Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
SEVEN DAYS AFTER (BECAUSE IT’S TAKING A MINUTE FOR IT TO SINK IN)
A car knocked me into a coma.
“After the meeting with Cyril, we left the restaurant,” Rafael says, his eyes distant and his voice almost a whisper. “A car veered onto the sidewalk near the intersection and clipped you. The impact threw you across the street.” His throat bobs. “You sustained a head injury. Trauma.”
It takes effort to keep my face blank. To not crumble. Hearing the details—how I wound up here—isn’t easy, not even the second time around. I don’t typically need things repeated to me like I’m a toddler, but this isn’t typical. Far from it.
“And the driver kept going?” My voice is tight, strained with the effort of keeping my emotions in check.
“Yes. Until the cops caught him. He’d been drinking.”
I swallow past the rush of panic. Someone made a reckless choice … “And now I’m … here.”
A barely-there inhale before he says, “Yes.”
Standing in Dr. Wagner’s vacated spot, I stare down at my body and rub the base of my head, the source of my injury.
A dull throb of pain, but otherwise? Nothing.
Nothing except the sharp ache of having everything snatched from me.
The years of running to escape my past, to provide for myself, to finally reach a point where I could ease into a different pace. All of that … for nothing?
No. Nope. I won’t accept the possibility. Ctrl-Alt-Delete.
I step away from the bed and pace my side of the room, chewing a nail—a habit I try my best to conceal but can’t bring myself to care about because I’m-in-a-coma-and-does-it-even-matter. Still, I shoot Rafael a glance, but he’s not even looking at me.
Gaze distant, he’s sitting rigidly in the pleather chair, head propped on his knuckles. I don’t dwell on whatever’s eating him because I have enough to worry about.
“And what, they couldn’t do anything when they arrived?” I gesture to my body—the one connected to machines. “Like CPR? Or aren’t there defibrillators for this exact situation?”
Rafael peers up at me through his tousled hair. “Your heart’s fine.”
I touch the place over my chest. It’s thunderous and erratic and not so fine at all. “So they didn’t even try?”
“They did everything they could when you got here.” His voice is low, rough.
“They had the best doctors—they still have the best doctors—taking care of you. They acted fast. Ran tests. Stabilized you. But … the swelling in your brain—” His hands press against his thighs, rubbing absently.
“They had to induce the coma. To protect your brain and give your body time to heal.”
His voice catches, barely. But I hear it. I feel it. And for a second, it throws me. Because Rafael doesn’t care, not about me—and if he’s worried now …
I look away, back to me—the body in the bed. It’s been an entire week with little change, the doctor said. No movement. No sign of waking up. Just a terrifying, ticking silence.
“Wake up,” I whisper to myself—half plea, half command.
Panic claws up my throat, sharp and sudden, but I force it back down, where it belongs.
Vulnerability is dangerous, especially in front of Rafael.
I square my shoulders and turn on him, reaching for the familiar and the safe: deflection, suspicion, control.
“And what about you? Where were you?” I lift my chin.
“Giving my head another thunk? Making sure the deed was done?”
Rafael’s brows shoot up into his forehead. “What? You don’t think I had something to do with this?” His tone is incredulous, offended. “Believe it or not, Evie, I’m not willing to maim someone to get an account.”
“Because you can charm them to death?”
His eyes blaze. “Because I …” He clamps his lips together.
“Because you … what?” I cross my arm, expecting a Vela-esque response. I don’t need to try hard. I’m loved by all. I walk through life without a care because everyone wants to be my friend. My colleague. My client.
“Because it’s not important. It’s work,” Rafael says, pushing from his chair. “That’s all it is.”
I stare at him. I know he’s lying.
Media Lab has been almost as important to Rafael as it’s been to me, not that he could understand what it means to me.
Back when we were “friends,” Rafael didn’t even know if Media Lab was for him.
He joked about starting a YouTube channel called Tacos and Tequila Tuesdays (but Every Day), launching a sports merch line, and even getting his pilot’s license.
One foot in and one foot out. But the longer we worked together, the more the “one foot out” stepped in.
The more he started—pretended—to care. About the work, and because I was stupid enough to believe it, about me.
And then he turned his charm and ambition into a weapon, stole an account we built side by side, and cut down my trust, our friendship.
Still, we came up through the ranks together, never much further ahead than the other—not for lack of trying on my part.
