If he still wants me.
An unpleasant voice in the back of my mind reminds me I’ve ghosted him the past week, and I may have blown my chance.
I step out of the shower and throw on black leggings and my new MLB sweatshirt. I’ve still got a few minutes before dinner so I check my emails. I open one from Rena that came in just a few minutes ago.
The first sentence guts me. It steals every doubt, all my hesitation, and sends my pulse spiraling out of control.
Finn’s been in some kind of accident and is in the hospital. He’s having surgery on Monday… I don’t bother to read the rest. I couldn’t even if I tried, the words blurring as emotion burns behind my eyelids. Without any uncertainty, I call him. Why didn’t I phone him sooner, or at least the minute I landed? Why did I have to play it safe?
The call goes to voicemail. I hang up and try again. Same result. Shit. Shit. Shit. I need to talk to him. Need to know he’s okay. Whatever bravado I hid behind this past week vanishes, and an entirely new kind of fear invades my body. I’d trade everything, do anything, to guarantee Finn is whole and healthy and able to run back onto the baseball field when the season starts.
I stare at my phone—who else can I call? Grandma Rosemary! She’ll know the details and talk me down from this ledge.
“Hi, Rosemary. It’s Chloe.”
“Hello, sweetheart. How are you?”
“Going out of my mind. I was out of town and just heard Finn is in the hospital. He isn’t answering his phone.”
“No need to worry. He’s in good hands.” She goes on to tell me he saved Sammy from being hit by a car and once again landed the wrong way, only this time the fracture is more serious. I bite down so hard on my bottom lip I’m surprised I don’t draw blood. I’m worried about Finn, but also Josh and Jesse. They must have been terrified. I make a mental note to stop by and see them after I see Finn.
“He’s grumpier than a grizzly who forgot to hibernate,” Rosemary continues.
“I’m sure he is.”
“Maybe you can cheer him up.”
“I’d like to try.” Mission Make Finn Smile accepted.
She tells me which hospital he’s in and wishes me luck. My hands shake as we say goodbye, Finn’s circumstances sinking in deeper. Anytime someone is put under anesthesia, it’s a big deal. There are risks no one wants to talk about, but are there nonetheless. What if he has an unknown allergy to one of the medications? What if they operate on the wrong shoulder? What if he wakes up and has amnesia? What if his heart stops beating while he’s on the table?
I’m freaking out, but love does that to a person.
I stumble out of my room, hopping and putting on my Vans at the same time. “Dad, I’ve got to run out. Finn’s in the hospital.” I break into a cold sweat as I give him the quick lowdown. This isn’t anything life-threatening, Iknowthat. But I also know Finn, and how hard he’s worked to be the elite athlete he is. And the huge mental toll an injury can take.
“Want me to go with you?”
“It’s okay. Keep some lasagna warm for me.”
“How about I give you some to go. Hospital food is the worst.”
“Great idea. Thanks.” Finn has to be happy to see me if I come bearing a home-cooked meal. Suddenly, memories wash over me and I have to hold on to the wall for support. Vague recollections of my mom in the hospital and the bland, monotonous food she got zero enjoyment out of. I’d bake her favorite pie and sneak pieces in to her inside my backpack.
Hospitals are not my favorite places.
I hug my dad tightly before I go. “You’re feeling good, right?” I ask even though it was the first thing I asked him when I got home. His outward appearance is the best I’ve seen in a while, but he’s excellent at hiding how he feels on the inside.
“Yes. I promise I’ll tell you otherwise.”
“Voluntarily?”
He makes a chuffing sound. “Yes.”
I kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”
An hour later with Tupperware in hand, I hurry into the lobby of the hospital. Right away I dislike the smell, not that it’s bad. It’s just so sanitary, and that implies measures haven been taken to guard against disease and infections. It means there are sick people here. Loved ones who are facing much more difficult diagnoses than a fractured clavicle. The furniture is upscale, the décor sparse. I forgot to ask Rosemary what room Finn is in, so I make a beeline for the reception desk.
“I’m sorry but Mr. Auprince is on the VIP floor and the only visitors allowed are those on the approved list,” a very stern-looking forty-something woman says politely.