Page 77 of Wicked Player

But I knew that sound. And the words I expected quickly followed.

Code Blue room five fifteen.

Code Blue room five fifteen.

A dozen people rushed past us. Nurses in scrubs, tugging their stethoscopes to their chests.

It took a moment.

Five fifteen.

The bag of swag fell to my feet. “Oh fuck. Brandon.”

I took off, following the crowd, slipping on my heels as I hurried around the corner. I slammed my hand to the wall to stop from smashing into it.

It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. The alarm still sounded. A nurse ran by.

My feet pulled to a stop when I saw Elizabeth.

She was in the hallway, back braced against the opposite wall of Brandon’s room, and in her arms?

Penny. Sobbing. Screaming. She wrestled away from Elizabeth and I trudged closer.

I didn’t have to glance into his room to know what I’d find. A team of doctors and nurses. Machines. Hands on his chest. Airbag and mask pressed to his small mouth.

I reached them and for a moment, made eye contact with Elizabeth. Her eyes were soaked, cheeks showing off trails of tears. My hand went to her cheek as I said, “Penny.”

Penny clung to me and I took her weight much more easily than Elizabeth had. “No! He can’t!”

A sob clogged my throat. My own memories. My own horror. I’d been in the room when Harrison flat-lined.

It wasn’t a memory anyone, much less a child or a mother should have. “You got this, Penny. Stay strong.”

“I can’t.” She fell to her knees and I went with her, collapsing in the hallway, holding this woman I’d grown to know so well due to horrible circumstances all while the girl I wanted, was falling in love with, stood tall, brushing her own tears away. I reached up and grabbed her hand, thankful she squeezed back. And we sat there, the three of us, our bond the poor boy in the room. And waited.

Twenty-Six

Elizabeth

Three days. It’d been three days of waiting.

Three days of grieving. My heart so heavy in my chest it hurt to breathe more than the absolute required amount. It was a weight on my bones I couldn’t shake, a weight I already knew would take years to vanquish. Even then, memories of the little boy I’d only known for such a short time but would remember forever, would cause a sharp ache in my gut.

Three days where the only contact I’d had with Gage was his hand squeezing mine.

But his hand reaching for me, the torment in his eyes, it unraveled me. The depth of his emotion for Penny and Brandon and even me in that torturous moment was so obvious, so bright and crystal clear I’d made a decision almost immediately.

As soon as he reached out to me, and I knew he would at some point, I’d listen to his reasons for being such a jerk, and I’d forgive him.

Life was too damn short to hold on to regrets. Brandon taught me that. And it would honor his life if I, and those of us who knew him, no matter how briefly, lived as vividly as we could, even if he couldn’t be there to witness it.

I smoothed down my black dress. Cap sleeves with a cut straight across my chest beneath my collarbone, it was the most conservative dress I owned. Bought for a tea party last Spring, the last place I ever imagined wearing it was to a child’s funeral.

A heavy exhale pushed from my chest and I took one last look at myself in the mirror. Black heels and sheer stockings clasped to a garter belt. It was dreary and chilly, the perfect miserable day that matched my mood. My hair was pulled back into a clip at my temple and hung straight, my energy not high enough to take the time to curl it. My makeup was minimal. No mascara, because despite it being waterproof, nothing could stop it from smudging all over my face.

“Oh.” Which reminded me. Moving to my dresser, I opened the small, top center drawer I rarely used and pulled out one of my grandmother’s handkerchiefs. Running my fingers around the silky lace edge she’d crocheted with frail, aging hands, tears sprung in my eyes and I forced them down. She had lived until ninety, alone until she was eighty-eight. At seventy, she learned computer programming and she took swing dance classes at seventy-five. She’d lived her life vibrantly and fervently. Exactly how a life should be lived. Not cut short by disease with no cure.

No crying. Not yet. There’ll be plenty for that later.

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