Page 86 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

An unknown number.

Something about it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. My fingers go cold around the device, and I answer without breathing properly. “Hello?”

A man’s voice comes through, tight and urgent. “Is this Athena Hale?”

“Yes,” I reply, and my heart starts moving too fast.

“My name is Daniel,” he says. “I’m calling from a hospital.”

My knees threaten to give, and I grab the back of a chair to keep myself upright. “What hospital?”

“Beacon Harbor Medical Center.” He clears his throat. “Ma’am,” Daniel says, careful. “It’s about Dr. Nathan Clarke.”

My mouth goes dry. “What happened?” The person on the other end isn’t calling from Hawthorne but another facility, and the unfamiliarity makes a shiver run up my spine.

There’s a short pause, then his voice tightens. “He’s been gravely injured,” Daniel says. “He’s alive. He’s stable right now. He’s under the care of a team I trust.”

My vision blurs, and I blink hard, then harder, trying to keep the room still.

“What address?” I whisper.

Daniel gives the address then adds, “He was found and brought in by someone close. He was left for dead.”

I press my free hand to the table, grounding myself. “I didn’t call sooner,” Daniel says. “We waited until he was lucid enough to tell us what he wanted.”

My grip tightens on the phone. “Is he… What did he…”

Daniel chimes in, as if he can understand what I need to hear. “He opened his eyes, and the first words out of his mouth were, ‘Call Athena.’”

19

ATHENA

My hands won’t stop shaking even after I set the phone down on the coffee table. I sit there staring at the screen like it’s going to ring again and correct itself, then I press my fingertips to my knee hard enough to feel something solid.

I need to go to him now, and my brain keeps repeating now with the same stubborn rhythm as a pulse. Then my eyes catch Ivy’s backpack by the door, and the thought of school drop-off and pickup logistics barges in like an insult.

The front door opens, and Ivy’s voice floats in before her shoes hit the floor. “Mom, I’m hoooome,” she sings, then she stops mid-step when she sees my face.

Her expression changes fast, curiosity draining into alarm. She drops her backpack like it’s suddenly heavy, and she runs straight to me with her arms out.

“Mom,” she says, climbing into my lap without waiting for permission. “What’s wrong. Are you sick?”

I wrap my arms around her automatically, and the pressure of her small body anchors me for half a second. My throat tightens anyway, and I keep my face turned toward her hair so she doesn’t see how close I am to breaking.

“No,” I manage, voice low. “I’m not sick.”

Ivy pulls back, her brows pinched. She studies my eyes like she’s reading a chart. “Did someone hurt you?” Her gaze darts to the phone.

I swallow and reach for the phone with careful hands, then I set it face down. “Someone I care about got hurt,” I say, and the sentence tastes strange out loud.

Ivy’s eyes widen, so I force myself to slow down. I cup her cheek with my palm and hold her gaze. “It’s Nathan, honey, the man who was at breakfast. And I need you to know he’s safe now.”

Ivy’s face flickers through recognition, then confusion, then that serious little focus she gets when she’s about to ask a question that changes the room. “Pancake man,” she says, softer.

“Yes,” I reply, and my voice wobbles. “Pancake man.”

Ivy leans closer, fingers gripping my shirt. “Is he okay?”