I turn and walk out.
“Harry. Harcourt. Court!”
The second I get out of the hospital, I gulp in the hot, thick Louisiana summer air. It’s infinitely more refreshing than the cool hospital air, the perfume on my mother.
“It’ll be best if you can come. Soothe her, you know.” The nurse’s words pull me out of my bitter memory.
“You think so?” I don’t mean to, but my voice is slightly mocking. Mom’s had an easy, comfortable life. Why the hell is she developing chest pain?
My phone beeps, interrupting the call. I glance at the screen and see a text from Skittles. I put the phone back on my ear. “Look, I gotta go. I’ll ask my older brother Edgar to stop by.”
“She specifically asked for you.”
“He’s in Tempérane. I’m in Los Angeles.” I hang up and check the message from Skittles. What does she want? A date, maybe? The plan could be working already, I think with a self-satisfied smile.
You there?
Why yes, I type, wishing I could hear her voice, its bright cadence. Did you forget something? That sounds cool enough. Not “I want to see where what we have between us is going to lead” eager.
Nothing for a while. I scowl at the phone. Did she get called into a meeting? If so, why did she ping me like she wanted to talk?
Then she calls. Heh. Maybe she needed to find a private place for a chat. Cubicles are terrible for personal conversations.
“Hey, Skittles,” I say, not bothering to hide the happiness swelling in my chest. I’m all ready to hear her cheery voice.
“Court?”
I sit up, suddenly on full alert. She sounds muffled, and unhappiness permeates the one word, like an oil spill on a pristine lake. “What’s wrong?”
She sniffles.
“Are you hurt?” I ask. Maybe that asshole Tom came back. If so, I’m going to throw him off a balcony.
“No. Yes. I don’t know.”
I jump to my feet and grab my keys. She’s too upset. I need to see
her in person and fix this. “Where are you?”
“In the underground garage. At SFG.”
So much misery is flowing out of her, like blood from a deep cut. “I’ll be there soon. I promise. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Actually, that’s terrible advice. “Just stay there!”
I get in my car and rush into the L.A. traffic. Just hearing the sadness and hurt in her tone twists my insides. What the hell could’ve happened to upset her this bad? Her shithead ex didn’t come back, did he? Or did something terrible happen at work? Somebody lost a billion bucks on a bad trade and blamed it on her, maybe? I bet crap like that happens.
When I reach the underground garage, I realize there’s no way I can locate her car. I don’t even know what color it is.
God damn it. Frustration and worry tighten their fists around me. I call her. “I’m in the garage now,” I say. “Where are you? Honk so I can find you.”
I hear a horn behind me, and the headlights come on and off on a silver Acura in the rearview mirror. I relax a little. That was easier than I thought. There’s an empty spot right next to it, so I slide right in.
Time to calm down. I’m no good to Skittles otherwise.
I get out of my car and approach hers. A box in the back seat catches my eye. It has the flowers I sent her, plus a few frames sticking out on top like jagged mountains.
Oh, shit. I never held a job the way she did, but I know what it means. Fucking Steve. What kind of asshole dad fires his own kid?
I rap my knuckles against the window gently. The door unlocks, and I climb in. Skittles looks exhausted. Her shoulders are rounded and slouched, and her entire body has the collapsed look of an old and tired balloon. Even in the crappy garage light, I can see how pale and wan she looks. And suddenly I feel like somebody’s robbed me of the sun in the sky.