Page 150 of It Happened on a Sunday
Sloane in a long black dress, a bouquet of white peonies and purple calla lilies in her hands.
So many flashes. So many memories to come. I have to believe there’s time for every single one of them, even if that time isn’tnow.
I force myself to drop her hands, to come back to the present as I squeeze out more lotion and smooth it over her forearms, her elbows, her biceps. As I do, I trace soft fingers over the long, branchlike tattoos that cover her arms.
“You know, I didn’t have a clue what these were when I first met you. I thought they were some kind of weird tree or something. But then I looked them up and realized they aren’t branches at all, are they? They’re lightning strikes. A clue to the real you open for the world to see—lightning that doesn’t destroy but marks where you survived.”
I get a washcloth from the pile of towels the nurse brought and run it under warm water before moving back to the bed to wash her billion-dollar face.
“I know it’s not fair to ask,” I whisper as I trail the cloth over her forehead and down her cheeks. “But I need you to do it again, corazón. I need you to come back one more time. Please. One more time. For me. For us.”
She doesn’t move as I slide the washcloth over her chin, around the raw corners of her perfect mouth. “If anyone can do it, Sloane, it’s you. You’re so strong. So strong and so smart and so passionate and so goddamn wonderful.
“But that’s not exactly a surprise to you, is it? And while I love every gorgeous, powerful inch of your thousand good sides, none of that is why I fell for you.”
Careful not to hurt her, I wipe around the oxygen cannula, pausing for a moment to put some Aquaphor just under her nostrils to keep the plastic from rubbing against her delicate skin. It’s a trick I’ve never forgotten from helping abuela Ximena take care of my father all those years ago.
When I’m done, I put the washcloth on the table next to her bed and reach for the hairbrush Camila also included in the care package. As I do, I watch Sloane’s face intently, hoping for somesign that she hears me. That shefeelsme.
But there’s still nothing as I start to gently brush her hair, careful of the bandage on the left side of her head, where they drained the hematoma.
“Do you want to know why I fell in love with you?” I whisper as I smooth the brush through her long red locks, moving to her ends and detangling slowly whenever I hit a snag. “I started to fall the second you tried to hug my abuela. And I do meantry.” I smile at the memory of their awkward first contact. “I started then, and I never stopped. I fell harder when you called to give me a hard time about the jumbotron and harder still when you kissed me outside that damn restaurant to protect my reputation. But the moment I knew I was really in trouble? The moment I figured out you had the power to break my heart wide open?”
I graze a gentle hand over her too-pale cheek. “That was the first time you sang to me in the hotel. You felt like heaven and sounded like salvation. That’s why I had those earrings made for you. And that’s why ‘Three Little Birds’ is the first song I listen to every single morning I get up without you.”
There’s a small knot in her hair. I pinch the curl right above it and slowly brush at it until it smooths out.
“Before that night, I don’t think I ever imagined the jumble of things inside me could be all right. But you charged in the way you always do and changed my mind. You changed everything.”
Tears bloom in my eyes. Instead of fighting them, this time I just let them fall as I sing the first several lines of “Three Little Birds” to her. But I’m a football player, not a pop star, and my voice breaks every few words.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper as I put the hairbrush down. “I don’t sound half as good as you. But I still mean every word.”
I replace the brush with my fingers, tenderly stroking her hair back from her cheek as I continue singing the lyrics all the waythrough to the end.
I keep my eyes trained on her face, on the shadows her lashes cast on her cheekbones and the little freckles scattered like stars over her nose. I love kissing the freckles that trail over her shoulders and across her back like comets, but these ones will always be my favorite. I wait for her to blink, to swallow, to show by the tiniest movement that she hears me. That she feels me.
But there’s nothing.
My heart breaks a little, pain radiating through my chest and nearly putting me on the floor. I steel myself against it, against the disappointment that presses in on me from every side. Instead, I take Sloane’s limp hand in mine.
I press kisses to her palm and the pulse point on her wrist, pausing for just a moment to feel the beat of her heart beneath my lips. It’s already so much stronger than it was when we brought her in. I hold on to that knowledge with every fiber of my being, with every drop of hope I have left inside of me. And I whisper, “Everything’s going to be all right, Sloane. Whatever happens next, however long it takes, and wherever you need to go, everything’s going to be just fine. That’s my promise to you.”
And then I drop my forehead onto the bed railing and let the tears fall until I have nothing left.
Chapter 66
Sly
The next twenty-four hours pass in a blur as I refuse to move from Sloane’s bedside. The world around me goes on: Pauline returns in the morning, Sloane’s team comes in and out to check on her, and so do the nurses and doctors.
They keep saying they don’t know if she’ll wake up. I say they don’t know Sloane. I’m not giving up on her.
Coach calls to see if I can make the game tomorrow.
Abuela Ximena and my sisters come by with another change of clothes and food for everyone.
Marco stops by with periodic updates. Turns out Vivian has lawyered up and isn’t saying anything, but they’ve got warrants for her hotel room, house, office, and car. I keep asking him why she did this, but he doesn’t know. He promises we’ll find out, though.
