“Is that a good idea? Why don’t you start with the grocery store? The hospital is still pretty awful. The structure was dismantled fully. You remember how many beds they had in a room when you were there. It’s just as bad as when you left.” No corner of the world was left unscathed, copiously so.
I open up the bag of bread and shove a slice into my mouth. It’s white bread, so it sticks to the roof of my mouth. “I don’t know why I was lucky. Why her and not me?” My words are jumbled because of the food.
“God wanted you to OD on carbs. And luck has nothing to do with it,” Sean says. “Have you heard from Smith?” An unwelcome change of subject. Awesome.
I shake my head. “Nope. Still nothing. And I think that’s why I’m going crazy.”
Cracking open a bottle of water, I drink half and set the bottle on the counter next to the other twenty or so empty bottles. No recycling trucks are running. Garbage pickup resumed shortly after the attacks in an effort tokeep society clean. The reminder of yet another way my life has been upheaved pisses me off. I knock the bottles over like damn bowling pins.
“You’d feel better if you left the house. It’s scary, but at least it’s real. Sitting here and pretending isn’t doing yourself any favors.”
“It’s how I’m coping. Not even a single email telling me he’s alive. Not a text message. Nothing. Is this real?” I ask, waving my arm out to the side. Our cozy house, our life so briefly lived. “Because it feels like a fucking joke. A cruel fucking joke!”
Sean hangs his head. “I’ll see you in a couple days. Call. Email the work address if my cell doesn’t work, or tell Jaz what you need, okay?”
I feel like a jerk. “I’m sorry, Sean. I’m spun up today.” I make a move to approach him.
Sean throws both hands out, palms facing me, and I halt in my tracks. “I get it. It’s fine. Everyone is on edge. It’s understandable. Just remember who’s here for you,” Sean says, walking away from me. His hand on the doorknob, he turns his head to the side. “I’ll be here for you as long as you want me to.” He opens the door, shuts it, and then uses his key to lock up behind himself.
I think this is when I realize everyone else knows something I don’t. Smith and I are over, and I’m the last person to figure it out.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Carina
Another three weeks pass,and I haven’t heard from him. The infrastructure of America is making progress in small increments—a slow, moving process, or so we’re being brainwashed to believe. I’ve visited the grocery store and the salon. My friend, who is a hairdresser, opened her salon for a half day once a week to ease back into life. I figured it was as good a time as any to dip my baby toe back into the new real world. Today I’m headed to the hospital to see Megan.
I’ve put the errand off for so long that now it’s awkward. Then, by calling it awkward, I’ve also labeled myself important. It’s a serious case of self-contrived bullshit. I dwelled on the decision for so long that it came back full circle, and here I am heading in the hospital’s direction, my hands on the steering wheel at ten and two.
Driving is scary. There are roadblocks and guard checks every few miles along the freeways. It makes traffic almost unbearable. The radio has the same feed asthe televisions, and it barks out orders about curfew and the importance of adhering to our new, normal rules. I turn it off as I enter the crowded parking lot. Cars are parked everywhere in a haphazard nightmare. There weren’t enough spaces, so visitors park wherever they find an empty spot. The curbs and sidewalks are lined with cars, and the grassy area in between lots is slammed full. There is no way I’m going into the parking garage. Not today, and maybe not ever again.
The empty space I find is at least a mile away from the hospital. Sweaty and out of breath, I show my driver’s license, walk through a metal detector, sign in at a security checkpoint, and then sign in at the hospital’s front desk to obtain my visitor’s pass. A gruff nurse with a wart on her chin directs me to the area where Megan is. I focus on my breathing as I ride the humid elevator up to the fourth floor and turn down a barely lit hallway. The faint scent of antiseptic and blood clings to the air, tainting my oxygen and reminding me why I’m here. She’s inside the last room on the right. There are more beds shoved inside the space than there should be, but it’s still easy to spot Megan right away.
A large, hunched male figure is slumped over, resting on the side of the bed by her thighs. My heart catches in my throat, and the scent of rubber gloves and betrayal mixes with the former smells, and I throw a hand over my mouth. My stomach flips.
“Carina,” Megan says.
I gag. It is perfect timing, really. Her face has healed by leaps and bounds since I last saw her. The blond, silken perfection that she calls hair is patchy but returning to its former luster. I plaster a weak smile on my face and walk toward them.
He lifts his head. “What are you doing here?” he asks, lifting one brow, his face washed out with confusion and accusations.
I sigh. “Moose.” I let my shoulders slump in relief. Not that I have any right to be relieved, but it gives me some piece of hope. Hope of what, I’m still not sure. “I wanted to see how you were doing,” I direct at Megan.
She smiles, and the warmness draws me nearer, like a moth to a flame.
“I didn’t know I had to go through you to see her,” I say, flicking my gaze to Moose. Huge arms on the bed and his looming size force the image of a watchdog to mind. Moose loves Megan. It’s so clear to see. Does she love him? Or is it blatantly ignored in favor of a past nothing can compare with?
He leans back in his metal chair and folds his arms behind his head. “You don’t need my permission. I figured you’d want to see Smith. That’s all.”
The room spins. His words seem a different language for a beat or two. “What do you mean, see Smith? I haven’t even heard from him.” Saying his name out loud brings a whole new set of emotions. I can practically feel him here with me.
Megan coughs, then grabs her side as she winces, her pretty nose scrunched up just so. Moose lays a hand on her arm in what I think is a comforting gesture. “He left here just before you walked in. He’s headed to your house,” Megan says.
“Oh my gosh,” I whisper, slumping down into an empty chair on the other side of her bed. “Why didn’t he call me? I didn’t know. How could I possibly know?” A tear sneaks out. “How long are you guys back for?” I ask. Dread turns to panic when I gauge Moose’s appearance for the first time. He’s tired—dark circles look drawn underneath his drooping eyes. His T-shirt is stretched out, and his jeans look five days worn. I close my eyes.
“We leave again soon. In hours, not days,” Moose says.
I won’t make it back in time. There’s no way. The traffic. The security checkpoints. It’s futile.