We each have our own teams now and manage several accounts.
Even our cubes are shoved across from each other’s, a cruel joke brought about by the age of “collaborative” workspaces.
Somehow he’s made everyone a friend along the way, and I …
well, I’ve made myself indispensable—with Dana, with leadership, with my clients.
I built a reputation rooted in reliability and results so I could be someone they needed because I needed Media Lab more.
The money. The stability. The means to keep myself from falling back into the poverty and chaos (and mother) I spent my life attempting to outrun.
So it’s more than just work. For both of us.
Rafael steps toward the door.
“Where are you going?” I cut him off, slipping between him and the door to block his exit.
The truth is terrible and hard to face, but I need him to stay.
I need him to help me weave together the rest of how I got here so I can figure out how to get out of here. This hospital. That bed. And that gown.
I make myself tall, hating that I’ve tossed my shoes aside. His brow lifts in a way that tells me I’m ridiculous to even try because he can walk through me, of course. “Rafael.”
“Evie.” His stern tone matches mine.
We’ve been here before. Needing something from the other but not quite asking for it.
Call it rivalry. Call it pride. A mix of the two has always drawn the line in the sand between us.
Dana once joked that he and I could dominate the industry if we put our talents together.
I scoffed. Rafael laughed. And not once did I think I’d be the one to shift the stalemate by backing down from a challenge, or worse yet, asking for help.
“One more question.” I clutch my hands behind my back, waiting to see if he’ll stay. When he doesn’t stomp through me, I continue, “Why are you the only one who can see me?”
“No clue.”
I narrow my eyes. “You can tell me, you know …”
“Tell you what?”
“If you had something to do with this.” And there it is—a chance for him to tell the truth.
Rafael grumbles like he’s the one peeing through tubes and brushes past me. Too fast, he tugs the door wide open and slips into the hallway. A nurse almost crashes into him as she hurries down the corridor, but his hands shoot out and grip her arms.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles with a reassuring smile.
The young nurse blushes. Rafael ensures she’s steady on her feet before he drops his hands and rushes down the muted-beige hallway, past hospital staff clad in various shades of blue and turquoise, patients in wheelchairs, and visitors hidden behind flowers and gift baskets.
“Hey!” I hurry after him, ducking and weaving between people who can’t see me.
I’m almost on his heels. “Rafael! You can’t blame me for thinking it.
It’s the only reasonable explanation.” And by reasonable, I mean I can’t accept the alternative—that this was a freakish twist of fate.
Because Annie ended up in a hospital too.
Annie slipped into a coma. And Annie never woke up.
The same thing happening to me isn’t comprehensible. I was careful and calculated. I planned. I ran. I did everything I was supposed to do—but not everything I needed to.
I can’t be done yet.
I was supposed to do more.
I owed—owe—it to Annie … and our bucket list.
Rafael keeps walking away, too fast for someone with an obsession with carbs.
“Admit it!” I command.
Rafael’s long strides have me scrambling to catch up. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t so much as acknowledge my presence.
I quicken my step. “Raffy Taffy!”
The telltale cheek muscle pulses. Likely because I’ve hit too close to home. Touched the proverbial nerve. I just need to prod until he breaks.
“The truth shall set you free!”
Rafael growls as he heads toward an elevator, which is already packed with two nurses chatting over Starbucks cups, a young doctor on his phone, and an older couple holding hands.
He abruptly changes direction and marches past the elevator toward a stairwell beneath an EXIT sign.
I rush through the door before it closes, trailing him as he clambers down the stairs at a quick clip.
I flail after him, half running, half floating. “Rafael!”
“Leave me alone!” he shouts, his voice echoing up and down the concrete stairwell.
Typical Rafael. “Making things harder than they have to be.”
Rafael halts.
I barrel into him—through him—and warmth washes through me. Rafael inhales sharply, rubbing his arms, making me wonder what he felt. Warmth? Cold? Who cares?
I scowl at him, clutching my chest. “What is wrong with you?” I huff.
“I make things harder?” Rafael’s tone is low and accusatory.
I inject self-indignation into my tone. “You’re the one who won’t stay and talk!”
“You don’t want me to talk. You want me to admit I had something to do with this.” He gestures to me—or rather, the floaty mess that used to have a pulse.
