In the Likely Event(18)

“Are you tired?” she asked, leaning into me. “I’m just really tired.”

“You need to stay awake.” Fear dripped down my spine, colder than my soaked clothing. What were more of those icebreaker-question things? I had to keep her talking. “If you had to choose between popcorn and M&M’s, which would it be?”

“What?”

“Popcorn or M&M’s?” I repeated.

“Both.”

Interesting. “If you could live in any state, which one would it be?”

Her head bobbed.

“Izzy. Which state?”

“Maine.”

“Maine?” I searched for the source of the sirens, but no luck.

“No one in my family lives there,” she mumbled. “No expectations.”

I looked over my shoulder and around the tree as the sirens approached. “They found us.”

A police car came to a stop, and the officer jumped out, speaking into his radio. “We’re getting help here, folks! Ambulance is four minutes out!”

The father of the little boy rushed forward to the cop, his son’s arm bent at an unnatural angle, and several others took his lead.

That feeling hit again, like an anchor on my chest. “Izzy, what’s your blood type?”

“O positive,” she muttered. “Is that your idea of a pickup line?” Her words slurred.

“I wish,” I whispered. Not that a guy like me would’ve ever had a chance with a girl like her. Even her babbling reeked of class. “What about allergies?”

“What?”

“What are you allergic to?”

Another set of sirens sounded like they were coming closer.

“Shellfish. What about you?”

“I’m not allergic to anything,” I answered. “Is that it? Just shellfish?”

“Oh, um. Penicillin.” She tilted her head back and looked up at me with glazed eyes. “Would you like my medical history too?”

“Yes.” I nodded, and my heart started to race the closer the sirens sounded.

She looked at me like I was the one slurring my words. “I broke my arm once when I was seven. But that was a trampoline thing, and Serena—” Her eyes fluttered shut.

“Izzy!” I shook her gently. “Wake up.”

Her eyes flew open.

“Tell me more about Serena.” I stood, forcing my legs to work, and lifted Izzy into my arms as the first of two ambulances arrived. “What’s she like?”

“Perfect.” She sighed, her head flopping against my chest. “She’s beautiful, and smart, and always knows what to say.”

“Must run in the family.” I didn’t even bother with the first ambulance, which was already getting mobbed, and headed straight for the second.

“Nate?”

“Hmm?” I stood right in the middle of whatever path there was, forcing the ambulance to stop.

“Don’t leave me, okay?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper over the blaring sirens.

“I won’t.” The paramedics killed the sirens and climbed out of the rig, and I locked gazes with one of them. “I need you to help her!”

She went limp in my arms, her eyes closing.

“Bring her back!” The paramedic jogged to the back of the rig as the doors burst open and someone brought down a stretcher.

“Put her here,” the paramedic ordered, and I laid Izzy on the white sheets. “What’s the problem?” She jumped in, pushing me out of the way to start her checks.

“She said her ribs hurt.” I raked my fingers through my hair. “And she has a huge bruise there, and her pulse is—”

“Shit,” the paramedic whispered, taking her pulse as another one slapped a blood pressure cuff on her.

“—racing,” I finished. “She started slurring her words, and . . .” Damn it, what else had she said? “Her shoulder hurt. Her left shoulder.”

“She’s hypotensive,” one of the paramedics noted, and the two shared a look that couldn’t be considered good under any circumstance. “We have to go.”

“What’s her name?” one asked me as two of them strapped Izzy to the gurney and loaded her into the ambulance.

“Izzy,” I answered, fighting every urge to push someone aside so I could climb in next to her. “Isabeau . . .” What was it? What the hell was it? “Astor! She’s allergic to penicillin, and she’s O positive.”

The driver raced around me to get back to the wheel.

“Relatives only,” the paramedic in back said, already hooking her up to something. “I’m assuming you’re her . . .” He glanced up.

Don’t leave me.

“Husband.” I moved, climbing up into the rig in one step. “I’m her husband.”





Ruptured spleen. That’s what they told me four hours ago.

Four very long hours, in which all I did after changing into a dry set of scrubs and calling my mother to assure her I was okay was to sit in this waiting room and alternate between watching the media coverage of the crash on a national network and the second hand tick by on the large clock above the door.

Oh, and completely, utterly ignore the clipboard in front of me, because how was I supposed to know who her insurance provider was?