Page 46 of Changed By You
“Morning,” he says softly.
“Good morning.”
My heart races as I walk over to one of the wide stainless refrigerators and take out two glass bottles of water. Just water for me and lavender lemon for Farrah.
I glance over at Dalton, my stomach flipping over the way he’s looking at me. A mix of hunger and uncertainty swirls in his eyes. I want to run to him, throw myself in his arms and press every inch of my body against his solid warmth.
We just look at each other for a few seconds, neither of us speaking. The spell is broken when my phone buzzes with an incoming text.
Farrah’s probably wondering where I’m at. I pick up my phone and read the message, my heart pounding harder with each word.
Mom: Dad and I are going to the hospital in an ambulance. The paramedics said he may have had another stroke or a seizure. I’ll text as soon as I know something. Love you.
“No,” I whisper, tears filling my eyes.
This is the cost of making enough money to help my parents. My dad, whose condition is already fragile, is on his way to the hospital, and I’m at a beach house in Malibu, completely helpless.
“What is it?” Dalton strides over to me and takes my hand.
“My dad.” I blink and the clouds clear from my vision as tears drop onto my cheeks. “My mom called an ambulance. They think he had another stroke or a seizure.”
“Babe.” His voice is soft and he gently squeezes my hand. “What can I do for you?”
My lips part and I shake my head, at a loss for words. But then, clarity comes.
“I’m going there. I need to be with my dad.”
He nods. “You want me to tell Farrah?”
My exhale is heavy. She’s not going to take this well. But I don’t care. I’m not asking her permission.
“I’ll do it, but thanks.”
“Want me to go throw some stuff in a bag for you?”
“It’s okay. I’m just going to take my bag and my phone. God, I hope I can get a flight there today.”
“You will.” He gives my hand a reassuring squeeze.
“Okay.” I take a steadying breath. “Let’s get this over.”
Dalton follows me to the usual yoga spot on the beach. As usual, Farrah is the first one there.
“It’s cold this morning,” she says in greeting. “Will you go grab me a hoodie?”
“I have to go.” I blurt it out, my stomach churning with worry.
“Go where?” She pinches her brows together, confused.
“Home. To Michigan. My dad is on the way to the hospital in an ambulance.”
Her expression morphs from confused to dismissive. “It’ll take you all day to get there. And you won’t be able to have your phone on in the air. You can call and check in on him from here.”
“No, I’m going.”
She scoffs. “I get that it’s upsetting, but is he dying or something? It might be nothing.”
I’ve never told Farrah about my family. Mostly because she’s never asked, but also because she had a sad childhood. Her father died when she was three and the man her mom remarried was an abusive alcoholic. Despite Farrah breezily telling everyone that she loves going back to Pella, Iowa, for the tulip festival, she never goes home. She hates her mother for what she was put through, and even without knowing the specifics, I understand why.
