“Yeah. okay. I’ll be there as fast as I can. Bye.”
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“My father was rushed to the hospital.”
TEN
GRAYSON
“MY FATHER WAS RUSHED TO THE HOSPITAL.”
The words came out of my mouth, but they felt foreign. I slid out of the booth and stood up, hoping it would help me make more sense of the conversation.
Wren sat bolt-upright, shock in her eyes. “What happened?”
I rubbed my face, stumbling through my thoughts, trying to remember what Tiff told me.
“They think he had a heart attack. He’s at Bergen Point Memorial. I need to get there,” I said, raking my hand through my hair. The check, I need to pay the check. I moved toward the cashier. Front of the diner. One foot in front of the other. Wren came up behind me and grabbed the check out of my hand.
“Just go. I’ll take care of this,” she said, waving her hand toward the door.
A blast of icy wind greeted me as I rushed out the door into the parking lot. I jammed my hands into my front pockets for warmth.
Pop was in the hospital.
Heart attack.
Why hadn’t I answered the phone earlier? It wasn’t like Tiff called after school every day. I tortured myself, milling around the parking lot, blind to where I’d parked my car. My teeth chattered as I searched the lot and finally located the mud-brown soft-top of the Chrysler. I fumbled for my keys and realized I’d left my jacket inside. I turned back toward the diner to see Wren coming down the stairs, my jacket draped over her arm. Her hair fanned away from her face as she trotted toward me.
“You forgot this,” she said, handing me the jacket.
Thank you, I thought, though the words never quite made it to my lips. I shivered as I pushed my arms through the sleeves. Wren dropped her bag by her feet and unwound the blue knit scarf from her neck.
“Here,” she said, her breath disappearing in a puff of white. She reached up, on tiptoe, and tossed the scarf over my shoulders, winding it around my neck twice. The wool was still warm from her body.
My teeth chattered as I stuffed the fringy ends of the scarf inside my jacket.
“You’ll be okay?” she asked.
Mute, I nodded.
“I can walk from here,” she said, staring down the expanse of Broadway.
“I c-c-can give you a ride,” I stuttered. When did it get so ball-shrinking cold?
“No, you need to get to your dad,” she answered, slinging her bag over her shoulder. I nodded again and watched her walk away, the word good-bye forming a lump in my throat. She was right, I needed to get to the hospital, but my feet wouldn’t move.
Wren came back.
“I’ll drive,” she said, eyes sweeping the parking lot.
“What?”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be behind the wheel right now. Hand over the keys.”
No one had ever driven the Chrysler but me and Pop. It wasn’t a sweet ride, but it was mine. The guys had always given me shit about how neat I kept it. How I practically made them take their shoes off before they set foot in it. Without protest I dropped the keys into her open palm.
Getting into the passenger side was alien. Wren tossed her messenger bag into the back and slid into the driver’s side. Her plaid skirt hiked up to reveal another two inches of milky white thigh that I couldn’t tear my eyes from. The sight of her bare skin sent a current of desire through me.
Grayson Matthew, you filthy horndog. My conscience took on Tiff’s voice. Your father could be dying, and you’re thinking with your prick.
Wren put the car into Drive. We lurched forward out of the spot as she lead-footed the brake to let another car back up out of a space directly across from us. The near miss wiped my brain of pervy thoughts.
“Sorry, I’m used to driving my dad’s car,” she explained, tucking a few strands of static-charged hair behind her ear. I cranked up the heat, then reached across her to switch on the headlights.
“It’s dusk. You’ll need those,” I said, leaning back into the passenger seat.
Gripping the wheel in the perfect ten and two o’clock position, Wren maneuvered out of the spot as if the car were the size of a boat. In the time it took her to get out of the parking lot, I could have been to Bergen Point Memorial and back.
Once we hit Broadway, she visibly relaxed. She kept doing all those things new drivers do—checking the side mirror and rearview, slowing down as the light changed to yellow. Conscientious. Adorable, even. But fucking three-toed-sloth slow. My knee bounced up and down with pent-up energy. I chewed on my thumbnail as we stopped for our third red light in what seemed like two minutes.
“This is a bit of a shock?” she asked, her voice unsure as she stepped on the gas again.
“Yes,” I answered quickly, but then thought about it. “No, I guess not really. Pop doesn’t take care of himself. Tiff’s been trying to get him to eat better for years. And he smokes. Maybe not as much as he used to, but probably more than he lets us know. So not a total shock. But. I didn’t really think this is how I’d be spending my day.”
“You call your mother ‘Tiff’?” she asked, clicking on the directional. A few cars sped by before she could make the left turn onto the same block as the hospital.
“Tiff’s my stepmom. Five years. My mom lives in Connecticut. I don’t see her that much. There’s a spot,” I said, almost ready to jump on her lap and take over the wheel.
I was out the door before she killed the ignition. She caught up to me halfway down the street. Then I felt the warmth of her hand wrapping around mine. Surprised, I glanced at her. She gave my hand a gentle squeeze. I held on, and she took the lead.
We barreled through the sliding doors at the entrance and tore across the lobby. A stout security guy who must have lived for moments like this sat at a podium in front of the archway that led to the rest of the hospital. He held up his hand, and we skidded short across the marble floor in front of him.
“Visiting hours are—”
“My dad’s in the emergency room.”
“Your best bet would be to go back outside—”
“Can’t we get in through here?” I asked, cutting him off again and gesturing toward a sign that said ER with an arrow pointing down another hallway.
He soured as his eyes shifted to Wren. “Are you family?”
I glared at him, ready to verbally tear him a new one, but Wren intervened.
“Sir, he’s a mess. I want to make sure he gets where he needs to be, then I’ll leave, I promise,” she said, voice calm, working some sort of spell on him with her eyes. With a jerk of his head he gave us a quick, “Go.” We race-walked down a hallway and through so many doors, it would have been funny if I wasn’t so panicked. By the time we got to the last one, I half expected to be outside again.
We emptied into the grubby, basic white waiting room of the ER. A woman cradled a crying infant in front of a small reception window that slid open and closed. The old woman behind it either didn’t hear or didn’t care. Her name tag read Myrtle. I knocked, and she peered at me through rimless glasses.
“My father was brought in about an hour ago,” I said, fingers twitching to reach for the magic door she had to buzz me through.
She picked up a clipboard, sliding a pen into the top clip, and paused to cough into her shoulder.
“Name,” she said, placing the clipboard between us.
“No, I’m not here for me. I’m here for my father,” I said, pushing it back toward her.
“You have to sign in, son,” she said. I grabbed the pen and scrawled something in one of the sign-in spots.
“Ma’am, he had a heart attack. I’d really like to see him,” I said, handing her the clipboard. She glared at me and pushed the magic button.