Chapter 8
December
Four Months Until The Wedding
The overhead lights at Mount Sinai Hospital hum like a horde of insects. I’ve only been here ten minutes and they’re already giving me a headache. Or the pounding in my head is a sign that this is a terrible idea. But the further I go, the harder it is to turn back.
“Visiting hours end at eight,” the receptionist behind the front desk tells me, not bothering to look up from her computer. “Sign-in sheet is here.” She taps a thick binder with her pen. “And I’ll need to see a photo ID.”
“Thanks.” My hand shakes as I scribble my name and reach into my purse for my license.
The receptionist takes it—still without making eye contact—and picks up the phone. “Hi, I have an Elzbieta Lakoski here to see Trip Coldwell in the IC—uh-huh. Got it.” She holds her hand over the receiver. “Are you a family member?”
I clasp my hands together to steady them. I am a dismal liar. But I’m here for a purpose. One that Carter’s life—and perhaps Trip’s—depends on. This receptionist will not be the reason the Coldwell family curse continues for another century.
I straighten my posture. “Yes. A cousin.”
She eyes me for a beat and then reaches for a name tag. I save my exhale for when I’m around the corner and in the elevator bank.
Several stories up, I’m let into the ICU, which, if possible, is even more depressing.
The tile floor is the color of oatmeal that’s sat out too long, the hallways are jammed with machinery, and the open doors reveal stark, sterile rooms that seem designed to provide further discomfort to patients and family members.
I pass people in the hallway but avert my eyes when possible, keeping them on the floor. Timing my arrival toward the end of visiting hours was intentional. How would I explain myself if I ran into one of Carter’s family members?
I lift my gaze only enough to make out the room numbers as I pass: L13…L14…Almost to Trip’s room. Just need to make sure there aren’t any other visitors and then I’m in the cl—
“Ow!” I run smack into someone. My hand jumps to the spot above my eyebrow where we made contact. It’s already tender, and the woman I ran into places a hand on my shoulder.
“Are you alright?” She has a long lithe frame, a cashmere sweater, skin the color of buttercream, auburn hair pulled back in an effortless-looking claw-clip style. The scent of lilacs. Wait—
“Sabrina?”
“Libby! Oh, my goodness. Hi!”
I steal a glance over her shoulder. “Is Carter here?” Just my luck. Time to start thinking of an explanation.
“No, actually.”
“Oh, uh. Really? Were you visiting someone?”
She gives me a soft, almost pitying smile. “I imagine the same person you’re here to see?”
“Did you—do you—know Trip?” His name is a whisper on my tongue.
Sabrina rolls her bottom lip under her teeth. “Carter may not have mentioned this, but our families go back a ways. Centuries, practically.” She chuckles, but then a sadness comes over her eyes. “I thought I’d pay my respects. While I’m in town.”
“Makes sense.”
She nods. Is this where I’m supposed to say why I’m here?
“I—uh—same thing. Trip and Carter being so close and all.” Shit, except they’re decidedly not close. I’ve officially botched this. “Thought I should at least visit.”
Lucky for me, she doesn’t call me on it, and even has the decency to smile. “Well, I must be going. I’ll see you the weekend after New Year’s?”
Right. Registry shopping.
“Yes. I’ll see you then.”
She wraps me in a hug, and I bring my arms up stiffly to pat her back, stunned by this display of affection.
“Looking forward to it.” She heads toward the exit, and I resume my mission.
Trip’s room is a large corner suite at the end of the hallway. If the Coldwells are keeping him in this hellhole, at least they secured the most sizable room. I peer around the doorframe, on alert for any other surprise visitors, but the room is silent except for the beeps and whirs of machinery.
The bed faces away from the door and is turned at an angle toward one of the windows, as though someone wanted to give him the small mercy of a pleasant view. It’s a cold December evening outside, the city lights illuminating clouds just above the skyline.
I take a deep breath and walk toward the bed.
I’m not sure what I expect. My throat catches at the sight. It’s him—and he seems so normal. If I ignore the machines hooked up to him, the tubes in his arms, this is Trip, in the flesh, as real as—or more so than—when he stood in my apartment. In a bed, mere feet away from me.
