I nod. “It was nice of Poppy to send you.”
He shakes his head. “She didn’t.”
I furrow my brow. “So…?”
“I just…came over on my own.”
“You…did?”
Mack shrugs. “Figured you might not want to be alone.”
That’s what does it. That’s what causes a lump to well in my throat and the prick of tears to make my vision blurry.
“Thanks,” my voice cracks.
Mack nods. He doesn’t fill the silence with pointless words, and right now I love him for that. It’s enough for me that he’s here.
After a minute, I press my palms into the table. “I’ve got to go talk to theMEMpeople. They’re ticked about the leaked photos.”
“They should really check their priorities, given the circumstances.” Mack scowls, and I appreciate his show of support for Mal and me.
“Want me to come in there with you?” he adds.
My eyebrows fly up. “You’d do that?”
“Don’t have anywhere else to be.”
“Sure, yeah.” I exhale, feeling more settled. “Okay. Thanks. That’d mean a lot.”
We stand, and Mack clasps his hand on my shoulder in a show of support. “Let’s go show these dumb TV people who’s boss.”
I snort. “Your mean mug always did tell people you meant business.”
He arches his eyebrows at me. “Careful what you say about my face, little brother. I’m thinking about getting a pet bird, and I have a key to your apartment.”
I narrow my gaze at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”
The corners of his lips tip up, and mine do too.
All I can think as I lead Mack to the meeting room is that my whole future just walked in the opposite direction, but at least I have my brother by my side, and somehow that makes me feel like everything’s going to be okay.
42
Hospital Stay
Mallory
Ifold over the toilet-paper thin pillow the hospital provided for me and wedge it underneath my neck. I’m thanking my lucky stars I’m not any taller than 5‘6“, because there’s no way I’d be able to stretch out on this hard leather couch if genetics had blessed me with even a half inch more in the height department.
I turn on my side and stare at the hospital bed a few feet away. The beeping sounds from the machines hooked up to my mom aren’t my favorite sort of white noise, but I’ll survive.
Mostly, I’m grateful she’s going to survive.
I sent my dad and Jo home to get some sleep. They’ve been up since last night at this time, when they found my mom in a heap on the basement floor. Basically, she slipped and fell down the stairs and, because of her autoimmune condition, didn’t have the reflexes to break her fall. They tried to get a hold of me last night, to let me know what was going on, but I left my phone in my room at Daisy’s when I went out with Holland. It was dead when I got back in late, and I plugged it in and fell asleep without waiting to see any missed messages. The guilt that I wasn’t here…that I could have been here sooner if I would have answered when they tried to reach me…has taken on the physical form of a rock in my stomach.
My mom’s got a broken leg and a concussion. But things could have been a lot worse. She could have gotten a brain bleed or had swelling that made her have a stroke or killed her immediately. I shudder. I can’t even go there. It was the concussion that madeher lose consciousness last night…and the pain from the tibial fracture.
I stare at her bed, silently praying for a quick recovery and discharge, not only because this couch bed is like sleeping on a box of rocks but also because any time off her physical therapy regimen is only going to make her CIDP progress. I want to do everything possible to keep her out of a wheelchair and allow her to retain as much autonomy as she can.
