"He got shot. In the chest. He's in surgery right now and they don't know—" Her voice cracks completely. "They don't know if he's going to make it."
The words don't make sense. They're just sounds, syllables that refuse to arrange themselves into meaning. Shot. Chest. Surgery.
Nico.
"Where?" I'm already throwing the covers off, my feet hitting cold floor. "Vittoria, where is he?"
"St. Mary's. The private wing on the fourth floor. Kristen, there was so much blood?—"
"I'm coming."
I hang up before she can say anything else. My hands shake so violently I nearly drop the phone twice while pulling up my mother's number.
He can't die. He can't.
The thought pulses through me like a second heartbeat. Angry, desperate, terrified.
My mother answers on the second ring, voice thick with sleep. "Kristen? What's wrong?"
"I need you to come stay with Lily. Right now. Please, Mom." The words tumble out wrong, too fast, tripping over each other. "There's been an accident. Someone I—someone got hurt and I have to?—"
"I'm on my way." No questions. No hesitation. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
"I'll send a cab."
I end the call and immediately order an Uber to her address, then another to mine. My fingers feel like they belong to someone else. Clumsy. Disconnected.
I need to get dressed.
I walk to my dresser and open it, staring blankly at the contents. My brain screams at me to move, but my hands reach for my hairbrush instead. I start brushing my hair.
What the fuck am I doing?
I drop the brush. It clatters against the floor, and I flinch at the sound. Clothes. I need clothes.
I pull on the first thing I touch. Then I realize I'm still wearing sleep shorts underneath and have to start over.
My vision blurs. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, refusing to name what's happening to my face.
Jeans. I find jeans. My legs protest as I yank them on, muscles screaming from carrying plates and coffee pots for minimum wage plus tips. I grab a sweater and pull it over my head.
I sink onto the edge of my bed, pressing my palms against my eyes hard enough to see stars. He took a bullet in the chest. The words finally arrange themselves into meaning, and I wish they hadn't.
Nico. My Nico.
And now he might die thinking I hate him.
I grab my keys off the nightstand, then set them down. Pick up my phone. Put it in my pocket. Take it out again. Stare at it.
When Mom finally knocks, I have the door open before her hand drops.
"Go," she says, reading something in my face that makes her expression soften. "I've got her."
I want to explain. Want to tell her about Nico, about what he means, about the impossible tangle of feelings I've been drowning in for weeks. But there's no time.
"Thank you." The words catch in my throat.
Kristen
