Page 118 of When You Wish Upon a Wideout

Taking a deep breath, Beau nodded into her lap. It would have to be enough for now.

“You know, it’s Sunday,” Sienna said as they got off the plane.

“ScrabbleSunday,” Beau corrected her. “Maybe me sleeping over and exiting through the front door in the morning is yet to be decided, but my seat at the table to whoop Henry’s ass isn’t.” He waved at the driver who was waiting for them. “How’s it going, Paul?”

Sienna slid in next to Beau, giving Paul a quiet thanks when he shut her door. “I’ll order pizza when we’re closer to the house. Any requests?”

“Yeah,” Beau said. “Pizza from any place else other than where you got it last time.”

“Oh, come on! Zappato’s is the best.”

“Crust is undercooked.”

“Not all of us have a Michelin star chef as our neighbor.” Sienna rolled her eyes at Beau when her phone rang from her bag between them. “Probably Grace putting in her request. She only likes white pizza.” She opened the call. “Hey, Henry.”

Beau knew something was wrong when he felt Sienna hold her breath beside him.

“When?”

He turned his head, watching Sienna pull her bottom lip between her teeth.

“No, no. Not the local hospital. You need to tell them Texas Children’s.” Sienna brought her hand to her head, the tone of her voice eerie. “No, are you listening?Notthe local hospital. Call them back. I’ll meet you there.” She pulled the phone from her ear, closing the call. “Excuse me?”

“Sienna—”

“Excuse me, Paul? Please, I need to go to Texas Children’s Hospital in Dallas.”

Beau bit his lip.

“Sir?”

“Dallas, Paul.” He looked back at Sienna. “And, uh, quickly.” Beau scooted closer, lowering his voice. “What happened? Sienna?”

Sienna was busy flipping through her phone before returning it to her ear. “Grace fainted at the movies. She hit her head, they called an ambulance.” She held her finger up to Beau. “Yes, hi. I need to be put through to Dr. Barron.”

Beau listened as Sienna left a message for Dr. Barron, who he then realized, after Sienna started talking about white count and platelets, was Grace’s oncologist.

“She fainted? Could that be blood sugar?” Sienna didn’t respond, and Beau wasn’t even sure she heard him. “Maybe she stood up too fast and... Sienna.” Beau put a hand to her shaking arm, and she shrugged him off.

“I need to text Luella to see if she’s working today. Maybe she could go down to the ER... ”

“Sienna—”

She shook her head. “I don’t want her alone—”

“Sienna,” Beau said more firmly.

Turning abruptly, Sienna shook her head. “No, Beau. It’s not her blood sugar. It’s not because she got up too fast.”

A flash of fear overtook Sienna, the color draining from her face and neck, which he had spent the past three days peppering with kisses, painting with his laughter and smiles. The look on Sienna’s face mirrored only one thing in Beau’s mind—his parents’ faces when he woke up in the hospital after the accident. Even though there wasreliefin his mother’s eyes, it was competing with a harrowing, nearly indescribable look. But Beau learned, even at a young age, shortly after he came out of his haze of a concussion, that there wasn’t an easy way to describe the look on his parents’ faces because there simply wasn’t a word for who they were anymore.

Kids whose parents died became orphans. Wives who lost their husbands, widows. Husbands who buried their wives, widowers. But no one knew what to call a parent who lost a child. It just wasn’t possible because itshouldn’thappen.

The phone shook in Sienna’s hands, and Beau took it from her as she began to take short, raspy breaths, leaning her head forward.

“Sienna—”

“Could you turn the air conditioning higher?”

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