I’m surprised by how familiar his face is to me now.
The planes of his profile look sharper than usual.
There’s a freckle on the edge of his temple I never noticed before.
His eyelashes fan across his cheekbones and his beautiful, full lips are wrapped around a breathing tube. I swallow a knot in my throat.
Instead of his usual impeccable wardrobe, a cotton hospital gown drowns his frame. There’s scruff along his jaw and his hair sticks out on all sides. I wonder if this is what he looks like when he first wakes up—slightly rumpled, but cozy.
Focus, Libby. Right, my mission. I walk around the bed so that I’m level with his head. This feels like such a violation. If I thought the hardest part was going to be getting past the receptionist, I was dead wrong. I just need one object, something small. Then I can get out of here.
I scan his body, but nothing is immediately apparent.
Without making a sound, I pull the covers down, revealing his left hand.
No rings, no watch. My fingers brush against his knuckles.
His hand is ice cold. I pull the blanket back up, and tuck his arm in tighter, lifting the covers as high as I can toward his neckline.
My hands stop at the collar of his gown, and I slip my fingers underneath, searching for a chain, but there’s only the hard dip of his collarbone.
I pull my hand out of the top of his gown and—as though a magnet is pulling me—rest it on the side of his neck.
The hair at the base of his head is longer than when he appears to me, starting to curl at the ends.
And there, just below his jaw, my thumb alights on a faint—but present—pulse.
Alive. I release a breath and nearly detach the tubing with how quickly I pull my hand back.
This was an insanely stupid plan. Why did I think it would be a good idea to come visit Trip Coldwell in person?
Mental note to schedule an appointment with my therapist next week.
The plan was to get in, get a possession, and get out. Not ogle a man who is only partially alive. Is he wearing socks underneath those covers? Maybe I could pull one off and make a run for it, like a thief with stolen gold.
Gold. Of course. His earring.
It’s on the ear opposite me. I lean across him, avoiding the tubing, and grasp for it.
In his spirit form, Trip’s earring is a hoop, but here, my fingers close around a small diamond stud.
The hard metal is smooth against the pad of my thumb.
Now I just need to detach the back, but I don’t have the right leverage.
I press up on my toes and lean farther across him to get a better angle.
If he didn’t have a device helping him breathe, I would be smothering him with my boobs in this position.
Yes, walking around the bed would have been the smarter option, but my fingernail is under the earring back and I just need to slide it—there. The diamond drops into my palm.
“Can I help you with something?”
I bolt upright and slip the earring into my pocket. A nurse in light blue scrubs stands in the doorway, clipboard in hand. Shit, shit.
Deep breath. I can do this. I’m supposed to be Trip’s cousin. How would a Coldwell respond in this scenario? I channel my inner Cynthia, straighten my spine, and lift my chin.
“Yes, you can, actually.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“His skin is ice cold, and these blankets are hardly better than paper. Don’t you have a down comforter or something?”
“Ma’am, you are welcome to bring him things from home—”
“Is that the best you can offer me? I’d like to speak to your supervisor.”
“I hardly think that’s nec—”
“This is Trip Coldwell. Do you know that? He should be receiving the best care possible.” I bite the inside of my cheek to avoid wincing at my condescending tone. At least it seems to be distracting the nurse. She wants nothing to do with me.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she deadpans. I can say with almost complete certainty that she will not.
“Thank you. Now can you point me in the direction of the restroom?”
She starts giving me directions. I squeeze Trip’s hand one last time through the blankets before heading out the door.
I can’t bring myself to act on summoning Trip until the sun sets the next day.
I’m not sure if the sight of him in person has me spooked, or if it’s the knowledge that if this doesn’t work, I’m officially at a dead end.
Yet, as the sun dips below the buildings and the sky morphs to cobalt, my jittery nerves tell me I can’t wait any longer.
I hold the stone Babcia gave me in one hand and bite my fingernails on the other. Her face appears in my mind, the concern in her brow. Her warning that some doors are meant to stay closed. What the hell am I doing?
I’m sitting on my living room rug in my pajamas, coffee table pushed to the side to create a space in the center. Trip’s earring sits on the floor in front of me, teasing. Kotka comes over to inspect it and I shoo her away.
