What if he’s not? I ask.
I don’t know.
I rush into the hospital and the glass doors whoosh open and closed behind me. I run up to the counter and the women working there look up.
“Can I help you?” one says in a pleasant, calm tone.
“M-My fiancé,” I stutter, out of breath, “h-he was brought in. I think he’s in surgery.”
“Name?” She blinks up at me, no urgency in her tone.
I know she’s trying to be helpful, but I want to bash her head in. “Benjamin Carter.”
“Let me look.” She taps her fingers against the lacquered table and scans the computer. “It looks like he’s still in surgery, but you’re welcome to wait in the waiting room.” She points to the plastic blue and green chairs.
I take a deep breath. “That’s it? That’s all you can tell me.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty—”
I hold up a hand. “Got it.”
I take a seat in the corner by the double doors. I want to be there, ready and waiting, for any doctor or nurse that comes out.
A short time later, one does, and it’s Laura. It’s clear she’s looking for me. When she spots me, almost immediately, she rushes toward me in a determined gait.
“Blaire,” she breathes out a sigh of relief, “do you know anything?”
“Me? No. I was hoping you knew something.” She shakes her head, nibbling on her bottom lip. “I was on the team treating him when he first came in, but he was rushed into surgery. It’s not likely any of us will get any updates on him.”
My chest seizes. “How bad was it?” I ask her, wiping at the snot running out of my nose. “Be honest with me, Laura. I need to know. I need to … ”
To what? Prepare myself. That’s absurd. He’s going to be fine.
She winces. “Blaire—”
I grab her hand and hold on tight. “Don’t lie to me. Is it really as bad as you said when you called?
She makes a face. “Worse,” she whispers.
I close my eyes and a lone tear leaks out of the corner of my eye. I don’t even have the energy to wipe it away. My breath passes between my lips and I count to three before opening my eyes.
“I’m going to lose him, aren’t I?” The words feel like knives clawing at my throat.
Tears pool in her eyes. “I don’t know.”
I lean my head back and look up at the ceiling. “Fuck.”
She laughs softly. “Yeah, fuck,” she echoes.
“This sucks.”
She takes my hands in both of hers and I lower my head to look at her. “Don’t give up hope,” she tells me. “Whatever you do, don’t stop hoping. We don’t know anything yet.”
I nod. “I won’t,” I promise her.
She presses her lips together. “I have to get back to work. I snuck away to see you.”
“I understand. Thanks, Laura.”
She gives me one last sad smile and leaves me alone in the too-bright waiting room.
God, I hate everything about this room. The uncomfortable plastic chairs with their stupid wood arms. The pathetic coffee table covered in a blanket of magazines pretending to be cheerful and uplifting. I especially hate the wall of windows that reflects all the halogen lights and the people inside.
Sometime later, Ben’s mom comes running into the waiting room.
She sees me and slows to a walk. “Do you know anything?” she asks, sitting down on the chair beside me.
I shake my head. “No. He must still be in surgery.”
“That’s a good thing, right?” she asks, sounding hopeful.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. I hate feeling this helpless. I know nothing, and it’s killing me.
Loraine tightens her hands around her purse strap where it rests in her lap. “I guess we wait and see then.”
“I guess so.”
I rub my hands up and down my face.
Remain hopeful, Blaire. Do not give up hope. He’s going to be okay. You’ll see. They’re going to walk out of those double doors any minute and tell you that he’s fine. You have to hope. Just believe.
And then there is a doctor walking through the doors. I sit up straight.
I know. Somehow, I already know.
“Mr. Carter’s family?”
“Over here,” I call and begin to stand.
He waves his hand for me to sit down.
No.
He makes his way toward us, head downcast staring at his clipboard.
No.
“Are you Mr. Carter’s mom and …?”
“Fiancé,” I say. My voice sounds soft. Distant. Like I’m speaking through a tunnel. There’s a roar in my ears, like my mind is trying to drown out the words I know are coming.
He nods. He presses his lips into a thin line and fiddles with his thick-framed glasses. “I’m sorry to say he didn’t make it. He died on the table.”
I close my eyes. I latch onto those two words.
He died.
He’s dead.
Ben’s gone.
The man who’s made me smile and laugh every day for the last seven years of my life doesn’t exist anymore.
Poof.
Gone.
Game over.