14. Indy
FOURTEEN
INDY
Mom cries.
Dad cries.
Dia cries.
I say I’m fine a lot.
Mom cries.
Dad cries.
Dia cries.
I’m fine.
It’s a lot.
Hands keep touching me. My face, my shoulders, my arms, like they’re making sure all of me is there. Like I might accidentally become less real if they don’t.
“We’re fine,” I say.
“We’re okay.”
“We’re fine.”
Mom pulls me into another hug that’s so tight it almost hurts. Her hands are shaking.
“We’re fine,” I mumble into her shoulder.
She nods.
She cries harder.
“You’re a real idiot,” Dia says.
“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”
“I thought—” She sniffs and shakes her head.
“We’re okay,” I tell her. “Really.”
Dad squeezes my shoulder.
I don’t think any of them know what to do with Nick. They all look like they want to hug him but also don’t dare, and I keep existing in this sphere of low, humming anxiety where part of me is sure he’s going to disappear any moment now.
Everything feels too loud.
And too bright.
There’s too much space.
A bit too much air, but I’m not going to complain about that.
“I’m okay,” I say while I’m being prodded and poked at by one doctor after another.
They don’t look like they believe me.
I just really want to go home.
Over the shoulders of the people gathered in the hospital room, I catch sight of Nick. Someone’s talking to him. Asking questions, I think. But he doesn’t seem that invested in answering. Instead, he’s looking at me.
I hold his gaze.
For a bit, everything else fades. The noise. The people. The hands. The assurances that I’m fine.
He’s here.
I’m here.
Breathing becomes easier.
“I’m fine,” I say when somebody says my name.
This time it almost sounds like I mean it.
In the end, we’re kept in the hospital overnight for monitoring. A part of me wants to argue that I just want to go home, but then Mom starts to cry again, and I feel like an asshole, so the quiet hospital room starts to look so much more appealing.
I let the nurses check my vitals again and again. I nod whenever somebody says I’ve “gone through a lot” and that it’s a “miracle you’re alive,” and I try not to wince when people clap me on the shoulder or squeeze my arm.
I’m not trying to be a dick. Logically, I know it comes from a good place.
A tornado tore through the outskirts of Annapolis.
No one died. Seventy-nine people are injured.
Numbers are not conclusive. But I’m also not going to pretend that the idea of hiding away from reality just for a bit longer isn’t starting to feel like a relief.
There are cameras out there, and the last thing I want is to have one of them shoved in my face.
Mom hugs me for a long time when the nurse comes in and gently starts to usher them out. Dia does the same. Dad lingers the longest. Even after he pulls away, his hand presses briefly to the back of my neck and his fingers squeeze gently, like he used to do when I was younger.
“Get some rest,” he says.
I salute him.
Dad looks at Nick, and Nick gives him a halting nod, still with that look of surprise on his face like he can’t quite believe everybody cares that he’s alive just as much as they care that I’m alive.
They’d probably hug the hell out of him too, if he didn’t look like he might jump out of the window at the prospect.
And then they leave.
The door clicks shut, and it’s just me and Nick.
We’re dressed identically, in sweats and T-shirts my parents brought with them from home.
I look at him, and he looks at me. He’s so far away now. All the way in the other bed. My legs and arms are restless. I’m itching to get to him, but I don’t know if I’m allowed. There’s too much space around me now, and I don’t know what to do with it.
“Hey,” he says, voice raspy like he hasn’t used it in a while.
“Hi,” I say.
That’s all. No other words. What do I say now? How do I go back to that quiet darkness where words came easily?
He clears his throat.
“That nurse,” he says. “Did she also tell you about the wig thief who escaped just as the tornado hit?”
I blink. “No?”
He nods. “Police are combing the area to find him.”
I stare, trying to figure out if I should call the nurse pronto or extra pronto to get his head checked before I realize that he… made a joke.
“Wow,” I say slowly before I start to laugh and shake my head. “Okay. I’m not going to make any conclusive judgments about your sense of humor because you’ve been through a lot, but that was rough.”
He’s wearing his usual impassive expression. Other than his eyes. His eyes laugh.
“I thought it was funny.”
I tilt my head to the side. “You’re pretty. Which is lucky for you. Pretty people don’t have to be funny.”
His eyes laugh even harder.
“Sleep,” he says in a grave tone.
“Yes, sir.” I try to salute, but I forget the IV taped to the back of my hand and wince when the needle moves in my skin. He rolls his eyes, but I don’t mind.
