“No.”
“He’s not moving his arm,” Phoebe pointed out. “His left one. He landed on it.”
“I’m fine.”
I made my way over, reaching for his arm. “Let me see.”
“No,” he growled, but he made no attempt to hold it out of my reach, immediately proving Phoebe right. His hand was purple, knuckles bloody, and when I carefully unbuttoned his shirt sleeve and pushed it up, his arm had swollen to the size of an eggplant.
“Oh my god.”
“It’s a scratch.”
“Your arm is broken, you maniac.”
“What?” Phoebe darted over, her eyes zipping to Dex’s arm held aloft in my delicate grasp. “Oh my—” She dry heaved. “Gross! What the hell? It’s like127 Hours!”
Ignoring her, I looked at Dex and said, “We have to go to the hospital.”
He gave the surrounding area an apathetic scan, ignoring several onlookers gaping in our direction. “It’s not that bad.”
“Don’t be an idiot.” My eyes burned. “But you are. You are such an idiot.”
“Vi.”
“I’m sorry I said you’re not brave.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “You saved Phoebe. She could’ve died and you… You didn’t even hesitate. You just went and you saved her. I’m so sorry, Dex.”
He stepped into me, wrapping me in a tight hug. I took a shaky breath, pressing my face into his neck. “Everything’s okay, baby,” he said. “I’m sorry, too.” He pulled back, bending to meet my gaze. “We’ll go to the hospital. We’ll be there for like six hours, but we’ll go. Are you good to drive?”
I blinked, his black hole eyes dragging me in. “Hmm?”
“Right,” he said. “I can drive. Let’s go.”
Phoebe looked at me and raised her eyebrows. “Yeah,baby, let’s go.”
It made sense for hospitals to smell the same, like how walking into an unfamiliar high school transports you to fifteen with too much to prove. The moment we walked through the doors of the emergency room, I was on the brink of a meltdown. That sickly muddle of antiseptic and cleaning agent clawed at my throat, stomped my lungs, and brought unwelcome memories screaming back.
Phoebe sobbing.
Nurses tiptoeing.
My lousy optimism holding out until the moment the heart monitor flatlined.
The last time I was in a hospital, my world ended. And now, sitting in a stiff chair in an off-white waiting room, a tank of tropical fish embedded in the wall across the way, I just wanted my dad. He would know what to say. He’d ease my mind with a joke. He’d reassure me that just because something bad happened once didn’t mean it would happen every single time, and he’d say it in a way that made it impossible not to believe him. My twin optimist.
A flash snapped me out of my head. Phoebe lowered the camera, offering a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I wanted a picture of the fish,” she said. I looked around the empty waiting room, eyes snagging on the nurse behind the counter who’d recorded Dex’s information when we arrived. He’d taken his time checking in, making sure I was comfortable in this waiting room that smelled like my worst memory, ignoring his own pain to abide mine. That was nearly two hours ago.
“Should I…” I swallowed, willing the nurse to meet my gaze. Maybe she forgot we were here and she would rush to give us an update.No news is good news, my dad would’ve said. Thatalways seemed like crap to me. “It’s been a long time. I should ask about Dex.”
“Don’t,” Phoebe said. I turned to her, fingernails digging into the arms of my chair.
“Why?”
“Because it’s pointless.” She lifted the camera to her eye, looking around the waiting room through the lens. “First of all, we’re not family so they won’t tell us anything. And two: He’s fine.”
“You don’t know that.”
“His arm is broken, Vi.” She put the camera in her lap and sat back, eyes lifting to meet mine. “It takes at least an hour for x-rays. Another hour to put the cast on. And there’s probably, like, two hours of waiting in between. We’ve been waiting a long time because it takes a long time.”
