Page 72 of Wish For Me

Movement flickers in the corner of my vision. There’s a person there. An older woman with salt and pepper hair in a plain uniform, a broom in her hand. Her name tag readsJojo.

Her mouth opens when she sees me, a gasp on her lips. “You’re awake!” She turns toward the door, presumably to call for help.

“No!” I say. The word is a croak. “No,” I try again. It’s a little clearer. “Please. Not yet.”

I curl the fingers in the cast, beckoning her toward me. “Please.”

She glances to the door, then to the monitors next to my bed.

“Please,” I repeat.

She comes a moment later.

I ask her haltingly to read the letter. “That’s me,” I assure her. “She wrote it for me.”

“I can wake her up—”

“No. Please not yet.”

The woman seems to do battle with herself. I might be getting her fired. I’ll make it up to her. I’ll tell them it was my fault.

Finally, Jojo lets out a breath and slips the letter out of the envelope. She reads it out loud, biting her lip in the middle, her eyes going wide. But she finishes, and sets it down, her eyes wet. “I’m getting the nurses now,” she says.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

I turn to Noelle. It hurts to change the angle of my head, but I’d walk through fire to say this to her. I’d go to the sun.

With all the strength I have, I shift the hand in Noelle’s hair. I stroke my fingers across her temple.

Noelle stirs. Her eyes open. When they meet mine, she sits up, gasping.

“I wish for you,” I whisper. “I always wish for you, Noelle.”

CHAPTER23

Noelle

CHRISTMAS DAY

“Icould do the airplane noises if you want,” Griffin offers as I insert another spoonful of soup into Leif’s mouth. “He always loved that when he was little.”

I have to look away to keep from laughing.

“Yuk it up,” Leif says. “But I’m the one getting spoon-fed by a beautiful woman for Christmas.”

Griffin eyes his wife, waggling his brows.

“Don’t even think about it,” Sasha says to her husband, eyes narrowed, making all of us laugh.

God, it feels good to laugh again.

I give Leif another spoonful. “You know the physical therapist isn’t going to let me do this after tomorrow,” I say.

“Exactly—I need to savor it while it lasts.” He winks at me, which I think is a feat given how hard everything is for him.

“This issogood,” Sasha says to Mom, taking a sip of her own soup.

Mom smiles, pulling on her coat. “It’s an old family recipe. Grandma Betty’s actually.”

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