Page 47 of Never Too Late

“It is,” I insisted. “I knew he was upset after the run-in with his father, and I knew he’d had too much to drink… More than I had. Yet, I still let him go home on his own. What kind of friend does that make me?”

“There was no way you could have known what would happen.”

Despite recognizing the truth in his words, they did nothing to stop the guilt from gnawing away at me, the list of what-ifs growing ever longer in my head. What if I’d told him not to drink so much? What if I hadn’t joined in so enthusiastically? What if I’d stood up and left when Laurent had wanted to? Then there would have been no conversation with his father, and ergo, no major upset, and he wouldn’t have needed to drown his sorrows.

Even before the point where I’d let him talk me out of escorting him home, there were so many other ways the evening could have gone that would have had him safe at home ratherthan lying in a hospital bed. Why hadn’t I brought him back here with me? That was a simple enough question to answer, though. Because two’s company and three’s a crowd when you’re planning an intimate tête-à-tête with your boyfriend, even if it was only over video.

While putting your boyfriend first wasn’t a crime, it spoke more to the nagging insecurities I still had about how invested Cillian was in our relationship than anything else. It wouldn’t have killed me to take a rain check for one evening and put Laurent first. But, oh no, I’d been too worried about Cillian taking that as permission that he too could start being more relaxed about our meetings.

“Finn?”

“I have to go to the hospital. Once I’m there, I can find someone who speaks English to tell me how he’s doing. I need to be there when he wakes up.”If he wakes up.

“Of course.”

I stood and spun away from the computer without bothering to end the call.

“Finn?”

I whirled back round to find Cillian regarding me with obvious concern. “Remember, I’m on the other end of the phone. Call me if you need me.”

“It’s late,” I said with a shake of my head. “You need to work tomorrow.”

“Screw work!”

Despite the tumult going on in my head, I laughed. “You have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed of hearing you say that.”

“Yeah, well… Now I have. And I mean it. If you need me, call. It doesn’t matter what time it is.”

“I will,” I assured him. “Thanks.”

Like most hospitals, the Hôpital Bichat at Porte de Saint Ouen was busy, even at this late hour. Finding out which ward they’d taken Laurent to, tested my fledgling French to its limits. Finally, though, I found the right place, an orderly ushering me into a small waiting room of people who looked exactly how I felt.

I took the plastic chair closest to the door, hoping to waylay any obvious member of the medical team that came in and question them about Laurent’s condition. I’d grown used to most of my requests of “parles-vous anglais?” being met with a shake of the head, because they honestly didn’t, or because they were too busy to communicate medical information in a non-native language.

For the first time since being here, I questioned my decision to move to Paris when there were other countries much farther if I’d really wanted to escape from Cillian, with much less of a language barrier. Canada or USA, to name a couple of options. Or Australia. If I’d moved to Australia, I could have had a decent tan by now.

More to fill time than for any other reason, I typed out a text to Cillian.If I’d moved to Australia, would you still have turned up on my doorstep?I had no expectation of him answering. He might have said I could call him, but the persistent ringing of a phone was far more likely to rouse him than a message coming through. I presumed in the time it had taken me to get here and locate the correct ward, he would have gone to bed.

I was wrong, the answer coming back in less than a minute.Wherever you went, I would have found you.I’d barely read to the end before another message came through.That soundedless stalkery in my head.And then,How are you? Has anyone told you anything yet?

Not yet, I replied.

As if on cue, a doctor chose that moment to enter the room. Shoving my phone in my pocket, I jumped up. “Laurent Dupont?” I questioned. When he turned in my direction, I pressed on. “Parles-vous anglais?” The shake of his head was predictable, but no less frustrating for it. What was the point of being here if nobody could tell me anything?

I was halfway to sinking back into my chair and resigning myself to not finding out what had happened to Laurent until he could either tell me himself or the unthinkable happened, when a dark-haired petite woman who’d been sitting quietly at the other side of the room rose to her feet.

“Perhaps I can be of assistance,” she offered in a French accent. “My name is Elyna and I am an English teacher. I could translate for you.”

It was all I could do not to grab her and kiss her, the relief of finding someone who could help almost making my legs give way. Over the next few minutes, with Elyna’s help, I discovered doctors had admitted Laurent with a broken leg, a head injury not deemed too serious but largely responsible for his unconscious state, and a punctured spleen requiring immediate emergency surgery. Laurent was on his way to the operating theater for a procedure to either repair his spleen, or, if that wasn’t possible, to remove it. They expected it to take at least a couple of hours. While the news wasn’t great, it could have been worse. And at least now I knew.

I thanked Elyna profusely once the doctor had left with assurances that he would let me know when Laurent was out of surgery. She smiled and insisted I come and sit with her, taking my hands in hers and saying it was nice to use her English for something other than teaching children. We also swappednumbers in case she was no longer here when the doctor returned, or in case I had any other language-related problems during my time in Paris.

By the end of the conversation, I felt like she was my guardian angel.Made new friend, I texted to Cillian.She translated for me.I followed that up by detailing all the information I’d found out from the doctor.

Is he going to be alright?Cillian texted back.

I think sowas my response.As long as the surgery goes okay.

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