“Come on, now, angry girl. Less of the angry.”
I struggle against him but it’s fairly pointless; the man’s arms are made out of reinforced steel. “Alright. Alright, okay. Alright, I’m fine. Jesus!” I must be mad. Even though I don’t believe in the church anymore, I still have years of my father’s anti-blaspheming lectures under my belt. I think I was twelve the last time I said Jesus without it being in between the words in the name of our savior, Lord, and Amen.
Zeth puts me down although he lingers at my back, ready to grab a hold of me no doubt. I try and clear myself of vision of the red patina that has fallen over everything. To my dismay, Rebel isn’t on his ass three feet down the hall. He’s standing right where I left him, with a crooked frown on his face. “So Soph didn’t tell you she was okay?”
“No! Probably because she wasn’t okay!”
“She told me you didn’t wanna know her anymore.”
“I—that—” That makes no sense. I want to accuse him of lying, but this look on his face… Rebel isn’t a master of concealing his emotions like Zeth is. Or maybe it’s just that I’ve become very adept at reading people, having so little to work off with Zeth all the time. Either way, I think…I think he’s actually telling me the truth.
Over Rebel’s shoulder, a nurse is walking towards us with purpose. Her skin is a deep honey color, two shades lighter than Michael’s, and reminds me of an old teacher I had in high school, Mrs Whitson. That woman didn’t take crap from anyone, for any reason. And this nurse’s disapproving expression is exactly the same as Mrs Whitson’s.
“What’s going on here, people? We got complaints from the grief-stricken family members of very sick patients that there’s fighting going on in the hallways?”
“I’m sorry, I—” I can’t finish because I’m not sorry. I still want to kill this guy. The nurse gives me a look—bitch, you better finish that sentence—but Cade steps in; his leather cut creaks as he folds his arms across his chest.
“Sophia ready to see people now?”
The nurse shoots him a filthy look, and then transfers that look around our group, making sure to level it at each of us for an equally awkward amount of time. “I’m not taking a bunch of rowdy trouble makers into a sick patient’s room. Funny, but that’s the first thing they teach us at nursing school.”
I hold my hands up, knowing this woman might as well be God in this hospital; it’s the same back at St. Peter’s. If you piss Gracie off, you’re not going anywhere. “Look, I am sorry, okay. I’m just worried about my sister. If you could just let me see her—”
Rebel holds up his hand, then, too. “And I’m obviously worried about my wife. I think I should go and see her first, just to let her know—”
“Shut up. You can both go in and see her. Together. Sophia can chose which one of your asses she wants to kick out all by herself. You two,” the nurse says, pointing an authoritative finger at Zeth and Cade. “You two are gonna wait here.”
Zeth and Cade do as they’re told and wait in the hallway, and Rebel and me follow after the nurse, down the corridor, into an elevator, up three awkwardly silent floors, and then into the ICU. I should feel at home here—the majority of my trauma patients either start off or end up in a ward just like this one at some point within the length of their treatment—but I don’t feel at home. I feel sick. The smell of disinfectant and the chorus of life support machines blipping from behind closed doors ignites a level of panic inside me that I’ve only ever experienced once—yesterday in Julio Perez’s kitchen. The nurse guides us to a room and opens the door, giving both Rebel and me a glance of warning before disappearing. Rebel walks in before me, his hand covering his mouth.
Alexis is bundled up in the hospital bed, thankfully not hooked up to life support, but she looks bad. Her face is pallid and drawn, and her eyes are bloodshot. But most importantly, her eyes are open. She sees us the moment we enter the room and her mouth falls open. “Oh my God,” she whispers. “Sloane?”
I’m suddenly really fucking angry again. I’ve imagined this moment a thousand times before. A million. And in none of my imagined moments where Alexis and I are reunited does she look horrified. She’s overwhelmed, deliriously happy, crying with tears of joy. Not gripping hold of the blanket covering her legs so hard her knuckles turn white. She swallows, looking from me to Rebel and back again. “What are you doing here, Sloane?”
“What am I doing here? What the hell am I…” I can’t. I can’t even…
Rebel, a towering pillar of muscle and tattoos, moves around the side of her bed and sits on the edge of it, taking hold of her hand. “Are you okay?” he asks softly.