Babies should be celebrated. Loved and treasured. I should be excited for her.
Instead, watching the ambulance’s door slam, I felt sick.
67. Dropping the L Bomb
“Here.” Dante held out my phone and I took it, watching Nicole’s ambulance pull away. “Clarke’s going to meet us at the hospital.”
“Which one?”
“Langone.” He watched me closely. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I shifted Nicole’s purse to my other hand. Either it weighed a ton, or guilt and secrets added pounds. I was terrible with secrets. Vic used to sniff them out immediately. I’d say hey and he’d start an interrogation. Cammie and Benta could spot my tells too. Apparently, my whole persona changed—voice, face, and actions. The more I tried to act normally, the more awkward I was. Strangers, acquaintances, they didn’t see it. Hopefully, when I returned her pregnancy-test purse, Nicole wouldn’t see it either.
“I’m so sorry, Chloe. The asshole in front of me slammed on the brakes.” He looked over at the wreck with a grimace.
I waved off his apologies. “Don’t apologize. It was an accident.”
He blew out a breath. “Want me to get you home?”
“No. I should get to the hospital.” I glanced down at my phone. Three missed calls and two texts, both from Carter. I opened the first.
Joey called. Said he heard Nicole got in a bad car accident. Please tell me you are okay.
I swore under my breath, the text sent ten minutes earlier. I almost didn’t open his second text, anxious to call him and let him know I was okay. But I did.
I love you. I need you. Please be okay.
I stared at the words. Love? My emotional stability trotted to the closest cliff and jumped off. Between Nicole’s pregnancy news and the accident, I couldn’t have an I Love You conversation with Carter right now. Did I love him? I thought so. But my emotions were all over the place. And he thought I might be hurt. Who knew what kind of false emotions he was dealing with?
I was torn, trying to decide how to respond, when I heard my name called. I looked up, Dante waving me toward a taxi. I took a deep breath and looked back at my phone, typing out a quick reply.
I’m okay. I’m sorry you were worried. I have to visit Nicole at the hospital. I’ll call you shortly.
It wasn’t romantic. It didn’t address his I love you at all. But hopefully it would calm his fears and stop any panic.
I saw dots appear, his response, and started toward Dante.
Thank God. Be careful and call me when you can. I love you.
That again. I felt a burst of happiness. It felt strange, being happy on such a horrible day, and I locked the phone, feeling guilty, and tried to swallow my smile as I stepped into the cab.
68. Wounds Aren’t the Only Superficial Things
Nicole’s skinny arm reached out from under the hospital bed’s sheet, waving for the purse. “Chloe!” she barked, and Clarke turned, his worried eyes meeting mine. I stepped into the hospital room and passed it over, her eyes meeting mine. “Did you get everything?” she asked pointedly and I nodded. “Everything?” she repeated.
“Yes. Everything.” I emphasized the word and I think she got the point, pulling the bag from my hands and peeking under the flap of it.
Clarke stepped toward me, lowering his voice. “She has some bad surface wounds,” he said. “But everything is superficial.”
“Really?” I glanced at Nicole, who closed her purse and clutched it against her chest like she might never let it go.
“She’s refusing X-rays,” he continued, and I nodded, unsurprised.
“I’m RIGHT HERE,” Nicole yelled. “And I’m FINE. Chloe, call the studio and let them know I can’t film today. And if I need a doctor, find one who will make house calls.” She tried to run a hand over the top of her hair, and I saw the tremble of her fingers.
“You’re not going to be able to film today?” Clarke turned to face her. “Nicki, you need to rest. Have you seen your face? You’ll have bruises, swelling—” I put my hand on his shoulder and stopped him, Nicole’s eyes widening as she lifted a hand to her face. Stupid man. He should know how much a threat to this woman’s looks would freak her out.
“Don’t worry about it.” I smiled in my best attempt at reassurance. “I’ll call them.”
“Good,” she snapped. “And get me a doctor. I want to be released from this hellhole now.”
I took her order and escaped, finding a nurse and communicated her demand. And, forty-five minutes later, she was released.
I leaned against a column in the parking garage and watched as Clarke and Dante carefully helped her into a car, her purse still in a death grip against her chest.
“We’ve got it from here,” Clarke said, shutting the door and looking at me. “You’ve had a hard day. Why don’t you head home?”
I nodded without argument, waving goodbye and watching them pull out of the garage and into the sunlight. I wondered, as I stepped into a cab, what more could possibly go wrong.
As it turned out? A lot.
The pregnancy news ate at me, devouring every spare brain cell, nothing else computing as I sat in the back of a filthy cab and tried to think. I needed to talk to someone, needed feedback, and my options were the girls or Carter.
Shit. Carter. I had forgotten all about him and the I love you texts.
It scared me, knowing that he might feel as strongly for me as I felt for him. Talk about a stupid fear to have. We were all running around this giant city trying to find love, trying to find soulmates. Looking for an all-encompassing, scary love just like this one. I should be jumping up and down in my Brian Atwoods and speed-dialing Carter’s number. Proclaiming my love to him and embracing the fact that—for once—I was experiencing this love with a nice guy. One who wouldn’t bang the maid, one who answered my calls, one who would put me before business. One who wasn’t, underneath all of his sexiness, an asshole.
A small bit of happiness sparked inside of me. Was this it? Could he be my person?
Could I do this? Could I be the girl who ran toward right instead of wrong?
I could swallow my fears and take the jump. I could.
The driver knocked on the plastic partition and I looked up, seeing our building. “Oh. Sorry.” I fumbled for cash and passed it forward. “Thanks.”
When I stepped out of the car, Carter was there, standing on the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched forward. When he saw me, he relaxed, stepping forward and pulling me toward him, his hands gentle as they touched me, his eyes darting over my injuries.
“You’re hurt.” His voice was tight and low.
“No.” I shook my head. “Just scratches.”
“Thank God. Are Dante and Nicole okay?”
I nodded, trying to force out a simple yes, but my throat felt so full and I knew, right then, that I was going to cry. I fell into his chest and sobbed with no clear reason why. His arms wrapped around me, and he murmured my name into my hair, telling me it was going to be okay, telling me that I was strong and beautiful and amazing.
He brought me inside and ran a bath. I watched the water and thought of the dust, tiny particles moving around the cab of the truck. He carefully undressed me and cleaned my wounds, his touch careful, his eyes concerned. I remembered the squeal of brakes, a honk, Dante’s shout. He’d shouted my name. The impact had been so loud. I could hear it, hours later. Without talking, without questions, Carter put me to bed, curling up behind me, one gentle kiss placed on the back of my neck.