Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
There was nothing.
Maybe that’s because there’s nothing between us anymore.
Maybe the connection has been severed. A game of tug-o-war only keeps going as long as someone’s holding on to both sides of the rope. If Bea has dropped hers, if she’s let go once and for all…
Pain flares behind my ribs.
If she’s dropped the rope, well, that’s understandable. She should never have been forced into a game of tug-o-war in the first place. I should have been there for her from day one, the moment she told me about the baby. I should have figured out that I was in love with her before she was gone. I should have faced my demons sooner, so I was ready for an angel when she showed up at my door.
But I can’t change the past.
The best I can do is be here for her now, in whatever way she needs me. As a co-parent, as a friend, or as just the guy who handles whatever she needs handled to make her life—and raising our child—easier.
The parking garage looms ahead, muddy gray concrete and exhaust fumes so thick the stink floods the cab even with the air on recirculate. I wedge the truck into a spot on the third floor, kill the engine, and jog for the doors. I skip the elevator line and take the stairs two at a time, hit the crosswalk at a near sprint, and grind to a halt just short of slamming into the automatic doors.
They slide open with what feels like ridiculous slowness, revealing the main floor.
It seems like a quiet day, thankfully, just a few wheelchairs parked near the entrance waiting for rides and a handful of patients drifting toward various wings. I head straight for the information desk, cutting around a cluster of people hunched over coffees and talking in low, urgent voices.
The woman behind the desk glances up at me through purple-framed glasses. She’s got the patient but worn-thin look of someone closer to the end of her shift than the beginning. “Can I help you?” she asks, bayou twang thick in her voice.
“Yes, please. I’m here to see Beatrice Nix. She was in a car accident this morning?”
She arches a brow. “Are you family?”
For a beat, I’m tempted to say “yes,” to claim I’m her brother just to speed things along. But before I can speak, the thought makes me realize I’ve dropped an important ball.
Again.
Fuck, I should have contacted Nix the second I realized Beatrice was in an accident. Maybe a part of me assumed that he already knew, but still, I should have made sure of it.
I will make sure, as soon as I see with my own eyes that Bea’s okay.
“Close friend,” I say, wishing it were still the truth, praying it will be again someday. “I’m a good friend of Clover Cummings, too. She was the driver, I think. She might be here, too? If so, I would love to check in on both of them. Just to make sure they’re okay and to help any way I can.”
The woman’s expression softens. “Of course. Let me check both of those for you. Clover Cummings and Beatrice…what was that last name again?”
I give it to her, not surprised that she doesn’t know who Beatrice is.
That’s country music drifting from the portable speaker on the counter behind her. Country lovers don’t usually cross over to the hardcore music Bea used to make when she was still with Violet Widow. But I bet this woman would love Beatrice’s new stuff. I can’t imagine anyone not liking her new music. It’s so pure, so brave and honest. So beautiful, just like Bea.
Please, let her be able to keep making music. Let both of them. Clover’s a talent in her own right, though she hasn’t found a band where she fits just yet.
I keep up a silent, steady stream of begging for the universe to show mercy as Purple Glasses types.
Clicks.
Scrolls.
Every second crawls. I chew the inside of my lip. Brush sawdust off my jeans. Realize there’s sawdust trapped in the hair on my forearms and brush that off too before curling my hands into fists and fighting the urge to fidget anymore.
Finally, the woman says, “Ms. Nix is on the third floor, maternity wing, room 314. You can take the elevators right over there.” She motions to her right, her forehead creasing with compassion as she adds, “Ms. Cummings appears to be in surgery right now, but if you check in at the nurse’s station upstairs in about an hour, she might be out by then, and they’ll be able to tell you more.”
“Thank you so much,” I say, already moving toward the elevators.
I’d take the stairs, but I can’t spot a clearly marked stairwell, which is a shame because the elevator is packed. A small gaggle of weekend visitors streams into the cab just as I arrive, carrying flowers and balloons and gift bags. I squeeze in anyway and press myself into the front corner, earning a dirty look from the man next to me, who shoves his backpack against my arm in petty revenge.