Chapter 25
SOSIE
“I’m sorry, Joy.” I glance up at people crowding the door, waiting to be seated, as guilt washes through me for taking up valuable table space. “Do you mind bringing the bill?”
“It’s on me, Sosie.” She never changes or ages. I should be jealous, but she’s too good a person not to be inspired by instead. “It’s been too long and good to see you again.”
“You, too, and thank you.” My gaze drifts out the window for the thousandth time, hoping to see Keats running toward the restaurant.
I can see his smiling face and a wave before coming in to kiss me like we’ve missed each other for years, not just a few hours.
But my lips are bereft of his, my arms still empty, and my imagination fills in the rest.
When Joy disappears into the kitchen, I set money on the table that will more than cover the hot tea and edamame I ordered. Getting up, I pull my coat back on as I walk toward the door. I squeeze through the crowd, and the cold air hits my cheeks when I exit.
Looking down the street in one direction, then the other, I see no sign of him.
I pull my phone from my pocket and check for a missed text or call, only to find a blank screen.
It’s been two and a half hours, when it was supposed to be only twenty minutes.
I’ve been worried, but something else causes my chest to clench.
It’s not dread, but something heavier, darker, more concerning. I just can’t pinpoint what it is.
I pull my knit hat on and slip on my gloves before trekking through the snow to the corner. Since my seven calls have gone unanswered, I hail a cab that’s one block down, leaving me no choice but to go to his apartment.
As soon as the car arrives, I pay and rush through the door just as someone is walking out with their dog. I’m not sure I can catch the elevator, but I run as fast as I can, stopping it with my hand. It opens. My breath leaves me in a heavy sigh when I realize it needs a card key to move.
“Hold the elevator!”
I perk up when I see a woman running toward me. She walks on and taps her card as the doors close. I punch the floor for his apartment. She says, “Thanks. I’m so ready to be home.”
I work a smile into place, but it doesn’t reach my heart because my home has become unreachable for hours. “Me too.” When she gets off on her floor, I say, “Have a great night.” It’s easy to forget it’s Christmas when so much more important stuff is going on.
“You also,” she replies as the doors shut.
On his floor, I would have thought I’d be running, but that feeling from earlier has returned and makes my feet feel like concrete.
I knock. And then again. There’s no bell or button to push.
I text him that I’m here, suddenly hopeful that maybe he fell asleep or got caught up writing and lost track of time.
Wanted to shower or clean the house from top to bottom.
Make a four-course meal to surprise me, or go out shopping for a present and get stuck in a long line.
Shoot. I pat down my pockets like I might find a gift even though I know I don’t have anything for him.
Hope fades as seconds pass and minutes vanish with me still standing like an imbecile outside his door. “Get a clue, Sosie.”
I can’t seem to grasp that Keats would purposely hurt me like this. He wouldn’t. I know he would never lead me on just to get revenge. That’s not in his nature. So my mind wanders to the only other possibility . . .
“Hi,” I greet the nurse behind the glass by bending down to speak through the opening, feeling rude for interrupting her. “I’m looking for somebody, and I was wondering if you could . . .”
“Name?” Her eyes never meet mine, but her fingers are poised on the keyboard in anticipation.
“Keats Matthews.” I stand, rolling my shoulders back and thinking she can probably hear me without pushing my mouth to the small opening. “He’s around six.”
“Hold please.” Her fingers dash over the keys as she glares at the screen. Finally, looking up at me, she says, “There’s no one at this hospital by that name. Do they go by another name?”
Poet, but only to me. “No.” The clock on the wall catches my eye.
More than four hours have passed since we agreed to meet, and I’m already at the hospital thinking the worst when the answer might be more obvious.
And harder to accept. Betting on the long shot, I ask, “Have you had anyone brought in without ID?”
Her eyes stay on me for an uncomfortably long time as if I’m someone to be wary of, and then she says, “We had one gentleman brought in—”
“Brown hair with this slight wave in the front, great eyes, brown with the secrets of the universe hidden inside.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Giant. Like six-eight—”
“That’s not him.”
“Fine, he’s a giant to me. Probably six-three, if I had to guess like one of those carnival—”
“Do you have a photo of him?” Her blank stare has me wondering when she lost the ability to show compassion.
Resting my arms on the counter, I lean down toward the opening again. “There’s this timer that keeps running out on us. So I would have a photo, probably hundreds by now, but—”
The screech of her chair grinding against the linoleum has my spine straightening.
“Stay here.” She just leaves me with my worries for Keats, wondering if he’s safe.
My mind flashes through memories of Keats and me together, when the light hit just right and at the perfect angle.
I would reach for the camera that wasn’t there, and the stark realization that I can’t remember when I last took a real photo.
I left my camera hidden at the top of my closet, favoring the simplicity and convenience of my phone.
