Chapter Forty-Three Jeremy
Her house looks too quiet from across the street. I pace in front of my window and wait for movement, a light flickering on, some sign that she’s there. But the curtains stay drawn and the lights off.
I rub a hand over my jaw, debating my next move. The rational part of me knows I should respect her need for space. Maybe Vanya is right to give us both time to think. Unfortunately, the stress cramp in my stomach doesn’t give a damn about thinking.
I pull out my phone and text: Vanya text me back please. I’m so sorry about yesterday. Please, we need to talk.
I hit send and drop the phone on my couch. I stare across the street again. Nothing. My fingers drum against my thigh, each second stretching longer than the last.
My shoes are on before I can second-guess myself. I cross the street, guilt stalling me for a split second before I put in her garage door code. It creaks as it rises, the sound echoing too loudly in the still morning. My pulse kicks up as I step inside. No car. She always parks backed in so she can make a quick getaway in the morning. The bare concrete feels wrong, like a book missing its final chapter.
I send another text, more urgent in tone. Vanya, seriously. Call me.
I stayed up last night and woke up early today, hoping I’d catch her at some point before she had to go to work. But what if she never came home last night? Where would she have stayed?
A horrible thought floats into my consciousness. There isn’t a bed in this town that wouldn’t welcome a gorgeous woman like her. Jealousy tightens like a vise around my chest.
No, that’s impossible. I dismiss any suspicion of her being with someone else. Vanya can have any man she wants, and she wants me.
The silence from my phone feels heavier now, pressing down on my chest. I glance at the door leading into the house.
I shouldn’t trespass, but I do.
The house smells like her. Herbal and sweet and familiar. It smells like home. I move through the rooms slowly, every step bringing up memories. The fuzzy blanket on the couch that she wrapped around us during a late-night movie. The chipped mug on the counter, her favorite, because “it holds exactly the right amount of coffee.”
When I reach her bedroom, I pause at the doorway. The bed’s unmade sheets are tangled like she got up in a hurry. Her book is on the nightstand, open and face down. I sit on the edge of the bed, dropping my head into my hands. I’ve never felt this kind of worry before. Every nerve in my body is a raw wire primed to spark.
Me: I’m getting worried. Please call. If you don’t answer in the next five minutes, we’re having this conversation in your office.
The sound of the front door unlocking pulls me out of my spiral. My heart leaps, relief flooding my chest. Then I hear footsteps. Heavy footsteps. My pulse stutters. The hair on the back of my neck stands up as I rush to the front room. She never uses the front door. She always comes in through the garage.
My heart jumps then freezes mid-beat as a man crosses the threshold. We look at each other in surprise and blurt, “Who the hell are you?”
The man steps inside like he belongs here. I’m rooted to the spot, trying to process the fact that it’s not Vanya. He turns to me, expression shifting from surprise to recognition.
“I know you. Jeremy Lopez, right?”
I cross my arms and widen my stance. “Yeah, and you?”
“I’m Paul. Ashley’s husband.” He starts walking further into the house, glancing around as if he’s taking inventory. “I’m here to grab some things for Vanya. Ashley’s already with her.”
My insides turn to ice, ready to crack under pressure. “Ashley? Her friend from Boston?” I rasp.
“Yeah,” he says casually. “We took the first flight we could after we heard what happened.”
“What happened? Where’s Vanya?” I barely get the question out because the tightness in my chest is unbearable.
Paul hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “She didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?” My voice cuts sharper than I intend, my heart pounding.
Paul takes a step back, clearly reconsidering. “If she didn’t tell you, maybe I shouldn’t, either.”
He moves past me, heading further into the house. My temper snaps. I take two strides and grab his arm.
“If you know what’s good for you, you’re going to explain yourself,” I say, my grip firm. “Why the fuck are you here and where the hell is Vanya?”
Paul doesn’t flinch. In fact, he shrugs off my hold and looks me dead in the eye.
“Get your hands off me,” he mutters, voice calm but unyielding. “You think I’m scared of you?” The confidence in his voice is jarring, and then he adds, “Do you know who I’m married to?”
I blink, caught off guard.
He doesn’t wait for a response. “Ashley and Vanya do things their way,” Paul continues, his tone dripping with finality. “If you don’t know, it’s because they don’t intend for you to know. Now back off.”
My anger falters, replaced by something far worse. Panic. My mind runs wild, imagining every possibility. I force my voice steady, but it comes out smaller than I want.
“Is she leaving me?”
Paul meets my eyes and doesn’t soften the blow. “She’s leaving Columbus, yeah.”
The words lodge in my chest. I can barely breathe, my chest crushed under a boulder of hurt.
