*
MY MOM PULLS up in front of the hospital and I’m out of the car before she’s even stopped. I sprint to the information desk. Words tumble out of my mouth—I don’t even know what I’m saying.
“I need—my boyfriend—he’s been in an accident—”
The receptionist nods, calm.
“What’s his name, sweetheart?”
“Gavin. Gavin Davis.”
She does something to the computer while I stand there, breathless and terrified.
“Fourth floor—room 407. Visiting hours are almost over—”
“Thank you,” I say as I run to the bank of elevators on the other side of the lobby.
The other people in the elevator give me a wide berth. It’s one of the few days that it’s rained in our region and I’m soaked, my ratty old pajama bottoms and tank sticking to me. I forgot to put on a bra and it’s freezing in here, why are hospitals so cold? I don’t know how you are. I only know what your mom’s text said when I woke up this morning: you were in an accident last night, you were in the hospital, come immediately.
Right now there is no anger. That will come later. All I know is that I love you and you’re maybe very badly hurt. I will do anything to make sure you’re okay. I never should have written that letter.
The elevator doors slide open and I rush through. The nurse at the main desk hands me a visitor’s badge and points down the hallway. I’m running, my wet flip-flops smacking against the linoleum, but when I get to your room I stop, scared. Your mother must hate me for that letter, for ending us on paper. You deserved a conversation at least, but I’m a spineless coward.
Please be okay.
I just need to know you’re okay.
I stop in front of the closed door, hesitating. Who am I kidding? If I go in there, we’ll get back together. That letter, all the courage it took to write it, will mean nothing. And we’ll both be right back where we started. I listen hard, but I don’t hear anything. I know your mom is probably in there with you. Your dad, too. I know I should go in right now because you need me and you’re hurt, but I don’t.
I turn around and hurry back to the elevator and when that doesn’t come right away, I bolt down the stairs, as if you could somehow chase after me. I’m halfway across the lobby when my mom walks in.
“What happened?” she asks. “They won’t let you see him?”
How can I explain? She knows about the letter and already told me that had been a terrible way to break up with you, that it was wrong of me. I’m so disappointed in you, she said. That poor boy. And then the accident happened and it felt like it was my fault, like my hands had been on the wheel, my foot on the accelerator.
“I can’t go in there, Mom,” I say. “If I do…” I break down, crying. “We’ll get back together and—”
“Grace Marie Carter. I raised you better than this. Now you get your butt into that elevator and go see if Gavin is okay.”
“But—”
“Now.”
She’s right. I’m a horrible person. Selfish beyond belief. I can’t imagine a scenario in which you wouldn’t come to make sure I was okay. Just because we’re broken up doesn’t mean I don’t care if you live or die.
A few minutes later, I’m knocking softly on the door.
“Come in”—your mother’s voice.
I push open the door and the first thing I see is you in a hospital bed with bruises and scratches all over your beautiful face and I lose it.
Your mom stands between me and the bed, your dad slumped in an armchair in the corner, and all I want to do is throw my arms around you and make it all go away, the accident and the pain you’re in and that letter. Because I did this. It’s my fault. How could I have been so stupid?
“Maybe now isn’t the best time—” your mom starts, but you reach out a hand for me with the arm that doesn’t have an IV hooked up to it.
“It’s okay,” you say quietly. To her, to me. Your eyes never leave my face.
She looks from me to you, frowning, uncertain.
“Mom, it’s okay,” you say. “I want her here.”
Your dad stands up, but he doesn’t say anything to me. They walk out of the room together, but not before your mom throws me an accusatory you-almost-killed-my-son glare. I deserve that, but it hurts. They’ve both been so good to me, so good. And I realize, too late, that I haven’t just hurt you: I’ve hurt your whole family. They’ll never forgive me, and I don’t blame them.
When she shuts the door behind her I run to you. The right side of your face is one big bruise and when you try to sit up more, you wince.
“Gav—Gav—”
“Shhhh,” you say, wrapping your bandaged arms around me.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I sob, “I’m so sorry.”
I had underestimated just how freaked the hell out I’d feel seeing you like this.
“Are you completely broken?” I ask.
You shake your head. “Just banged up. No internal bleeding or anything. They said I can probably leave tomorrow. The car’s totaled, but whatever. Guess I have a guardian angel or something.” You pause and your voice goes soft. “I should be dead.”
I press my lips to your neck and breathe you in. You smell like hospital and it’s wrong, so wrong. You tell me what happened: you read my letter and then got wasted. Around one in the morning you stumbled into your car.
“I was out of my mind,” you say. “I just … saw the streetlight and decided, Fuck it. I don’t remember what happened after that.”
The doctor says you’re the luckiest kid in town. That hitting a streetlight at ninety miles an hour should have killed you. A miracle.
“That’s what I wanted it to do,” you say, soft.
My heart stops. I go cold all over. I think of the look on Summer’s face when she came into the drama room last year and told us what you’d done.
“Let’s make a deal,” you say. “We stay together until the end of the summer. If you still want to break up when you start school, okay. But give me the summer—without your parents and rules—to prove that we’re right for each other.”
“Gav, you said you hated me.”
You shake your head. “I didn’t mean it. Come on, you know I didn’t mean it. I was angry—”
“You’re angry all the time,” I say gently. I reach out and brush your hair out of your face. You catch my hand in yours.
“I love you, Grace. I love you with all my heart.” Your eyes plead with me, eyes I’ve gotten lost in so many times. Glaciers and Popsicles and the sea, a blue so particular to you that I haven’t seen the color anywhere else.
“Okay,” I say. “Until the end of the summer.”
You draw me down onto the bed beside you and in minutes you’re asleep, exhausted. I stay there until the nurse tells me I have to go. I slip out of your arms, brush my lips against your forehead, then quietly shut the door behind me. Your mom is sitting by herself in the empty waiting room. When she sees me, she stands.