While the run down the stairs hasn’t winded me, it’s the glowering that hits me square in the chest. I ignore it. Pretend to be unfazed.
“Isn’t confession part of your Catholic upbringing?”
“Chingado.” He grumbles the word, throwing his hands up as he storms down the stairs again.
I rush to keep pace with him.
The level-eight ire pulsing along the column of his tanned neck tells me I’m treading down a path that’s not going to lead to answers, which are what I need.
If this were any other situation, I would keep pushing his buttons. It’s not often that I get under Rafael’s skin without some elaborate plan, but I need to get him from level-eight on-the-verge-of-explosion to level-two on-the-verge-of- explanation.
Shifting to troubleshooting mode, I draw in a deep breath, determined to steer things back on track. I’m Evie Pope. I’m an expert at taking complex problems and solving them. Like Rafael’s inability to answer my questions.
“Okay. So let’s say you didn’t do this,” I start. Rafael mutters and continues to hurtle down the stairs. “Okay, okay—you didn’t do this.” I lie easily, chasing after him.
Rafael doesn’t stop.
He reaches the bottom of the stairwell and opens a door beneath an EXIT sign. Eye-watering light swamps the stairwell, and then the door begins to shut. In my face.
“Hey!” I yelp, walking through it. The sensation of moving through the metal door is like treading through frigid water. “Rafael!”
Undeterred, Rafael storms halfway across the packed parking lot, weaving through parked cars with surprising agility.
“Can you wait?” I run after him, my dress hindering my movements.
“Can you be a normal human?”
“Apparently, the ‘normal human’ ship has sailed.” I hop over an overturned cup of Dollop coffee.
“That’s not what I meant!”
“What did you mean?” I huff, easing into a power walk as Rafael barely breaks a sweat. It takes several more steps for me to catch up.
Rafael shoots a glare in my direction. The intensity in it makes my stomach flutter. “You don’t know when to turn it off.”
Something in my chest shifts uncomfortably. “I think I’ve been turned off,” I scoff.
“Your body—maybe,” Rafael says. “But your desire to reach some imagined goalpost clearly hasn’t turned off.
Evie, you’re in a fucking coma, yet you’re here, asking me if I’m the one who put you there because you’re more worried about me having the upper hand than you are putting your own shit aside to ask yourself why. ”
“I did ask why.”
“Did you?” He arches a thick brow.
I nod, still without an answer.
“Then why?”
I open my mouth to answer.
Of course I want to know why. Why do people drink and drive? Why did the accident happen on the most important night of my career? Why is Rafael the only one who can see me? I’ve thought about the whys all morning. Just haven’t found an answer yet.
“Evie.” Rafael halts.
I almost crash into him but manage to stop, close enough I can track the trickle of sweat along the length of his neck. Whispers of silver in his chestnut curls.
“You’re asking the wrong why,” he says.
There must be something happening in this alter-form that’s making me heat at the intensity in his gaze. It’s like he can see me and into me. I’m convinced of it. I’m irritated by it.
I take a step back, needing some space. “Which why should I be asking?” I prop a hand on my hip, curious to hear what Rafael Vela has to say.
His features smooth out, the anger-slash-frustration erased from his face in one blink. We might be back to we-have-answers level two. I hold my breath, but Rafael shakes his head.
“For someone so smart, you make me wonder if I know you at all,” he says.
I want to argue. No one knows all of me. Not Gemma or Dana. Not any of my exes. Least of all him. Opening up to people means opening up to hurt, and hurt’s been trailing me since I could walk.
Since the nights I lay in bed, curled around Annie, whispering silly stories to distract her from the pain in her stomach—the kind we later learned was her blood sugar crashing.
Since the nights our mother left us alone for hours, heels clicking unsteadily across the floor as she left with her boyfriend-of-the-month.
Since the times I called 911 from our neighbor’s house because our mother wasn’t around, because she never would, because she said Annie was “being dramatic.”
So, yes, allowing someone in takes a lot. And I once had let Rafael in. Stupidly.
I push the memories—the past—away. “Explain.”
Rafael leans in with those big, all-consuming eyes, as if he purposely wants to disarm me further. Joke’s on him, though. It’ll take more than three thousand pounds of car to make me succumb to his tricks, so I arch a brow in challenge.
“If I woke up as a spirit stuck outside my body, the question I’d ask is why?”
“Oh” is all I manage.