Page 44

It’s near midnight when my phone explodes with a series of screenshots followed by a barrage of texts. I’m half deep in a bottle of wine, surrounded by packing boxes I stole on impulse from the recycle bin outside. I almost don’t check in case it’s Dalton. Again. But Lacey’s name catches my eye.

Excuse me. WTAF?!

Lacey’s message appears with the emphasized echo effect. A thousand repeated messages bombarding my screen. I sigh before sweeping to the accompanying screenshots.

They’re of Ellie’s social media. An announcement stating The Vortex’s Dalton Ward will be her date to The Oscars with a photo of her wearing my doppelg?nger dress.

The remaining screenshots are of the comments feed screaming about how she is Dalton’s mystery date.

I tip the remainder of the wine bottle into my glass.

Have to hand it to the woman. She works fast.

The keyboard blurs as I swipe away angry tears.

Shit hit fan.Total fcked.

RU drunk?

Yup

RU at least safely at home?

Yup

Coming over.

Nope. Need time

The three dots appear, disappear, then reappear again. I type one word.

Please.

This time, the dots lead to words.

Ok. Tomorrow night?

I send her a thumbs up, and the rest of the night is a blur of wine, tears, a sleeve of Oreo cookies, and muttered curses.

A plastic buzzing accompanied by a way too loud ringtone sets off the pulse hammering in my temples.

I glare at the empty bottle on the coffee table, face smashed against the couch cushion.

The ringing stops before I can tap the screen.

Damn, it’s almost noon. Eighteen missed calls from the same number.

One I don’t recognize. I bobble the phone when it goes off again.

Not hungover me wouldn’t have answered, but hungover me swipes the screen just to make the sound stop.

A woman’s voice muffles through the earpiece. I switch it to the speaker, turning the volume down.

“Hello? Hello? Is this Jenna Grant?”

My finger hovers over the end button. Then she says her name.

“This is Kathy Masters. Dalton’s, uhh… adopted aunt, I suppose. Family friend, whatever… Hello?” Worry laces her rambling words.

“Kathy?” I sound like I’ve swallowed rocks, then vomited them up. Feels like it too.

She sighs, the breath shaky at best. “Jenna, something’s happened. There was an… an accident. How fast can you get to NYU Langone Health?”

Head spinning, I bolt upright, forgetting the hangover. That’s a trauma one hospital. I researched them in case Dad ever visited. There’s only one person Kathy would call me about. “Is Dalton okay?”

“We’re not sure. I got your number off his phone. He was asking for you in the ambulance. Just call me when you arrive. I’ll meet you at the ER entrance.”

“Kathy, I need details,” I plead, shoving poorly constructed boxes aside to find sneakers. I tear through the apartment, cramming things into a bag before bolting for the door.

“He took a hit on the ice.”

I stop mid-kitchen. “It’s off season. Their first preseason game isn’t until next month.”

“It was a teammate.” Kathy hisses.

Trent. It has to be fucking Trent. I toss in water and a bottle of aspirin, then head for the door. “I’m on my way.”

Despite Maps insisting it’s the fastest route, the train ride trudges on like a cruel joke.

The only solace is that it gives me time to clean up.

No one glances twice on the subway when I pull out a travel pack of face wipes, a hair brush, and a mini disposable tooth brush.

All things that live in a workaholic’s purse.

The entire process has walk-of-shame vibes, and I could give a shit if anyone’s judging me as I go through the motions.

Each step occupies my rambling brain, giving a sense of normalcy I cling to, hoping to avoid a subway sob fest. Breakdown later.

Right now, I need to be there for Dalton.

The urge to text Lacey is overwhelming, but will only lead to a barrage of unanswerable questions.

Kathy gave me every detail she could before hanging up to talk to the doctors.

I know about the incident and almost nothing about Dalton’s condition.

The team was scrimmaging when Trent hit Dalton hard enough into the boards that the safety glass broke before pitching him over the fucking wall.

In an actual game, Dalton would have toppled over the boards into fans’ laps, scraped up and bruised.

But this was practice, so the stands were empty.

Dalton’s head hit the edge of a seat, compressing his spine before knocking him out cold.

Kathy was told he came to in the ambulance, asking for me and muttering about not feeling his toes.

He has been in and out of consciousness since.

