His eyes, the color of an Arizona summer sky at mid-morning, flash to me quickly before refocusing on his task, and I catch the pity in them. But he says nothing, continuing to administer breaths as I watch the second hand make its laps, waiting for her to wake up.
Fighting to keep the tears from letting loose as I take in her bluish-tinged lips and fingernails. “Hang in there, Mom—help is coming,” I whisper. It’s not help that’s coming, though. It’s just a Band-Aid until next time.
The fire department is the first to sail in, the paramedics on their heels.
And the next minutes are a surreal flurry of firemen trying to save our home, of EMTs giving Mom another dose of Narcan, their standard questions bringing an unsettling sense of déjà vu, because I’ve been here before.
“What did she take?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you gave her Narcan. . .”
“Maybe heroin.”
“Anything else?”
“I don’t know.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“How much did she take?”
“Too much, obviously.”
The crowd of curious onlookers stands nearby, watching the spectacle but offering no help, no “Come on, we’ll get you to the hospital,” as I watch the ambulance speed away, whatever energy I had drained.
Is this the last time?
How many more times can she handle?
How many more times can I handle?
I’m so tired.
“Did they tell you where they’re taking her?”
His deep voice startles me. For a moment, I actually forgot the guy was here. “St. Bart’s.” That’s where they always take her.
“We should follow them, then.”
“We?” I turn to regard him. He’s shifting from foot to foot, keys already dangling in hand, looking ready to bolt. I can’t blame him. “I’ll find my own way.” That’s probably what he’s waiting to hear.
“Come on. I’ll drive you.”
“Why?” It’s a loaded question. Why is he offering to drive me? Why is he even here? Why did he help me? “What do you want from me?” Everyone wants something.
He heaves a sigh. “Just . . . come on. Please.” He punctuates that plea with a hand floating so close to the small of my back that I can feel the heat without his touch. I tense automatically.
This guy’s a complete stranger, but surrounded by people I’ve known for years, he’s the only one who reached for the fire extinguisher, who carried my mom out, who helped me try to keep her from dying. So instead of walking the three miles to the hospital, I climb into the passenger seat of his Cherokee.
The guy hastily grabs a lined sheet of paper from the dashboard, folding and tucking it into his back pocket, but not before I catch the word Tucson and my zip code scrawled across it. Then, without warning, he leans over the console, his long, muscular arm reaching to my feet to collect the pile of empty coffee cups. “Sorry. It was a long drive,” he mumbles.
I fold my arms around my ketchup-red QuikTrip work shirt, acutely aware of every time his forearm brushes against my bare leg. My gut tells me he’s being polite by cleaning up the trash. That he’s not taking advantage of the opportunity to touch me. And that reminds me that I haven’t thanked him.
“You didn’t have to do what you did,” I whisper. Not exactly a thanks, but I’m still wary of this guy.
“Yeah, I did.” He twists in his seat to stuff the coffee cups into a plastic bag in the backseat, a waft of burnt wood and melted plastic catching my nostrils. His clothes reek of it. Mine must, too.
Starting the engine by pressing a button—I’ve never been in a car that can do that—he guns it, creating a cloud of dust as he passes Sims, a quiet mutter of “fuckhead” slipping from his lips.
Despite the dire situation, I struggle to hide my smile.
“Right or left?”
“Left.” His earlier words finally catch up to me. “You said long drive. From where?”
“Austin.”
My heart skips a beat. “Texas?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
An odd sense of familiarity washes over me. I clear my throat, hoping to dispel the huskiness I can feel growing in my voice. “I didn’t catch your name.”
There’s a moment’s hesitation, before he says, “It’s Noah Marshall.”
CHAPTER 10
Noah
“You have to wake it up,” a man in standard-issue hospital-green scrubs says on his way past, pausing long enough to smack his palm against the vending machine. A hair-raising metal-against-metal sound kicks in and then, a few seconds later, a steady stream of brown sludge begins trickling out.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me. After you taste it, you’ll want to make a right turn out of the parking lot and drive to the nearest Waffle House.” His chuckles trail him down the dimly lit hall as I wait for the paper cup to fill.
If this coffee matches this hospital, I’ll be taking him up on that advice.
I can’t put my finger on what it is about the emergency room that bothers me. Is it the unwelcoming waiting-room chairs—the color of canned peas and as comfortable as a plank of wood—or the dim lighting that screams of cutting overhead costs, or the dove-gray tile floor that can’t hide the thin layer of dust coating it?
Or maybe it has nothing to do with the hospital’s lackluster décor and everything to do with being here with Abe Wilkes’s daughter, waiting to hear if her junkie mom managed to kill herself this time around. After fighting a kitchen fire that ended up burning down their home.
I don’t know how I saw today going, but it definitely wasn’t like this.
The vending machine takes forever to dispense my order, so I use the time to study Gracie from afar, tucked away in the corner, her smooth, caramel-colored legs crossed at the ankles, those hands that brandished a knife to my stomach mere hours ago now folded daintily in her lap, her profile a stone mask as she stares out the window.
She hasn’t spoken to me since the car ride, except to give directions and numbly agree to my offer of coffee. Given what she just went through, I’ve respected her silence, keeping quiet as I trailed her through the emergency-room doors.
But now I need to know more. Specifically, how the hell did Abe’s family end up living like this—and did my mother know about it?
She must have. Her note said Gracie needs this money.
Holding two cups filled with the lukewarm tar-like substance, I make my way over to the corner.
She’s on the phone. “I can’t make it into work tonight . . . No . . . My mom is in the hospital . . . Still waiting to hear . . .”
She’s wearing a red polo shirt with a label that says QuikTrip and she told the paramedics that she was at work all morning, so either she was supposed to pull two shifts today or she has two jobs.
When she hangs up, I hold out her coffee for her. “I forgot to ask you what you wanted in it.”
She stares blankly at it for a moment. “That’s fine.”
I set the cup down on the small table between us, emptying my pockets of all the cream and sugar I scooped up. “You might need the sugar anyway.” The adrenaline that’s kept me going is waning. I fall into the seat kitty-corner to her, stretching my long, tired legs out.
She glares at them. “Do you have something against personal space?”
“No, ma’am.” I adjust myself so I’m angled away from her. And remind myself that she did just come home to find her mother overdosed and her shitty-ass trailer on fire, so she’s entitled to her foul mood.
Uncomfortable silence hangs between us.
“Where’d you learn about rescue breathing?” she finally asks, her voice softer, almost conciliatory.
“CPR training. I got my lifeguard certification in high school.” I unconsciously slide my hand up my arm, thinking that I haven’t been in a pool since my mom died. Or on the courts. Or at the gym.
Her eyes trail the movement. “Let me guess—you sat in a chair at the beach, watching girls in bikinis all summer. Must have been rough.”
I guess knowing I’m not her mother’s heroin dealer hasn’t changed her unflattering opinion of me much. “Rich Boy.” That’s what she called me earlier. True, I’ve never wanted for much, but I hardly grew up “rich.”