Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
TEN DAYS (AND A MEDIUM) AFTER
I hate hospitals. I’ve hated them for the last fifteen years, and I’ll hate them for another hundred.
Sure, good things happen here, but I’ve only ever associated hospitals with bad.
Loss. Pain. Grief. All those things combined—and I’m not immune to them when the doors of Northwestern Memorial shut behind us.
My chest tightens. My hands turn clammy.
And suddenly, the thought of passing out doesn’t seem entirely unfavorable.
Beside me, Rafael’s seemingly unbothered, hands tucked into his jeans and his hey there smile at the ready for anyone who’ll gaze his way. He wields it often as we make our way through the bustling corridors of the hospital, and I’m not excluded from his list of victims.
“Hey. You’re looking a little green,” Rafael says, his smile slipping from charming into something worse: concern (much like the look he had at Helene’s).
“Conditions,” I remind him, wishing he’d keep his eyes off his invisible companion, because they’re doing something that’s not helping with the mash-up of emotions I’m feeling.
A questioning look creases his stupidly handsome face, but he must remember the conditions because he turns away, heading straight for an elevator.
A pretty nurse walks out, ogling him like he’s steak when all she’s had is hospital food.
Rafael misses this entirely as he slips inside the ridiculously small space, waiting for me to follow.
I stand rigidly to one side. His eyes catch mine as he leans over, brushing past me to press the button to the ninth floor. The doors close. My stomach churns.
“Whatever’s got you looking a lot more ghost than usual, I don’t have a backpack to sacrifice this time, E. Even if I did, I’m not sure I’d lend you my new one. I’m strangely attached to it.”
I wheel on him, mortified that he’s thinking about The Elevator Incident. That he still has the backpack I got him to replace the other. “You’re very funny.”
“Part of the package.” As if trying to prove his point, his very masculine hand flexes. The kind of hand that could probably loosen knots from your shoulders or lift you up against an elevator wall.
And ohmygod, someone put me out of my misery.
Burning, I peer at the elevator ceiling. “If you’re listening, I’m ready to come back now.”
Rafael chuckles. “Not sure that’s how it works.”
“How does it work?”
He shrugs as the elevator lurches to a stop. “I don’t think the Big Guy appreciates all the sarcasm.” I catch Rafael’s smirk before he slips out the doors. I follow, staring fiery daggers at his broad (and arrogant) back.
He had this exact view when he stole the Betton account, Pre-Coma Evie pipes up from nowhere. Think about that when you’re ogling his backside.
The thought is immediately sobering.
I haven’t processed the Annie thing or the unfinished-business thing, yet one part of me can’t stop ruminating on the Lupe thing that she was going to share. I know I should trust Rafael on this, but the fact that I don’t know the entire truth bugs me. The thought of him sabotaging me hurts.
“Now I know something’s up. You look like you guzzled a bottle of Dulcolax,” he says, slowing in front of room 922, the room with the other half of me.
I twist my lips into a smile that feels brittle. “Not a fan of hospitals and not a fan of”—seeing myself tied up to tubes, I want to say—“being so completely at your mercy in there.”
Rafael smirks, rubbing his palms together. “Oh, the possibilities.”
Imagine yourself with shaved eyebrows or a buzz cut. Lots of possibilities. Pre-Coma Evie is relentless.
“Centuries of haunting,” I parry, my stomach dipping despite the confidence of my words.
“Then I’ll do my best to stay away from your hair.” He winks, pushing the door open.
I steel myself and slip into the room first.
The room hits like a punch—bleak and sterile, all harsh light and humming machines. It screams You shouldn’t be here. My gaze snags on the bed—stiff white sheets, too-still body. Me. My stomach coils.
I shrink back some more at the sight of a man in a black cloak beside the bed.
But Rafael is at my back, blocking the door—the only reason I don’t immediately evacuate.
“Finally!” Lupe’s voice makes me jump. She greets Rafael with a bright smile that matches the energy of her RBG tee and ripped jeans—a jarring splash of color and energy in the room.
Secrets, secrets, secrets is the mantra pounding in my head as I look to the stranger in the room. My potential solution.
The man’s face is lined with age, like the rest of him. He seems kind and welcoming. Or maybe that’s part of the gig. He hovers at my bedside, a silver cross dangling from his neck.
“Hola, Rafael,” he says.
“Padre, thanks for coming on such short notice,” Rafael says, reaching over to shake the priest’s hand.
“Of course,” he says. “Lupe tells me she is a close friend.”
“Yes,” Rafael responds without hesitation. I’d be surprised if it weren’t for the walls closing in. My chest tightens, each breath shallow and sharp. I press my fingers to my temples, but the pressure mounts, doing nothing to quell the rising tide of nausea and dread.
I feel like I’m going to pass out.
I need to get out. Now.
I retreat a step. Then another. I feel the chill of the door as I back through it, catching Rafael’s gaze.
His face crinkles in confusion. I don’t stall—I disappear before he can ask me what’s wrong or, worse yet, to stay.
The hospital blurs as I rush through the stairwell door. Down the stairs. Out the door.
Outside, I take deep breaths, clutching my stomach to steady myself.
I know I’m a coward, but I just can’t do it. Being in that room makes it real, makes me feel like I’m suffocating, and that can’t be good for making sure this works.
Pacing the parking lot, I glance up at the place where I imagine my room is located, where I’ve left Rafael and Lupe to pray for me because maybe their prayers are better than mine.