Maybe it’s a good thing I lost my job, because if I ever see Trent again, I will punch him square in that smug mediocre dick.

When the train finally arrives at 28th Street and Park Avenue, I’m sprinting off the platform, sort of presentable and a complete emotional wreck.

I pause once to vomit last night’s bottle of wine in a trashcan before racing on towards NYU Langone’s ER.

The fact that people are moving out of my way on a New York sidewalk says more than the curious stares.

Kathy pulls me into a hug as soon as I step through the sliding doors.

“They’ve taken him to get an MRI and a CT scan.

It’s going to be a while.” The strong boss chef I met last month has vanished, replaced by a worrying motherly type.

Tears cling to her eyelashes, triggering my own.

I sniff loudly, holding them back. Kathy is giving me a quick update that has no updates when a tall man walks up with three balanced coffees.

Healthier and with gray hair that’s grown back in, I still recognize him from the photos at their home.

Mike, her husband. I take the top coffee, clinging to the warmth as he hands his wife the other.

I fixate on the cardboard sleeve, knowing there’s no message from Dalton hidden under there.

A few tears splash down on the white lid.

“I caffeinate when worried. You must be Jenna. I’m Mike.” The man gives me a sad smile. “Thought I was done meeting important people in hospitals.”

“Important people?” I ask, teeth worrying the inside of my cheek.

“Dalton talks about you all the time. You sounded so much like his dream girl, I honestly started to worry that he and my wife hallucinated you. But here you are. A real live person.” Mike’s smile fades. I swallow at the lump in my throat.

“I’m sorry, this is the first time we’re meeting.” The apology sits like a stone buried in my chest. The wasted weeks I kept Dalton at bay when we could have been together. I will regret them for the rest of my life.

“Hopefully not the last,” Mike chokes on the words, trying to mask the pain with a sip of coffee. God, I hope not too. Fuck Ellie and her threats. If Dalton wakes up, I’m not letting anything else come between us again.

Kathy grips her husband’s arm, fingers squeezing. I force a weak smile, sure my voice will crack if I try to speak.

Mike clears his throat. “They said we can head to the private waiting room for recovery patients. It will be quieter. They’ll come get us when he’s done.”

They lead me to a smaller room with dark panel walls and comfy chairs.

All the things to try to comfort waiting family members.

How many of these rooms has Dalton sat in while his mother was undergoing procedures?

How many would I have sat in if I were at home with Dad and not here so I can pay his bills?

Kathy and Mike make small talk. It’s divine to witness.

Both are struggling and somehow still supporting the other.

Small jokes, light touches, shared worried glances.

The two of them are everything I expected from Dalton’s stories.

They’re the relationship I wish my parents had—the Gold Standard that keeps hopeless love-seekers diving back into wretched dating pools.

There’s an ache deep in my soul when the realization hits—they’re the future I could see having with Dalton.

When they step out to make phone calls to family and the bakery, I face plant down a rabbit hole of spinal injury Googling.

Huge mistake.

Dalton could be healed in a few months or paralyzed for the rest of his life. The levels vary so wildly, I have to lock the phone, placing it screen down, and focus on not hyperventilating.

Over an hour sloths by when we’re finally moved to a private room by a nurse with kind eyes, a round face, and light blue scrubs. She warns us his pain meds are pretty high, and he just fell back asleep. It’s best to let him rest.

For the first time since I met him, Dalton Ward looks small.

His beautiful face is covered in red angry cuts.

Glass still glitters in his mussed, raven-colored hair.

Breathing becomes a full-blown task as I take in the right side of his face.

The mottled skin is ripe with deep red bruises, his eye swollen shut in a purple knot of shiny flesh.

Though it’s the brace caging his neck, that might take me out at the knees.

I don’t remember moving or taking Dalton’s hand opposite Kathy and Mike.

But now that I’m here, I don’t think I can ever let go.

I trace the pale skin on the back of his hand, marveling at how perfect it looks, completely untouched.

Anger flares like a lightning strike, sudden and violent.

Fuck Ellie for trying to take him away, for threatening to blackmail us.

Let her come after me. I’m not leaving him again.

Not unless he asks me to. It’s then I realize I might love Dalton Ward.

Hardly two months knowing this man, and now I can’t imagine my life without him. When did I become a hopeless romantic?

I don’t hear the new woman at the door until she repeats herself.