Page 84 of Lessons in Faking
“Blake!” I repeated, a little too cheery. Wren’s brows drew together just like mine had. “Is this your way of asking for my number?” A fake laugh accompanied my attempt at a joke, and it fell on deaf ears.
Blake cleared his throat at the other end of the line, as if preparing for a speech in front of thousands of people. “Listen, uh—” he stammered, and I knew if we were having this conversation face-to-face, he’d be avoiding my gaze. But we weren’t, and so I kept my eyes on my best friend for some kind of comfort. “It’s Dylan,” he said.
My head spun, immediately jumping to thoughts of death. Car crash, heart attack, a rough foul that caused a broken neck. The possibilities were endless, and my breath picked up.
“What about Dylan?” My voice was surprisingly neutral considering the wave of panic that had just crashed over me. I think the hand in the pocket of McCarthy’s hoodie was shaking. The one holding the phone was not.
Wren looked concerned, and the entire situation felt all too familiar. Flashbacks of Aunt Claire holding the phone, eyes continuing to flicker back and forth between my brother and me as she tried to comprehend her sister’s sudden death. She had probably felt similar to how I did now.
“We’re in the hospital, he’s—” Blake hesitated, and I didn’t mean to jump at that cue. The word kind of just slipped out.
“Dead.”
Wren shot in my direction so fast, I was surprised she didn’t fall over her own feet. Concern riddled her features as she leaned closer to the phone I pressed tightly against my ear.
“What?” His breath hitched. “No, no—God, no.It’snothing like that.” I exhaled for the first time since hearing his voice. “He’s pretty bruised up, a couple of broken ribs, the hospital gave him...something—”
Not dead, but pretty bruised up with a couple broken ribs, in so much pain the hospital had to give himsomething. It didn’t sound like a reason to celebrate. “Which one?”
Blake stuttered on the other line. “Which—?” he repeated. “Which drugs?” He cleared his throat. “I don’t know; I could probably ask.” He was moving around, maybe scouring the hospital corridors for a nurse or doctor. I shook my head even though he couldn’t see it.
“Hospital.” I interrupted his search, and he paused on the other end. “Which hospital?”
“Oh. Saint Francis Memorial—”
The line went dead because I’d killed it, already halfway through the apartment, throwing on sneakers and a coat, grabbing my car keys.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” I was mid-departure when Wren’s voice boomed through the space. She had put on shoes too and was heading for the coatrack. She snatched the car keys out of my hand, grabbed her own, and without waiting for a reply, stepped through the door I had opened for myself. When I closed it behind me, she finally asked, “Where are we going?”
I don’t know why, but I laughed. Maybe it was the nerves, the adrenaline coursing through my veins. Maybe the endless adoration I had for the girl beside me. I sighed,and it felt as though my entire face twitched back to reality. “Saint Francis Memorial.”
Wren’s brows drew up slightly, and her lips curled in concern and worry. For me or Dylan? I didn’t know.
Her pace picked up, though she said nothing. I could tell she wanted to stop right there to comfort me, but she knew the last thing I needed was to slow down. So we power walked to her car while she typed the address of the hospital into her maps app.
As she drove, I filled Wren in on the broken ribs, the bruises, and the drugs.
“But,” I added. “Not dead.” I tried to sound hopeful. But how low was the bar ifnot deadwas supposed to be encouraging?
“God,” I exhaled, my body slumping back into the seat. “I’m an asshole.” Wren’s eyes jumped from the road onto me for a second, and I took that as a sign to go on. “I was annoyed the guy wasn’t answering a stupid text when he was probably on his way to the fucking hospital.”
It had been similar with my parents. Henry and I had been upset about their spontaneous Thanksgiving trip, which hadn’t included their children. We’d been dumped with one of the sitters our parents relied on, sitting in the living room overlooking New York City.
“I hope it rains,” Henry had said. “I hope the food is bad,” I had countered. Hours after they should’ve arrived, hours without the usualmade ittext or call, we’d kept going. “I hope the mosquitos are vicious this time of theyear,” Henry had said. “I hope the water is cold,” I had said.
By then, they were already dead.
“You’re not an asshole.” Wren snapped me out of my thoughts.
“I am! Evenyougave him the benefit of the doubt.” I didn’t even realize the severity of that until now. “Oh my God,” I gasped again. “Even you—”
“Athalia,” she snapped. “Would you stop guilt-tripping yourself over something you had no control over or knowledge of?”
My mouth opened to disagree, though her sharp glare silenced me. For the remainder of the short drive, my legs bounced in the passenger seat as I struggled not to go on and on about how much of a selfish asshole I was. By the time we’d parked the car and walked inside, the only thing I could think of was Dylan.
The presence of an entire soccer team in the hospital lobby indicated not only that we’d found the right place but also that the accident couldn’t have been too long ago. That, or his team just loved him so much, they were still here hours later. They were probably hoping he’d get discharged today, but from what Blake said, I doubted Dylan would spend his night anywhere other than a hospital room. Some players sat with their heads down, others had offered their spot to the few elderly people among the hospital crowd. My brother stood in the farthest corner there was, his arms crossed in front of his chest, staring at his feet, one of which was propped against the wall behind him.
Later, I thought. Instead, I scanned the place for Blake.
