Page 78 of Whiskey Throttle
Massimo never silences his phone. Dom ignores me sometimes, but Diego wouldn’t. Not unless something is really, really wrong. I fumble with my watch, but my hand is shaking so badly that I end up stuffing it in my pocket.
Her warm hand hits my back. Seeps into the coldness of my body, pulled tight with straight-up panic now.
“I’m here for you, Hollister. Whatever you need.”
CHAPTER 20
BABS
The jet engines drone in a constant tension. Hollister sits across from me, seatbelt still cinched even though we've leveled off. He hasn't said but a few words to the crew. The barest amount to get us going back to Boston. Back to his friend.
The cabin lights are dimmed, but the glow of his phone washes his face in ghostly blue. He redials, waits, curses under his breath, and hangs up. Again. And again. The same three names flash on the screen. Massimo, Diego, and Dominic are all going to voicemail.
I don't interrupt or talk. Don't want to be a nuisance or overbearing. My touch has been rebuffed a few times. I don't take it personally. People handle these things in different ways. I just sit in silence next to him. Asking nothing and observing everything.
The muscles in his jaw flex, unclench, flex again, as if he's chewing through every worst-case scenario. When the flight attendant offers beverage service, he doesn't even respond. I wave her away and fold my hands, nails digging crescents into my palms to keep from reaching for him again.
He looks younger like this. Not the golden boy who teased me on the croquet lawn. Not the fierce lover who worshipped my body all weekend. Not the romantic soul who insisted on dinner beneath an observatory starlight. Just a frantic twenty-something-year-old who is terrified of how severely his friend is hurt.
I want to tell him it will be all right, but I've buried enough hope to know words are cheap in times like this. Communication through touch and hugs matters more, but only if they are wanted and accepted. So I hold a vigil for his friend, send prayers up to the heavens in hopes they're not too late, and sit in his quiet pain.
Rain slicks the tarmac. The Rolls is already waiting, exhaust curling like smoke under the taillights. He takes my hand, helps me down the stairs, but his eyes never leave the phone in his hand.
My gut has turned to stone. Worry for him and his friend. Chasing terrible scenarios out of my mind that are too horrible to imagine. My heels click on wet pavement, trying to keep up with his stride. The driver has the door open, and I glide onto the warm leather seat. The clock is nearing midnight when he finally speaks.
“I should go alone.”
“Of course.”
“It isn't that I don't want you there.”
“I know.”
And I do. These are his friends. My son is one of them. He doesn't have time for complications. I'm the complication.
He squeezes my fingers once, desperate and grateful, and releases them just as fast. His phone sits on the seat between us, silent and ominous, while the baggage handler loads the luggage in the trunk. Once we are in motion, he turns to stare out the window.
Thoughts race in and out of my mind. I want to help, but I know I can't. Wanting to touch and comfort him, yet refraining because he might perceive me as being overly needy. So we sit side by side, silent and gazing at the city racing by as the driver speeds to the hospital.
He doesn't try to call. Doesn't send any more text messages. He sits slightly hunched over, his knee bobbing, and his hands clasp and unclasp randomly. It's when the car gets closer that his hand covers the door handle. Ready to jump out and race in.
The car rolls beneath the awning.
Light rain still falls.
The raindrops glitter on the windows under the fluorescent hospital lights. They catch his face as he turns, looking paper-white and almost waxy. He launches out of the car before it comes to a complete stop.
Yelling, “I'll call you,” over his shoulder and running into the hospital.
Then he's gone, swallowed by the sterile glow of the automatic sliding doors and hospital corridors. I stare at him long after he's out of sight. Mutter another prayer and release a deep breath. The driver starts to pull away slowly, and when I look down, I see it.
His phone.
In his rush, he forgot it.
My eyes lock on it.
He'll need it. To find his friends or get hold of anyone related to the family. But if I go in, I risk being seen. It could be horrible. Explosive if Dominic is here and sees me. How would I explain this? How would I explain why I have his phone and why I’m dropping it off?
