Page 142 of Things I Read About

“Yes.” I sigh.

Every single day for two weeks. Multiple texts a day. Songs. Quotes from my favorite books. Weird idioms and their origins.

“What’s the latest?”

I pull out my phone and read.

“The doctor says my wound is a mess. But I can’t focus on healing because I have other cats to whip. That’s French, it means the same as having bigger fish to fry. I couldn’t find the year of origin but you’re my fish, Sal. All I can think about is getting back to you. Because I think you are the bee’s knees. And the cat’s pajamas. And the monkey’s eyebrows. Those are all from the 1920s. I love you.”

“You can’t even read that without crying.”

I turn in the seat to glare at him. “And you are enjoying this way too much. When did you two even become friends?”

“Started when he was weeping in the hall over you, but he sealed the deal with whole bullet to the chest.”

“Pffft,” is all I can manage to say.

Shep is annoying.

My whole family is annoying lately. They’re all Team Nate, except for Kat. She agrees I should listen to my intuition and keep channeling this Peak Sally Energy, as she calls it. Janie says her jury is out.

“He scored even more points when he stormed through the hospital to find you, limping and dragging his IV behind him.”

“Why are you even taking me to my appointment, Shep? Don’t you have a sportsball business to run?” I pull my big sunglasses down from my hair to cover my eyes.

“Well, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I am very important.” I scoff and he just continues, grinning like he runs the whole world. “Which means I have minions who can pinch hit for me when my little sister needs a ride to her doctor’s appointment. Sadie would’ve done it, but she is up against a deadline.”

“K, well how about more driving, less talking, please.”

“Want me to crank some sad love songs? I have multiple playlists from when your sister and I—”

“Shep!”

“All right,” he surrenders, turning up the music, but leaving it on a normal top 40 playlist.

We go through the motions of my follow-up appointment. Everything is healing nicely, and I can start playing piano again for a few minutes a day, as long as I don’t push myself to the point of pain in my shoulder. I could probably perform surgery right now with no issues. I wouldn’t, of course, since that’s years of school away, but it’s nice to know.

I am relieved as we walk to the car. I’ve missed one of the piano auditions already. I’ve also missed the very beginning of school and will miss at least one more week, with excused absences and special provisions made, of course. Because I am a Canton. Or, according to my father, not because of my name, but because I was shot.

Shep doesn’t pester me as I watch the scenery pass by my window.

I sigh and relax back into my seat. Not much longer. I’ll be glad to start actually going to classes and truly practicing again like I need to, for hours at a time. I still haven’t chosen a path for myself. Eventually, I’ll either get accepted into a symphony, or no longer have time for both med school and rehearsing, and I’ll have to actually choose. Not today, though.

I pull out my phone, settling in for the long drive back out to the estate. I found a new journal article about dyslexia. This study focuses on the dyslexic brain’s ability to see the larger picture, rather than tiny pieces.

As I read, I imagine Nate seeing threats, maybe over time or across a map. He probably easily finds patterns and makes connections. Dyslexic individuals are excellent at solving puzzles so—

“I see what he meant about a hazard. If I was a kidnapper, you’d be the easiest hostage ever.”

“What?”

Oh. The car has stopped. And we’re not at the estate.

“Where are we?”

“I was told if I say literally anything, your sister gets to kick me in the nuts as hard as she can.”

“Which sister?” I mutter, looking around to get my bearings.