. I know my boyfriend—fuck, I hope he’s still my boyfriend.
But as desperate as I am for answers to all of my questions, he needs rest. His eyes are closed again and the hand on the back of my head slips down to my neck. He might already be asleep.
"Evan," I whisper.
His eyes struggle to open, and he offers me that wan little attempt at a smile again. "Sorry." His voice is slurred. "I was already tired and for some reason seeing you is just..." His voice trails away, and his eyes close again.