Boomerang (40 page)

I sit with it for a while, a cold ache in my chest. It’s devastating to imagine myself so thoroughly rewritten in my Nana’s mind. It feels like such a betrayal. But I know that’s wishful thinking in a way, like my protective bubble. Even though it’s totally unfair, it’s as real to my Nana as the rest of her unreliable thoughts.

A doctor comes out in scrubs, his surgical mask wadded beneath his chin. At the same moment, the elevator doors open, and Ethan steps out. Seeing the doctor, he hangs back, but my mom beckons him over.

“Well, she’s a fighter,” the doctor says. “She’s coming around from the anesthesia.”

I start to sob on the spot, I’m so happy.

My mom squeezes my hand. “Oh, thank God.”

“But she’s got a long uphill battle, and a tough one given your reports of dementia. Her leg’s going to be held together with pins for months, and between that and damage to her spine, it’s unlikely she’ll ever walk again.”

“But she’s alive,” my dad points out, and the doctor nods.

He goes on to detail her injuries, which were even more horrific and extensive than I’d imagined, and then takes us through her surgeries, which sound even more gruesome—though completely miraculous, too.

“When can we see her?” I ask.

“You can go in now, though she’ll be asleep for a while still. They only let one person into SICU at a time and only for five minutes each hour. Your grandmother still requires a great deal of care, so we need to keep the room as clear as possible.”

“Mia Moré,” my dad says. “Why don’t you go in first?”

“Me
? Shouldn’t that be Mom?”

But my mother shakes her head and says, “No, he’s right. You go. Then we’ll find you a flight back to Las Vegas.”

“No, I don’t need to—”

“Mia,” my mother says. “Your grandmother’s in excellent hands,
and
we’re only allowed to see her for five minutes at a time. She’d be thoroughly livid to think she kept you from an opportunity. You can see her tomorrow morning and then head back.”

“I can’t leave her.”

“We’ll call you if anything happens, kiddo,” my dad says. “And you’ll be back in what? A day and a half? We’ll be fine.”

“And I know you don’t want to let Adam down,” my mom adds. “Okay?”

I look at the two of them and feel a surge of love so strong it practically lifts me off my feet.

“Fine,” I tell them. “You win.” To Ethan, I add. “I’ll be out in five minutes, okay?”

He nods and takes a seat in one of the uncomfortable chairs. When he looks at me, his eyes are filled with warmth and concern. “I’ll be right here,” he says. “For as long as you need.”

I follow the nurse down a long hall with glass-fronted recovery suites on either side. She pushes aside the drape in my grandmother’s room and pats my shoulder as I pass.

“You come from strong stock, my dear,” she says.

But at the moment, I feel anything but strong. I feel like my body’s been pulled inside out, and all my nerves are on the outside, aching and exposed.

I tremble as I approach Nana’s bed. Tears spill from my eyes; my nose runs; and I’m so afraid of what I’ll see, but my feet move me across the linoleum floor to the shrunken figure lying half-buried between tubes and wires, encased in bandages.

This person looks nothing like Nana. Her face is bloated and has a strange, jaundiced sheen. Her eyelids are purple bruises, practically the only part of her visible atop an oxygen mask and a white sheet pulled up to her chin.

I hover there, taking a painful inventory of the metal cage encasing her leg, the bandages on her arms, across her chest, the blood seeping through gauze. I want to touch her, to give her a kiss, but I’m afraid I’ll shatter her with even a breath.

Drawing a chair up to her bed, I see her arm dangling off the bed. I brush my fingers along a patch of soft skin on the inside of her wrist and then tuck her hand back beneath the sheet. I close my eyes and pray for her, sending all of my love and strength to her body.

“Mia,” she said to me the other day. “It all goes so fast, but you never feel different inside.” She’d put her hand on my heart and said, “We’re the same age. In here.”

I put my own hand against my heart, feeling her life beat inside me. Then I get up to go find Ethan.

Chapter 52

Ethan

Q: Finish this phrase: The feeling of skin on skin is
____?

W
here are we going?” Mia asks.

It’s a testament to how deep in shock she still is that I’m almost pulling up to my apartment. She’s been quiet since we left the hospital and it seemed more important to respect her mood than to get into logistics, so I didn’t run my plan by her.

“My place.” I edge Adam’s Bugatti against the curb. This has to be the first time this car’s ever been parallel-parked. “It’s almost rush hour, so I thought we could make a pit stop for a few hours.” I turn off the engine, and the deep thrum quiets. “You’re exhausted, Mia. You need to rest. And you haven’t eaten all day. I’d feel better if you had some food in you.”

She looks at me for a long moment, and I can’t tell whether she’s worried about getting back to Vegas or Nana or what. But then she nods and says, “Okay. That sounds like a good idea.”

My apartment is clean and empty. Mia stops just inside the door and looks around. “Your place looks so different,” she says after a long moment.

It must. I’ve adjusted to the new furniture—the fresh flowers and colorful rugs and abstract prints on the walls—but I can only imagine how it’s hitting Mia, considering what she saw the last time she was here.

“Isis,” I say, dropping Adam’s keys on a table. “She civilized us. They’re out for the night, so we’ve got the place to ourselves.” I realize that might sound like I’m looking for something to happen between us, so I add, “I figured you’d appreciate the quiet.”

