12. Don’t Scream #3
I try to delete the voice note, but my hands are shaking so hard; my thumb slips, and I hit send instead. It’s gone. I see the little “delivered” checkmark pop up.
My stomach bottoms out.
Oh no, no, no.
I frantically try to unsend it, fingers tap-dancing on the glass, but then someone knocks on the door, and I jump like I’ve been shot.
“Just a second!” I call, cracked-in-half and hoarse. I spin toward the mirror to find my eyes neon red and raw, lashes spiked with tears.
I’m a fucking mess.
I dab at my face with shaking hands. Nose: red. Cheeks: blotchy. Mascara: totally unsalvageable.
I take a breath, but it dissolves instantly. My chest is a canyon, empty and echoing.
I check my phone. The little “played” bar under my message is blue. He’s heard it. I start to shake again, but I force my jaw tight. If I can get myself together before I go back out there, maybe I can hold it together, period.
I hobble out of the bathroom, smiling apologetically at the elderly woman waiting there.
The hallway is too bright. I crutch back to my curtained-off cell of suffering, plop down on the sticky vinyl, and immediately regret not stealing an extra tissue from the bathroom.
My phone screen lights up as soon as I sit.
INCOMING CALL: Professor Daddy
I can’t. I let it ring out. He calls again. And again. The phone vibrates so hard on my thigh that it nearly falls off.
I still can’t answer. If I hear his voice right now, I’ll actually dissolve into tears.
A text flashes up, somehow louder than the calls.
Professor Daddy:
If you don’t want me to come to the emergency room and make a huge scene to find you, pick up the phone.
I stare at the message. The noise of the ER is a thousand decibels, and I can hear the blood in my ears, but this is louder.
The threat is not idle. This is a busy hospital, and I have zero doubt he would come storming in, ask for me by name, and make me the main character of the entire waiting room.
My phone rings again, and this time, I pick up.
I can’t even get a word out before he speaks. “Neve?”
There’s a pause. I try to swallow, but my throat is glue.
“Neve, are you safe?” His voice is all gravel, and it makes my heart do this pathetic, mortified swoop.
“I’m safe,” I manage. It sounds as if my mouth is packed with fiberglass. “I’m okay, I just—I hurt my ankle, and I’m alone, and I fucking hate hospitals. It’s loud, and it smells weird, and I can’t—I didn’t want to freak anyone else out. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have even—”
“Don’t apologize for this,” he cuts me off. “Do you hear me?”
I nod. I forget he can’t see me. “Yeah,” I whisper.
He lets out a long breath, then something that sounds almost like a laugh. “Fuck, you scared me, angel.”
My heart detonates in my chest.
I’m not even sure if he realizes he said it, because he just goes on. “I thought—fuck, you sounded so freaked out. I thought something terrible had happened.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“I told you not to apologize, Neve.”
I swallow, unable to answer. I don’t have anything to say other than that I’m sorry.
“Tell me where you are,” he says firmly, and I hear the jingle of car keys and heavy footsteps on concrete, followed by a door slamming closed. “Exactly where you are.”
“You don’t need to—”
“Don’t make me ask you again.”
My breath hitches, and I look up at the wall. All the fight has drained out of me. “Bay nine. I’m waiting for the X-ray tech.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Grant—”
“Neve,” he cuts me off, and I hear the car engine roar to life in the background. “Just ten minutes, angel. Okay? I know you can do that for me, can’t you? It’s all right. I’m on my way.”
Ten minutes turns out to be nine.
My whole body goes periodically cold, then hot, adrenaline fizzing under my skin. I nearly drop my phone when he texts me to let me know he’s parking his car. I can barely breathe. I’m clutching the crutches so tight my knuckles have gone dead white.
Then the curtain whips back, and Grant is there.
His hair is all tousled, like he’s been raking his hand through it on the drive over, shirt rumpled, breathing hard.
For a second, we just stare at each other. My whole body goes numb. I don’t know whether to laugh or scream or burst into tears—and then that’s exactly what happens.
I literally break down on the spot.
It’s so fucking embarrassing.
My chest caves in. All the air I’ve been hoarding comes out in a strangled gasp, and suddenly I’m sobbing—full-body, ugly, mortifying crying, face in my hands like the six-year-old that got traumatized in a stupid, awful hellhole like this in the first place.
Grant crosses the space in two huge strides and sinks down next to me, arms open, but waiting for permission to touch. I’m well past trying to be coy, so I just tip myself right into him, burying my face in his chest, and let it all go.
His arms come around me, and it’s so good, so safe, so warm. He doesn’t shush me, or tell me to calm down, or do anything patronizing. He just holds on.
“It’s okay, angel,” he murmurs, and if I thought hearing him call me that over the phone was obliterating, hearing it in person is even worse. “I’m here, it’s all right. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
I shake in his arms for a good ten minutes, maybe more, until the worst of the crying is gone and only the breathless hiccupping remains. His shirt is soaked with my tears, complete with the remains of my sad-panda mascara, but Grant barely even blinks.
“You’re all right. Okay?” he whispers, over and over. “I swear it. I’m not going anywhere.”
I nod into his chest. Breathing is easier here, warm cotton—if damp—and his heartbeat under my ear. His hand moves up and down my back, tracing my spine. If I could, I’d stay right here forever, in this little bubble with him and nothing else.
Eventually, the ache in my ankle reasserts itself, and it’s enough to force my face out of hiding. I don’t look Grant in the eyes—I’m not there yet—instead, I rake the back of my wrist across my face and attempt to salvage what I can of my dignity. “Sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he says, so gently it makes my insides liquefy. “Are you okay?”
I nod again, though I’m not sure if it’s true.
Grant doesn’t push. Finally, a nurse appears, clipboard in hand, and the next twenty minutes are a blur of x-rays, awkward crutching, and antiseptic smells.
The x-ray tech is nice, but I’m overly aware of Grant parked in the hallway, waiting for me, like he’s my personal security detail.
When I return, Grant is waiting, arms folded, expression stern—but as soon as he clocks the moon boot on my right foot, his mouth twitches so hard fighting his smile that he looks like he might strain something.
“Stop it,” I warn, pointing at him. “Not a word.”
He lifts his palms, mock innocent. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Lie. He’s vibrating with glee.
“So, how many of these have you had in the past year?” he asks, feigning casual.
Unbelievable. “You. Are. Awful.”
He just grins, big and bright, dimples popping, and the little smile lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. I melt against my will.
“Yeah, but it made you laugh, didn’t it?” he says quietly as we step out into the parking lot. “I’ll take you laughing over panicking any day.”
Lord, help me. I’m going to fall head over stupid moon boot for this guy, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.