It stings at first, but then I stop and really think about him. Landon has no one. Our house…it’s really peaceful, and he has his own space. My parents care about him. Of course he would be panicked at the thought of losing that.
“Landon—come back over here.” I beckon him, and he returns to stand beside my bed. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “I won’t tell. Ever. I would never tell if you—if I shouldn’t.”
He nods, looking at his feet.
“I won’t tell.”
“It can’t happen again,” he murmurs. He looks up at me with those gray eyes, and I nod slowly. “Okay. It won’t.”
He nods.
“Do you need anything?” he asks, not fully meeting my eyes.
“No. I’m fine,” I lie.
He nods toward the couch. “I’m going over there.”
“Okay.”
For the rest of the night, I can hear him toss and turn atop the vinyl.
Eight
Evie
Landon’s lying on his side, his back to me, when my mom returns from surgery. Her colleague, Dr. Aims, has made it to the hospital to cover for her, meaning Mom won’t have to leave my room again. One of the ENT nurses, a younger woman named Bea, has offered to drive Landon home if he wants.
“Do you think he’s asleep?” Mom asks me in a murmur.
I shake my head.
A few minutes later, Landon is at my bedside, looking down on me in the dark, his face somber, his eyes unreadable, saying he’ll see me tomorrow—which, of course, is actually today. He leaves with Beatrice, and my mom takes the couch.
Sometime in the later morning, while we’re waiting for the medical supply company to arrive with a pair of crutches for me, Mom looks up from her magazine and says, “How close do you feel you and Landon are?”
My stomach bottoms out. I break into a cold sweat. “I don’t know. We’re friends I guess.”
She looks thoughtful. “Has Dad ever told you about Landon’s past?”
“Umm…I don’t think so.” I keep my mouth shut about what Landon himself told me. I want to hear my parents’ version of events.
“You know,” she says, “I was impressed with his behavior here. The way he stuck by you. Because…Evie, when he was very young, Landon was actually left here—in the ER.”
I widen my eyes, and Mom nods. “A woman was with him. She was probably his mother. She didn’t leave a name, apparently. For her emergency contact, she listed James Landon, aged two. And then it seems she just took off.”
I listen to my mother’s story, which matches Landon’s.
“I was aware of it, of course. We all were. It’s part of what prompted us to start our fostering. I never could forget his little face,” she tells me. “He was a precious child. One of the nurses in the ER took him home with her the second night. She was certified as a foster parent. I didn’t keep track of his name,” my mom continues. “I didn’t realize it was him until we got his updated paperwork, after he landed in our house. I didn’t want to mention it to you because it wasn’t relevant—and, you know, it’s really not my story to share. But I decided you should know…it must have taken a lot for him to sit out in that very same room.”
I mull that over while I get discharged, and Mom wheels me out to the car.
Thirty minutes later, Dad and Emmaline spill out the garage door to greet us. Dad carries me to the couch, which has been decked out in my bedding. All my pillows are in comfy-looking positions, and there’s a wicker tray set in the armchair, which has been pulled right beside the couch.
“I know it’s not your room, but you can’t do two flights of stairs right now,” my dad says as we try to prop my ankle up.
“If the light from all these windows bothers you in the mornings, we can see about a switch with Landon. He’s been so helpful,” Mom says.
I try my best to settle both my nerves and my ankle as my family fusses over me and a delivery person drops off balloons from Makayla. Sometime later, Em is playing Xbox while my parents cook my favorite meal—shrimp fettuccine and asparagus—when I look up and notice Landon in the doorway.
He wiggles his thick eyebrows. “Couch potato.”
I smirk at his rumpled, plaid lounge pants, his undershirt, and his wild hair. “You’re one to talk.”
“Some girl kept me up late.”
My cheeks burn and my pulse quickens, but my little sister doesn’t notice the sub-context—if there even is one.
I’m taking up most of the couch, and Em’s in the armchair right beside me. I watch Landon as he walks around the pool table behind us, looks out a window at the woods, then comes around and takes a seat in the small space beside my propped-up foot.
He looks down at it.
“How does it look?” I ask him. “Can you see in through the little toe-hole?”
“Just the painted toenails. How’s it feeling?” It’s the first time since he came into the room that he’s looked into my eyes. My face stings with unwanted heat, which I ignore as I say, “Not the greatest.”
He nods. “I have some memories of that pain. I’m glad they’re vague.”
“How old did you say you were?”
“Seven.”
Emmaline glances away from her game, looking wide-eyed and impressed. “Seven, like me?”
Landon nods. “Believe it or not, I was seven once, like you.”
“What did you break?” she asks excitedly.
Landon holds up his left arm. “Fractured distal radius.”
Em frowns. “What’s a distal rainius?”
“The wrist.” I look from her to Landon. He nods.
“How’d you break it?” Em asks.
“Slipped on a Lego on a hardwood floor.”
“Oh no, Legos are youchie.”
“It was very youchie,” he says.
“He still has a scar,” I tell Em.
“Oh no, they had to do surgery on it?” Emmaline walks over to peer down at it. “Daddy says wrists don’t get a lot of surgery. Not as much as flimsy ankles.”
I laugh at my sister’s excellent memory. Dad is always ranting about “flimsy” ankles.
Landon shrugs. His face looks slightly odd for just a second, but it passes, and our collective energy is redirected to Em’s game.
Dinner’s ready soon. My family brings it to the den with me, and we eat watching Wheel of Fortune.
Landon’s sitting by my foot again, so I can’t help but watch him. He’s a neat eater. He never seems to look at me during dinner, but I guess he must be watching me, because when I run out of water, he gets me a refill. I cling to his every comment as he guesses two phrases correctly, wowing both my parents, before he takes his dishes and mine to the kitchen.
My mom’s brows raise in obvious approval. Minutes later, he’s back, with his hands in his pants pockets.
“Food was great. Thank you.” He nods at my parents. “Sleep well, Evie. And Emmaline.”
“You too,” my dad calls from behind his newspaper. “You’re a good ’un, Landon.”
Emmaline hops up and down in her seat. “Byyeeeee, brother!”
Mom stands up from the desk chair where she’s seated. “Goodnight, Landon. I’ll leave your school excuse for today on the counter in the morning.”