There’s no commitment through the basic lenses. There’s no expectation to take an award-winning photo, or one I can sell to make a living or build a career. I take photos of things that make me think or bring me pleasure. In that case, I should have albums full of Keats. But I don’t even have one.
Pictures don’t matter. He does.
I’m afraid they’ll require proof that I can’t produce to see him, so I wait and fret for her to return and hand me my fate.
I pull the hat from my head and scrape my hair back from my forehead.
Twirling the hat around at my hip doesn’t help time tick any quicker.
I scan the area and the nurses in scrubs behind the counter, the docs chatting quietly just around the corner.
The waiting room is full, and the old TV hung in the corner has a static line running through it.
My back stiffens as soon as I see her. “Anything?”
She stops and waves me down the hall. I hurry to catch up, both excited that I might have found him and terrified that I’ve found him in the hospital, which means he’s injured. Or worse. I’m holding my breath when she says, “It might be him. Are you open to seeing if—?”
“Yes,” I blurt, my hands already shaking from the prospect that it’s Keats.
She turns on her soft-soled shoes and leads me four doors down from where we were standing.
The door is already cracked open, so she turns and whispers, “Please don’t speak to the patient.
He needs his rest. If you recognize him, we’ll get his information, and then you wait for him to wake up in the waiting room near the entrance. ”
I’m already nodding, anxious to see if it’s him. “Okay.”
Pushing the door open, she stands against it with the handle tucked in her hands behind her back.
It’s dark in the room, but even with the little available light, I’d know my Poet anywhere.
“That’s him,” I whisper as if I need her approval.
I hurry to his side without it and grip the railing of the bed.
One eye is angry red, and his cheek on that side is swollen from a hard impact.
With a bandage and an ice pack tucked under it, it’s distressing to see him in this shape.
The loose neckline of the hospital gown shows bruising on his shoulder.
Tears spring to my eyes as I imagine the pain he must be in. Looking back, I ask, “What happened?”
The nurse signals me outside the room. I don’t want to leave him, though.
What if he wakes up when I’m gone? He’ll be all by himself.
The thought makes me feel sick. It would be awful.
“Miss?” A hard nod toward the door is all I need to know I’m on borrowed time.
I reach down and gently touch Keats’s hand, and whisper, “I’ll be right back. I promise.”
When I turn, his fingers grapple for mine. “Spark?”
I rush to caress a part of him not swollen or in pain, but I don’t know where it’s safe to land. I wrap my fingers around the railing and lean over it. “I’m here, Poet. Right by your side.”
The squeak of the nurses’ shoes alerts me to look back and catch the eye roll as she shuts the door. “I’ll be back with the paperwork,” she says, knowing it’s futile to argue with me. I’m not leaving him. Not ever.
“Hey there, you had me worried.”
Wincing, he groans in response. “Sorry I didn’t show.”
“No. It’s okay.” I skate my hands over his arm, still unsure where I can touch him without adding to his pain. “I’m just glad I found you. But what happened?”
“Three guys walk into the station.” When he stops to chuckle but then groans again, I’m not sure if he’s telling the story or trying to land a joke.
“Keats?” I slip my hand under his, leaving it to him if he feels he can hold it without hurting himself. We’re touching, so that’s all that matters to me. “Is that what really happened?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it with the one eye that still has the capability.
After taking several shallow breaths, he opens his eyes and says, “I was jumped in the subway. Pretty sure I was robbed as well, but I’d have to ask the nurses.
” My own breath has shallowed as a sob rattles my chest. I try hard to keep the tears at bay, but my vision is going blurry faster than I can erase the image of him being attacked.
A tear slips down my cheek, landing on the back of his hand.
When his fingers curl around mine, he says, “I’m going to be alright. You know how I know?”
“No,” I whisper, losing my voice to alarm bells ringing in my head from how bad his injuries are. “How do you know that?”
He grins this time, still accompanied by a twinge of pain rippling through his expression, and a quieter groan.
“Because you were with me after it happened.” He brings my hand to his mouth.
It’s good to see he has the strength, but it also tells me he has some healing to do.
“You’re my own personal guardian angel. You stayed with me until I was rescued.
” He kisses my hand before holding it to his chest above his heart.
I’m not sure what he’s talking about, but he sounds confident that I helped him somehow.
I don’t need to know the details just yet.
What’s most important is that he’s now safe and can recover completely.
That means breaking him out of this place and setting him up at his apartment, where it’s more comfortable.
“I’m glad you were rescued. I can’t lose you again. ”
“You won’t. Not ever, Spark.” With a look that I’d liken more to lust than being injured by how his pupils widen when he catches my eyes, he says, “You know what I want?”
Should my body react to him on demand like this? Probably not, but I’m not stopping it. “What do you want, Poet?”
“I’d kill for some ramen.”
The laugh hits me quickly and escapes too loudly for being in a hospital room. I lean over and kiss the side of his head as he does mine so often. When I right myself, I reply, “I can make that happen.”