I move my gaze beyond the hospital, shielding my eyes from the bright sun.
Annie wants me to hold on, so I’ll try it all.
I dig deep, imagining the prayers working their magic from somewhere up above.
Calling to me. Urging my spirit back where it belongs.
And me finally waking up, returning to my regularly scheduled programming.
I close my eyes and think about Helene’s words—unfinished business.
That could mean anything.
I’m almost thirty and have spent the better part of two decades running. From my past. From my mother. From grief. It’s mostly all unfinished business.
“So, what is it?” I shout up at the sky. “How do I get back?”
A siren wails in the distance. I wait.
And then—as if divine intervention meets lightbulb moment—it hits me.
My bucket list.
I almost squeal.
Yes, yes, yes! That’s it. The bucket list. The numerous items that I’ve collected over the last fifteen years.
Hopes and dreams and aspirations of things I wanted to accomplish but never found the time for because there was always something more important.
And maybe the Big Guy (or Gal) thought I needed a wake-up call to focus on the other stuff.
Maybe focusing on the bucket list is what will bring me back, because it’s the one constant that’s kept me pushing forward.
Excitement flutters through me, so strong. I’m convinced I’m back in my body.
I blink my eyes open.
But I’m not looking up at the hospital room ceiling tiles. It’s Rafael.
He’s close enough I can see the sun reflected in his eyes. A flare of disappointment douses some of my excitement, but I check it because I’m onto something and I feel better than I’ve felt all morning.
“Are you okay?” he asks, hands tucked in pockets. He scans me in that disconcerting way of his.
I don’t look away. “Sorry I couldn’t stay.”
“I wouldn’t have even been able to come through the hospital doors.” There’s no sarcasm in his tone, and it might be more debilitating than the look on his face. Because he’s trying to make me feel better when I just left him to deal with my mess.
“Still, I don’t … I just … Thank you.” I hate being so completely at a loss. More than that, I don’t completely resent that he’s taking the lead. That I’m trusting him with this.
“No need to thank me, E. I haven’t even done anything,” Rafael says. I want to contradict him, but I have a sense I’ll lose. “Father V said to keep praying, and I say we keep trying other ways as well. Because we’re going to figure this out.” Rafael’s determined tone catches me off guard.
“You’re a really good liar,” I deadpan.
Rafael shrugs. “Father V’s sermons dissuade any sort of fibbing.”
I snort before I can catch myself. “I choked.”
“You, on the other hand,” he drawls, “are a really talented liar.”
“Like I said, you have a lot to learn.”
“Ah—yes, my mentor.” Rafael grins, and I can’t help but smile at the memory of the Publicity Today interview where I said as much.
Rafael’s phone buzzes, and he digs into his pocket to silence it. Secrets, secrets, secrets, Pre-Coma Evie chants. I need her to stop.
“Is that Dana?” The question escapes my lips before I overthink it.
Rafael blinks. “Um. No.”
“Because you can take the call, especially if it’s work.”
“I know.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
We have a minute-long staring contest. He’s hiding something, Pre-Coma Evie nudges me, and I might never have another chance to get to the truth. If I’m ever going to ask him, it’s now. “How’s work?”
Rafael hesitates. “Fine.”
“Really? Because I haven’t seen you go to the office at all, and the other day? Your niece said you weren’t working.” Pre-Coma Evie jumps with glee. Go, Evie, go! And I push forward. “Are you hiding something? Because you can tell me if you got the promotion.”
Rafael doesn’t mask his surprise. “No! Is that what you think I’m hiding?”
His tone suggests I should probably find another answer, but I answer honestly. “Yes.”
Rafael sighs with frustration, then drags his hands through his hair. “I wasn’t promoted. In fact, I haven’t been to the office in almost two weeks.” He looks at me like he’s begging me to read the large print, Evie, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to be figuring out. Almost two weeks—
That’s …
“You haven’t been back since the accident?”
He swallows, his throat bobbing. “No.”
Oh Mamma Mia. He’s been out of the race for as long as I have.
Whatever he’s hiding might … it might not have anything to do with Media Lab.
Take that. Coma Evie jabs her finger into Pre-Coma Evie’s chest. He hasn’t been back at work.
And if he hasn’t been at work, he’s been elsewhere. Planning your demise. Pre-Coma Evie props her fists on her hips. He wanted to make sure he wasn’t distracted.
I force both voices from my mind, because I need to think clearly and piece it together already. I replay the conversation. Rafael hasn’t returned to Media Lab since the accident. Blame it on guilt, Pre-Coma Evie says. Guilt can get to a person.
Does he look like he’s guilty? Coma Evie, the one who notices his hands and muscles, offers. Plus, look at those eyes. If anything, he was traumatized and needed time off.
Rafael looks neither guilty nor traumatized. He looks good. Whatever his reasons for taking time off, it has nothing to do with me. Nothing.
No matter how much Pre-Coma Evie would like to convince me otherwise, I don’t think Rafael has some elaborate plan to beat me while I’m down.
I let the realization settle.
Something stirs in my chest—tight and unfamiliar, like I’m expanding too fast from the inside out. It presses against my ribs, making it hard to breathe. Rafael watches me, and I will my outside to appear less vulnerable than my inside. “Rafael?”
“Evie?” He holds my gaze.
“I think I figured out my unfinished business.”