“Three months.”
“Two years.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Six months.”
“Nine. But not while Bobbi’s pregnant or our babies are young.”
“You’re going to make babies for Ted?” Mom’s lips curl in distaste.
“Nope.” I smile, thinking of the vision painting I created. “We’re going to make them for Bobbi and me.”
Chapter Forty
Bobbi
Although I haven’t been to the bakery since the weekend, and devoted the time to rest and recovery, my body still feels like it’s been beaten from scalp to toes with a meat tenderizer. I got in touch with Victor on Sunday evening and told him to close the bakery.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked. I’ve never closed the bakery like this before. I gave him a story about getting into an accident to explain why I couldn’t pick him up. A good lie, since it also explained the bruises and cuts, which are going to linger for a while.
I smiled at his concern. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’ll be paid time off, so it’ll be good for you, too.” No need for him to worry about paying his bills. Although I ensure he makes enough to be okay, SoCal is expensive.
“Nah, I don’t need that. Listen, Bobbi… I don’t think you have to close for a week. You’ve been teaching me how to bake. I think I can man the fort while you get better.”
“You don’t have to. I don’t want you to take on too much.” Although I’ve been teaching him my recipes, he might get overwhelmed if he has to do everything on his own.
“You have no idea what your kindness meant when I had nowhere to go. I never told anybody, but I felt like I didn’t have anyone. Family was useless, and my friends mostly vanished once I became homeless. It felt like I was just…done.”
Sympathy for the lonely Victor wells up. Nobody should ever feel that way about themselves.
He continued, “You took a big risk when you decided to feed me, and a bigger one when you hired me. I’m going to show you that you made the right decision.”
“You don’t have to prove anything.” My voice was soft with affection and pride. “I already know I made the right decision.”
“Well. I’m going to do it anyway,” he said gruffly, then hung up.
Now it’s Wednesday afternoon, and Noah probably isn’t available yet. If he were, he would’ve noticed all my texts and calls and reached out.
When a bunch of people in paramedic uniforms arrived to take Noah and me to the hospital, I wanted to stay with him the entire time, even if he was asleep. But his mother said she needed to make sure I was okay in that scary inflectionless voice of hers, then dragged me off to see a bunch of doctors who pumped me full of painkillers and other drugs that I know weren’t just for easing the pain. Afterward some police officers—assuming they were real cops—questioned me for over an hour, ostensibly to understand what happened, then one of them drove me home.
When I recovered from the loopiness from the meds and went back to the hospital the next morning, Noah had been moved, and people were less than helpful.
“I’m sorry, but what’s your relationship to him? Family or…?” The receptionist at the information desk gave me a look that said unless I provided a satisfactory answer, I wasn’t getting anything out of her.
Here went my fifty-fifty shot. “Girlfriend.”
She shook her head, said, “Family members only,” and gave me a sorry-not-sorry smile.
Her smile was more annoying than the hospital’s privacy policy. Mainly because I resented her condescension even as I understood why the hospital was reluctant to give out patient information. One of my former clients had a stalker who pretended to be her fiancé in order to gain access at a gynecology clinic.
All my calls to his phone are going to voice mail. Doubt he’s reading my texts either. And I have no idea how to reach Nora, who may have confiscated his phone and undoubtedly knows where he is. She spoke with me a few times on Sunday, mainly asking what happened that evening…maybe she wanted to trip me up because she wasn’t satisfied with my answers to the “cops.” Then she asked how I felt about Noah, and I told her I wasn’t telling her when I haven’t told Noah yet. She gave me the flat, assessing look of a snake debating whether or not to strike, and it bugged me that she didn’t seem to care at all about Noah’s well-being. My dad—I mean, Otto—never cared about me that much, but now that I know he wasn’t my real father his attitude makes more sense. Noah is Nora’s son! What kind of mom remains so blasé about her own child getting shot by a freakin’ traitor?
I was so disgusted, I left without asking for her number. Unfortunately, manifesting won’t give me her number, so I finally gather my courage and text Noah’s brothers.
–Grant: I don’t think anybody knows.
–Griffin: Why don’t you ask Noah?
Because he got shot saving me and is lying unconscious in some unknown hospital.
