* * *
“Whatcha doin’there?” my bestie, Kimmy, asks from the driver’s side of her car. “You’ve been on your phone most of the morning.”
“Nothing. Just answering some texts.”
Alec has messaged me twice since last night. One time, all he said was:
Ben made it through the night. He’s still out of it; he’s been mumbling shit, but he hasn’t really woken up. But he’s alive.
I responded,
I’m glad he made it through the night.
Then, an hour later, he sent another one.
Thanks again for talking me down last night.
You’re welcome, Alec. Anytime.
And I meant that.
Slipping my phone into my purse, I focus on the task at hand. We’re searching local thrift stores for components for our Halloween costumes. Because I couldn’t think of any good options for just me, Kimmy and I opted for a couple’s costumes this year. We’re going as a famous painting, the one with the pitchfork. I think it’s calledAmerican Gothicor something. Anyway, we’re looking for the clothing. I’m going as the woman, and Kimmy is dressing up as the guy. For her, we’ve found a pair of overalls and a black jacket at the Animal Care League Secondhand Shop over on Harrison. I need a black dress with a white collar and an apron. Good luck finding an apron like the one in the painting. It’s brown with white bric-a-brac on the trim.
“We might have to sew the apron.” Easy for her to say; Kimmy can sew. I cannot.
“It doesn’t have to be brown, right? We can just get something close. If anything, I could dye it.”
“True.” Kimmy says it like it’ll be okay if the apron is another color, but she’s full of crap. The woman is going to want it to look exactly like the painting. To be honest, I feel the same. I want to win this year, dammit. I was so close before I could taste it.
“You said you had an idea how we’ll pull off the background. What’d you come up with?” The second I ask the question, my phone chimes in my purse.
As Kimmy speaks, I reach in and read another text from Alec.
They won’t know if he can walk for a while. There’s too much swelling, but as of right now, he can’t feel a thing in his lower extremities.
“Shit.” I frown at the phone.
“I’m not even going to ask if you heard me. I should be pissed, but because you’re going to tell me what the hell is going on over lunch, well, I’ll let it pass.”
My shoulders slump, and I sigh. “All right. I’ll tell you everything over lunch—lunch you’re going to buy this time.”
“Sure.” She nods. “My turn. How do you feel about McDonald’s?” She snickers.
The truth is, I feel good about it. I’d take Mickie-D’s chicken nuggets any day of the week.
I quickly reply, “There’s still hope then.”
As I slip the phone back into my purse, Kimmy asks, “Did you hear a word I said about the background?”
“Nope.”
She sighs. “Fine. Listen up. I’ll repeat it, but the second we sit down at the restaurant, you’re spilling the beans, girl.”
I give her my trigger finger, along with a wink. “You betcha.”
* * *
“He effing called youhoney?”