We’re not the same people anymore.
Now I see him too.
I see right through him.
All the walls and bluster and bravado. They might as well not exist anymore.
I lie down on my back and stare at the ceiling. It’s really noisy in here. Beeps and whirs and clicks and the echoes of voices and cars out on the street pierce the air. I try to block it out, but three days in darkness and silence has made every light brighter and every sound louder.
I turn my head and glance at Nick’s bed. The distance hasn’t gotten any smaller. If anything he seems farther away now than he did before.
I silently urge him to… I don’t know what I want, to be honest. For him to look at me again? Talk to me? Come to me?
He doesn’t.
It’s difficult to say whether he’s asleep or not because he’s turned his head away, staring out the window, and as pathetic as it is, I turn on my side, facing him, just because it makes me feel less alone.
Eventually, I manage to fall asleep.
I wake up with a loud gasp, springing off the mattress as I whip my head around, trying to figure out where the hell I am.
All I know at first is that it’s dark.
And I’m alone.
That last bit freaks me the fuck out.
I’m alone.
Shit.
That’s as far as my thoughts get before there are arms around me.
I blink.
The hospital room comes back into focus, with the faint glow from the hallway visible under the door, the hum of the monitors, and the thin sheets twisted around my legs. My brain catches up to what’s happening.
“Okay?” Nick murmurs.
I nod. “Yeah. Sorry. I was just… having a moment.”
“Reliving the good ol’ days?”
I laugh tiredly and rub my fingertips over my eyes. “All the best ones. Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing. I’m pretty sure it’s considered normal to be out of sorts after shit happens.”
I stare at my hand for a bit, flexing my fingers. It feels like it belongs to somebody else. “You’re not.”
“I haven’t slept a wink. So, you know. Coping in my own, healthy way.”
I blow out a breath and start to lean back, then reconsider and turn to fluff the pillow. The IV gets in the way again and tugs awkwardly at the back of my hand.
“Hold on,” Nick says and adjusts the pillow for me.
“Hey, where are all your—” I motion toward where his IV should be.
“It was fucking annoying, so I took it out.”
I shake my head and sigh. “I disapprove.”
“You would. Lie down.”
I do as he says. He stands by the side of my bed, shifting his weight from foot to foot, scrunching his nose, and dragging his hand through his hair like he’s not quite sure what to do now that I’m awake.
I move more to the side and pat the space beside me. He looks at me for half a second then climbs in. The mattress dips under his weight. We both turn on our sides. The bed is narrow, so there’s barely any room. Our legs brush, shoulders lining up. My nose is inches away from his.
“How fucked up do you think we’ll be because of this whole thing?” I murmur.
He lets out a quick breath that ghosts across my face.
“Define fucked up.”
I huff quietly. “You know. Long-term mess. Developing a sudden debilitating fear of fridges. Can’t open one without freaking the fuck out. Never having ice cream again because you kind of need to keep that frozen. Or steak. Or… a lot of other stuff.”
I watch his throat move as he suppresses a laugh and I poke him with my toe.
“Technically that fridge saved your life,” he says. “So I’d be worried about the opposite happening.”
I snort. “You think I should be worried I’ll want to fuck a fridge?”
He raises his brows at me. “Dig deep. Really imagine it. Two doors. Stainless steel finish. An automatic ice maker included. Glass shelves. A drawer to keep your vegetables extra crisp.”
“That’s a very specific type of fetish.”
“Did it get your bits tingling?”
I laugh out loud and flick his nose, and he smiles. A full-on, teeth showing, wide grin.
The fridge did nothing for my bits. That grin, though? It makes my heartbeat dance.
This is bad.
I’m in dangerous territory.
I know.
But it’s difficult to admit it might be a problem when everything I see the further I venture is so enticing. Turns out I’m a bit of an easy target that way.
“I’m great,” I say, more to myself than him.
He studies me for a long time. Sees me for a long time.
“How long do you want me to pretend that you are?” he asks.
I press my lips together. “At least a little bit longer.”
Instead of saying anything, he holds his hand out between us. There’s not enough room to shake, but somehow we manage. His warm palm against mine. His skin against my skin. He doesn’t let go and neither do I. We’re holding hands.
My thumb shifts without me thinking about it, brushing over the back of his hand. His fingers tighten, gripping more firmly. I keep moving my thumb back and forth over his skin. His eyes follow the movement. Neither of us says anything else, but his eyelids get heavier and heavier.
He falls asleep.
Eventually, I close my eyes too.