Page 89 of A Bookish Story

“I don’t know, but he’s hurt enough that Millie called us. She didn’t say much before hanging up, she was too upset.”

She would know better than to call his estranged family and an ache forms in my chest that Ryan has no one else in the area who cares. Except me. My heart is racing, beating like it will smash through the wall of my chest. If she was too upset to talk, Ryan might be seriously injured. I’ve got to get there now.

“What hospital?” I ask.

Pepper tells me Ryan is at El Camino Hospital, which isn’t far.

“I’ve tried calling Ryan, but he’s not answering,” Pepper says.

He could be unconscious, or in a coma. Of course, he might also not have his phone with him at the hospital. You never want to give an author any room to imagine the worst because we are a creative sort. I am picturing everything from a broken leg to death.

The fact Ryan was with Millie doesn’t even register on my radar until I’m halfway to the hospital. The only thing that matters now is that he’s alive. He has to be. If he dies, if he’s dead, I swear I’m going to…stop writing. Stop dreaming. There would be no point.

Simply imagining this fictional scenario has tears streaming down my face before I even start driving and I’m forced to take a moment to calm down. It will do no one any good if I have an accident of my own on the way to the hospital.

I hang up with Pepper and have enough presence of mind to text Sofia that I can’t make dinner due to an emergency but will see everyone later. Then I’m off, pulling onto the street and joining traffic. I make it across town in record time, even with my safe driving skills, which normally keep me well below the speed limit. Parking near the ER entrance, I race across the parking lot and through the double doors to the triage nurse behind the glass window.

“Ryan Brady,” I say when I’m able to catch my breath. “I was told he’s here.”

“And you are…”

I’m…I’m nobody. I wonder if I could get away with saying I’m his wife. After all, I’m like his work wife. There’s no way they will let me back there if I say I’m his assistant. They’ll laugh me out of the hospital.

“I’m, um, his wife.” It’s tough not to wince at the lie but I think I’ve pulled it off.

From behind me, someone clears their throat.

“He doesn’t have a wife.”

I turn and for a moment, everything feels blurry and out of focus. It’s Millie, looking model gorgeous with her jet-black hair and matching pantsuit. I’m encouraged by the fact she doesn’t look like she’s been crying. Her eyes aren’t red or puffy like mine. She knows more than I do, which means Ryan is alive.

But Pepper called me, Ryan did not. Maybe he called Millie. Maybe I’m intruding simply by being here. But I don’t care because I’m not leaving until I know he’s okay.

“Wife, huh? Hello, Luci,” she says. “Or do you want me to call you Elizabeth?”

She inspects me, head to toe, as if expecting to find some defect by the manufacturer. I hate when beautiful women do that to us mere mortals.

“Where is he? How is he?” I manage. “I want to see him and you know they weren’t going to let me in.”

The interesting thing is she’s got a plastic band on her wrist, the kind they give when you’re admitted to the hospital or clinic for any reason at all.

“He’s going to be fine,” she says, and I hear the edge of annoyance in her tone. “You didn’t have to come. We were in a fender bender.”

“Oh. Ohhh.” At that moment, every one of my muscles unclenches and I sway in place. A fender bender. I don’t like those, either, but I know from my extensive research on accidents before I dared take my driver’s test, they’re the ones that happen the great majority of the time. Fatal accidents account for only 0.5 percent of the time, which doesn’t sound like much, but it’s still tens of thousands of people every year.

“Here’s the patient now,” Millie says and I turn to see him being wheeled out by an attendant.

His arm is in a sling and his hair is ruffled but otherwise he looks fine. There are no missing limbs, no casts, no blood, bruises, scratches, or cuts on his face. I’m going to assume they’ve done X-rays to look for internal bleeding.

“Were X-rays done to check internal bleeding?” I ask the young woman pushing Ryan’s wheelchair.

Millie quirks a brow. “Are you a doctor?”

“No, I’m a writer.”

“Yes, all that was done,” the attendant says. “He’s all clear.”

I feel like I can breathe again and take in a great big, beautiful breath of sweet air. Everything that had been flipped off its axis slips right back into place.