I lead her to the couch and make her sit down. Then I unzip her boots and set them aside. Mia watches me with tired eyes.

“What’s all this about?” she asks.

My face goes a little warm, but I ignore my embarrassment. No more holding back. “Let me take care of you.”

I need to. The need to ease her worry has been consuming me from the moment I saw her on the phone in Vegas.

She nods, and I pull a soft throw blanket from the back of the couch and tuck it around her. I bring her a glass of water, and put her cell phone on a pillow beside her. Then I turn off the lights, leaving only the small lamp on the side table lit.

“I’m going to throw something together,” I say. “Give me ten minutes, and I’ll be right beside you.”

Isis is named after a goddess for a reason. Before she and Jason left tonight, she stocked the refrigerator. I see exactly what I was hoping for. Fresh bread. The right kinds of gourmet cheeses. In ten minutes, I have my mom’s world-famous grilled cheese sandwich prepared. I wash a few strawberries and make some hot chocolate, and bring it all out to Mia.

She’s lying down when I come back out to the living room. For a second, I think she’s asleep, but she sits up and brushes her hair back and smiles.

“That smells so good.”

“Wait until you taste it.” I sit beside her and hand her the plate. “Good luck taking that apart,” I add, remembering her habit of deconstructing sandwiches.

“Will you share it with me?”

“I’ll eat what you don’t finish.”

We share the sandwich, hot chocolate, and strawberries—each and every taste sweeter, sharper in the almost dark. The moment feels familiar, like that afternoon after Winning Displays on the park bench, but better. I was fighting so hard to stop myself from liking her then. Nothing’s standing between us now.

“Jason asked around,” I say, setting the empty plate and mug on the coffee table. “He said your grandma’s in the hands of the best specialists in the world. She’s going to be all right, Curls. She’s strong. She’s a fighter, like you.”

Mia pulls the blanket up and curls against me. It stops my breath how naturally she does it.

“I’m like her,” she says, then adds, “Thank you, Ethan.”

I tuck her close to my chest and her arm comes around my waist. We sit for a few moments, getting the feel of how we fit together in this new way. I take a lock of her hair and coil it around my finger. Right away, I know it’s my new favorite thing to do.

Sounds drift up from the street. A car driving by, playing a thumping base. People walking past, their voices cheerful and laughing.

“Did I ruin the job for both of us?” Mia says.

I’ve been texting with Rhett throughout the day. They’re making the booth work, he told me. But I don’t want Mia to waste a single thought on Boomerang.

“I don’t give a shit about the job.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“I’m right where I should be, Mia.”

Which I didn’t feel for a second at that booth this morning.

The thought surprises me, and suddenly the feeling I had at the bar last night of my life’s compass spinning around crazily is back. But this time it’s calmer. It’s settling toward north again, and I know Mia is part of that, part of me finding my way again. There’s more though. I’m on the verge of making sense of something else. It’s almost within my reach.

Mia looks up at me, and the feeling fades, making room for only her.

“I don’t want to go back yet,” she says.

“Then we won’t. I’ll stay here for the next month if it’s what you want.”

“But we’d run out of food.”

“There’s always pizza delivery.”

“People might worry we’d joined a cult. A pizza-eating cult.”

“Eff ’em. Pizza cults rock.”

“What would we do with all that time?”

“Trust me, I’ve got you covered there, Curls.” I can think of a hundred things I’d do with her if we had a month alone. I
have
thought of them. Over and over as I stared at her picture, or looked up at her across our workstations. But then I realize my ideas might not be exactly appropriate to point out right now. Seems rude to tell her I want her trembling beneath me, with everything else that’s going on.

Mia’s eyes drop to my mouth. “Ethan . . .” she says.

Damn.
Looks like we’re on the same page.

“Soon, Mia. I promise.” I press a kiss to her forehead. “We have time.”

I won’t do this with her as a way to forget pain.

Instead of tucking back into my side, she leans up, bringing her lips to mine. I kiss her and gather her closer. She tastes like strawberries and chocolate, warm and sweet and perfect.

Mia’s knee comes up over my leg, and she nestles against my thigh. My self-control was already hanging by a thread, but now it buckles. I draw her leg over me, shifting her hips until she’s straddling me.
Awesome job on not taking advantage of her, Ethan.
But I’m drowning in her. In seeing her how I’ve imagined her a million times. In her sweet scent and the soft coils of her black hair brushing against my cheeks.

Her hands find the top buttons of my shirt. “I want to feel your skin,” she says.

I grin. “Okay.”

She laughs, like I said something amusing.

It feels like it takes forever for her to undo the buttons, but my shirt finally comes off. Mia sits up, and studies me with her photographer’s eye, but better. Like a picture could never be enough. Then her hands glide over me. Over my chest and my shoulders, and I let her until I can’t be a passive participant anymore.

I lean up and take her mouth, and my hands slip under her shirt. I tug at her bra and the garment unclasps. Leaning down, I lift her shirt and explore her with my tongue, convinced I could do this—taste her, touch her, make her mine—forever. Mia lets out a whimper and arches her back. Her core pushes against me. She sucks in a breath, her eyes sparking with surprise as they meet mine and then drop lower.

Her looking at me—at us together—is unquestionably the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

“That’s what you do to me, Curls,” I hear myself say.