“It’s now or never,” I whisper.
I light a candle and place it next to me because—I don’t know, vibes.
Holding the stone in my left hand, I pick the earring up with my right. As Babcia instructed, I squeeze both objects as tight as I can. The rough edges of the earring dig into my palm.
Then, I open my hands and bring my palms together.
Either there is a polar force between the two objects, or I’m completely imagining it.
Like in grade school when someone would press down on your arms while you pushed back, and after long enough, when they let go, your arms would float up.
Maybe it’s all in my head, like with a Ouija board.
The metal of the earring scrapes against the smooth stone. After what feels like a sufficient amount of time, I separate my hands and let go of the objects. I wait. And wait.
Kotka comes over, looking for scratches. I scoop her into my lap and rub her absentmindedly while scanning the room for any sudden changes, any flicker of light or glimpse of a shadow. But there’s nothing.
I grab my yellow blanket from the couch and wrap it around me while I sit, the hollow feeling in my stomach growing.
All this for nothing. Maybe I did it wrong.
Or Babcia was mistaken. She did say she’d used it only once, so how could she know it would work again?
Not only have I failed, but I’ve committed petty theft by taking Trip’s earring.
I blow out the candle and lie down on the rug, too exhausted to move to the couch or bed.
“Good night, Kotka,” I mumble as sleep takes over.
—
“Elz! Pssst. Elz!”
I open my eyes, but it’s equally black with them open. “Who’s there!” I sit up with a start and whack my head on the TV console. “Ow!”
“Light,” a voice says from somewhere in the room.
I freeze, registering the severity of a stranger in my apartment. “Hello?” I whisper.
“The light, Elzbieta.”
“Please don’t hurt me.” I pull the blanket up around me and close my eyes again.
“I can’t. Remember? Lack of solid form and whatnot?”
I freeze. My eyes fly open. “Trip!”
“No, it’s your other neighborhood ghost paying you a visit. Honestly, what did you think?”
I fly up off the floor and flip the light switch. There he is.
He’s wearing a chunky fisherman sweater and a dark pair of jeans. He looks so much stronger and more solid than the Trip I saw today in the hospital, even though this version is quite literally the opposite of solid.
“You’re here.” The corners of my mouth creep up toward my cheeks.
“You rang?” He runs a hand through his hair, arching an eyebrow.
His words register. “You mean—it worked?”
Trip lowers his eyebrows. “What worked, Elz? Also, do you ever wear clothes?”
I look at the floor where the blanket now sits, leaving me in just my silky pajama set.
His eyes rake over me, a pained look on his face. Goose bumps pop up on my skin in the drafty apartment air. Given that I’m braless, they’re likely not the only thing popping up. I cross my arms over my chest.
“They’re pajamas.”
He makes a noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between a groan and a cough. “What—” His voice is hoarse. “What worked?”
“My grandmother gave me her stone for summoning spirits, because I’ve been needing to talk to you. I used the stone tonight and now here you are—so I’m assuming it brought you to me somehow?”
He cups his jaw with his palm and lets out a soft chuckle. “A stone. Seriously?”
“Yes. Did it work? Did you know I was looking for you?”
“There was a tug.” His hands go to his abdomen. “Almost like a physical tension, a pulling. The more I resisted, the tighter it became, the more I needed to follow. I didn’t realize where it was leading me till about five minutes ago.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure what I expected, but I’m half stunned it worked, half surprised by these details of how.
He moves closer, the wool of his sweater mere inches from the thin silk of my top. But no warmth radiates from him, and his proximity sends a shiver down my spine.
He tilts his chin down to look me in the eye. “So. What is it you need, Elz?”
“I—” The way he’s looking at me wipes my mind blank. I swallow and gather myself. “I want to help. Break the curse.”
Trip sticks his hands in his pockets and leans his shoulders toward me. If he were able to breathe, I’m certain I’d feel his breath this close. As it is, I’m highly aware of the rise and fall of my chest beneath my pajama top—with each inhale my body becoming teasingly closer to his.
“Okay.” A small smile tugs at his lips.