“She wasn’t even going to say goodbye,” I mumble, hating how desperate I sound.
Paul shrugs again, infuriatingly casual. “Don’t bother asking me, dude. Ashley’s already taken over. I’m here to get what Vanya needs tonight.”
“What she needs,” I repeat, more to myself than him. She definitely doesn’t need me.
Paul glances at me briefly before moving toward her bedroom, leaving me standing in the middle of the living room, broken. I look at my phone, no longer surprised that she’s been ignoring me.
I leave her house and walk across the street to sit and wait in my car. Paul might not tell me where she is, but he will lead me to her. About ten minutes later, he emerges with a backpack and gets into his rental car. My one advantage is that he doesn’t know my car, so I follow him.
It takes less than two minutes to figure out Paul is heading to Columbus General. The moment he turns into the parking garage, dread grips me by the throat. My stomach twists and bile burns my throat.
Vanya is in the hospital. But why? She isn’t licensed to work there.
Shit, oh shit , she must be a patient! Oh my god, something happened to Vanya! Something happened between the time I fired her and whenever she called Ashley. Meanwhile, I had been laying around at home thinking we’re respecting each other’s space. Fuck space. Fuck me.
My hands tighten on the wheel, knuckles white, as a cold sweat slicks my skin. I can’t feel my limbs. My body has disconnected from my mind, operating on autopilot. Somehow, I manage to park a few rows away from Paul’s car without crashing. I don’t even remember pulling into the spot.
I trail him into the lobby, my legs moving without direction from my brain. Paul walks briskly, heading straight for the bank of elevators. When he reaches one, he steps in, and the doors start to slide shut.
If I let him disappear, there’s no way I’ll find her.
I dart forward and wedge myself into the elevator before it closes. When it shuts, we’re alone.
“What the hell!” he snaps with annoyance.
“Why is she here?” The words spill out of me, tangled and frantic. “What happened to her? Is she OK?” I can’t breathe. My voice cracks. I lean forward to rest my hands over my thighs. Oxygen isn’t coming fast enough, so I pant desperately.
“She’s OK, Jeremy.” Paul’s expression softens enough to convey pity. I hate that I’m in a position where pity feels like mercy.
“Why is she here? What happened? Where is she? Jesus, what hap—”
“She got into a car accident.”
The edges of my vision darken. “Oh my god.”
“She’s not seriously injured, Jeremy. Nothing life-threatening, but she’s here because she’s under concussion protocol.”
“Where? Please, man, I’m fucking begging you. I need to see her.”
He sighs. “She’s in room 455,” he says cautiously. “Give it ten minutes before you go in. Don’t make it obvious I told you.”
“Tell me what to expect, Paul.”
“I promise that she’s OK. Now you have to promise you’ll wait at least ten minutes.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Thank you.”
He presses the button for the top floor and jerks his head toward the panel to indicate that’s where he expects me to go.
“Ten minutes minimum,” he orders, the brusqueness back in his voice.
Ten minutes might as well be ten lifetimes. There’s no choice, though. He gave me his word that Vanya is OK, and I promised not to get him in trouble.
The elevator hums as it ascends. The metal railing is icy against my grip. When the doors open, I step out in a trance. The hallway stretches ahead, sterile and quiet. I spot a sign with an arrow toward the chapel. It leads me to a small door cracked open.
Once inside, it takes a minute to get used to the dim light filtering through stained glass. The faint scent of polished wood and old prayer books adds to the somber atmosphere. The silence is a blanket that dulls the noise in my head just enough to think. Dropping onto one of the worn pews, I pull out my phone and set a timer for ten minutes. I’m reminded of the first day we met, when I put a timer on Vanya to prove her skills as a doctor. I was a fool then and, it turns out, I’m still clueless.
For the first time since I was a kid, I try praying. I don’t know how to start. My thoughts trip over themselves, spilling out in a jumble. Please let her be OK. She needs to be safe. This is my fault. I can’t forgive myself if she’s hurt. Oh god, please, please let her be OK.
I stare up at the ceiling and try to believe someone is listening.
It occurs to me that if Vanya feels even a fraction of the worry I’m going through now, she managed it with more composure than I’m capable of. I recall the way she used to look at me after games, her brow furrowed as she asked about my hip. I remember the quiet concern in her voice, the tension in her shoulders, when I brushed her off.
I never considered what it cost her to support me.
But this unbearable ache in my bones, this clawing panic in my throat, this sense of loss the size of a cannonball…this is fucking brutal. If this is what she’s been carrying every time I step on the ice, I don’t know how she does it.
I clasp my hands tighter, the wood of the pew biting into my knees. The timer buzzes, snapping me to attention.
I stand, shaky but resolute.
I know what I have to do.