“Seth? What’s wrong? Sorry, I was in class.”
“Ezra,thank fuck—” Seth is all business, his voice shaking slightly. “Dad had some kind of accident at work. He fell off a ladder and he’s pretty banged up. Knocked himself out, but he’s awake and talking now. They think he broke a hip and the last I heard he was in an ambulance on the way to the hospital.”
“Fucking hell—” The linoleum floor of the hallway, squeaking under my feet, overhead lighting flickering slightly. I’m twenty steps to the door. “What does he need? What can I do?”
“Bree and I just got in the car, but we’re going to befighting Friday afternoon traffic the whole way down. We probably won’t be able to get there until tonight, so we need you to go. Can you do that?”
“Sure, but it’s going to take me a while to get there by train —”
“Talk to Bree, I’m pulling out of the driveway now.”
There’s a brief shuffle on the line, and then Bree’s voice comes through the speaker.
“Ezra? I already called Cole and he said he’s free this afternoon and he can drive you. Can you meet him in front of his building?”
I do a quick calculation of the distance to Cole’s apartment in my head. “Yeah, that makes sense. Can you let him know I’m walking up now?”
“Sure, I’ll send him a message,” Bree replies. “Thanks, Ezra.”
I’m out on the street, my heart leaping against my ribs as my feet pound the pavement. It’s a hike up Seventh Avenue, hacking through the thicket of other pedestrians, every car horn jangling against my consciousness. A few blocks in, I start to jog, my messenger bag bouncing against my shoulder with each step. I try not to think about any of it, not about Dad or Cole or what I might be facing. But thoughts and images force themselves through the haze, and it’s all I can do to keep my feet moving, to keep from spinning out completely.
By the time I turn onto Cole’s street, there’s a stitch in my side. I’m out of breath and hot under my tweed blazer, but I push my damp curls off my forehead and I try to pull myself together. I spot him when I’m about halfway down the street, standing on the sidewalk outside his building, scrolling through his phone with an overnight bag slung over his shoulder. I’d know his silhouette anywhere — his tall beanpole frame, the sway of his gait, the way his natural confidence shines through in every movement. But when he turns and spots me coming, I can tell something is different.
Ever since we were boys, Cole has always cared a lot about how he looked. And in four months of hooking up, I don’t think I’ve seen him with even a hair out of place. I swear that when he wakes up in the morning after I’ve spent the night, birds must come in the window and make sure he’s fresh and ready before I get a chance to look at him. But today, he’s dressed in loose-fitting jeans that swallow up his long legs and a gray zip-up hoodie, pushed up at the elbows, a pair of thick-framed glasses on his face. His hair is pulled back in a bun and there’s two days of colorless stubble covering his cheeks. And he doesn’t smile as I approach, eyeing me warily as I cover the last few yards before finally nodding in recognition.
“Cole—” I blurt out, trying to catch my breath. “Thank you for doing this —”
“It’s fine,” he replies, his voice barely audible overthe sounds of the city. “Come on, let’s go get the car.”
His parking garage is around the corner, and I follow in his wake, watching the pitch and roll of his shoulders. As we wait for the parking attendant to bring his car around, I look him up and down.
“How long have you worn glasses?”
He glances over at me, and his eyebrow twitches. There are dark circles under his eyes and his cheeks look hollow. “Since I was fifteen.”
I can’t help frowning. “But I’ve never even seen you with contacts —”
Cole shrugs. “My eyes have been bothering me a lot lately and they seemed like too much of a hassle.”
The ride through the West Village is mostly quiet. Cole is drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, checking his mirrors as he navigates his sports car through the city traffic. The top is up, and so we’re sharing close quarters, the small cab stuffed with thick silence. I can’t get a read on his mood, and I don’t know what to say to him. But as we join the line of cars for the Holland Tunnel, I try anyway.
“Um — how have you been?” I venture cautiously. “Because you seem — I dunno —”
“Ezra.” The word is a complete sentence, thudding onto the console between us, but he takes his eyes off the unmoving traffic in front of us to pin me with his piercing gaze. “I can do this for you today, because I know your dad needs you. And I bet you’re freakingout, and we can talk about that if you want. But I can’t — I can’t talk about you and me right now. I’m just — I’m not in a good place with that. I don’t think I can handle it.”
“Okay.”
The cars in front of us begin to inch forward, and Cole eases off the brake, a muscle twitching in his jaw. And I lean my head against the window, the cold glass soothing my skin as I gaze up at the tall buildings surrounding us. It’s going to be a long ride.
***
“Hey, Dad.”
I’m hovering in the doorway of Dad’s room, with Cole peeking over my shoulder. Dad is lying in a hospital bed, swathed in blankets, a nasty bruise on his forehead. When he hears my voice, his eyelids flutter, and he raises an arm with a tube dangling from it.
“Ezra—”
Cole’s hand is on the small of my back, a reassuring touch, gently pushing me forward, and I take the hint, stepping into the room. There are two hard chairs next to the bed, and I stride forward, moving one of them a little closer and settling down next to Dad. He looks so small lying there, all the fight gone out of him, and I shudder involuntarily.
