Once I’m past him, he calls after me, “Sorry about your friend. We’ve got some real pieces of shit in this city. Attacking a woman like that.”
I reach the ambulance just as they’re about to close the rear doors, and I put on a burst of speed to catch them.“Wait.”
One of the men turns, his hand still on the door. “How did you get back here?”
“My friend is in there. Can you please—I just want to see her.”
“Your friend?”
“Yes.”
Except it’s a lie. Weusedto be friends. We aren’t anymore.
No. We were more than friends. Back then, when I was young and stupid, I thought she was theone.
But if saying we’re friends gets me close enough to see her, I have no problem doing it.
The man hesitates. Then he says, “Just a quick look. She’s unconscious, but you can say something reassuring. She might be able to hear you.”
My gut twists.
She’s unconscious?
Unconscious means a head injury, most likely. And that’s nevergood.
Sidestepping past the paramedic, I peer into the open back of the ambulance.
There’s that spill of hair again. Just as dark and shiny as I remember.
And then I see her face.
My breath stalls.
It’s her.
Shockingly pale, with red imprints in the shape of fingers on her cheeks and jaw. Eyes closed, her lashes a sweep of dark below them. A trickle of blood runs down the side of her neck. One arm is strapped up in a sling.
She looks small. Vulnerable. So unlike the strong Sofia I remember.
Yes, she hurt me.
Yes, she broke my heart.
But to see her like this? Knowing it happened when she was coming to see me?
It’s not okay.
Not at all.
“We have to move,” the paramedic says. “You can see her again at the hospital.”
He slams the doors closed then looks at me expectantly.
A beat later, I realize why.
He’s waiting for me to ask where they’re bringing her.
But do I ask?
