“Hey, girl,” she said. “Everything okay?”
“Can I talk to Shae?” I said hurriedly, wringing my sheets at my sides. It was a big ask—after dumping their best friend, I’d become Public Enemy #1 in Shae’s eyes. Thankfully, Nia didn’t ask questions. A moment later, I heard Shae’s voice.
“What do you want?” they asked brusquely.
“Hi. Sorry. I know it’s late,” I said. “I wanted to ask you something. You don’t have to answer.” I sucked in a quick breath. “If . . . I wanted to call Ricky, would he want that too?”
Shae didn’t say anything for a moment. When they did, their voice was uncommonly gentle.
“Yeah,” they said. “I think he would.”
My heart fluttered, overcome with relief. So I’ve still got a chance.
“Okay,” I said. “Can you text me his number? I, um, deleted it.”
“Of course.” Shae paused. I could almost hear the gears in their brain grinding. “Angie, wait. If you’re going to call him, I should tell you. He’s been going to Harland. He’s been there pretty much every day this week.” They sighed. “He’ll probably be there tomorrow, honestly. His dad’s in intensive care. Maybe . . . you could try to catch him there?”
“Oh.” My stomach dropped, and I had to fight against a surge of nausea. All this time, Ricky had been a stone’s throw away. We might have even passed each other in the halls. And worse, his dad was in intensive care, a part of the hospital so chillingly inhospitable that I avoided walking through it.
“Thanks, Shae. I appreciate it,” I said. “Have a good night.”
Shae snorted good-naturedly.
“Good luck.”
I stared down at my blank phone screen for a long time after Shae hung up, my mind whirling. Ricky needed me. He needed me, and instead of being there for him I had spent my time holed up in my apartment, drowning myself in work, trying to forget that he existed. For all his complicated feelings about his father, I was sure that Ricky didn’t want him to die. He must be suffering, I thought. Whenever I was suffering, Ricky had made sure to be by my side. And now that it was his turn—I was nowhere to be found.
I made up my mind that minute. I had to make this right. I was going to make this right.
Twenty-Six
I walked into the hospital the next morning with a plan. It was simple—get through rounds, tie up my patients as efficiently as possible, go to the ICU, make myself useful. I rushed through my pre-rounds, keeping my chitchat with Miss Bernice to a minimum.* During rounds, I kept my presentations succinct and didn’t engage when my attending tried to waver off topic. There was a possibility that he would interpret my unwillingness to follow him down intellectual rabbit holes as disinterest, but I didn’t care. Besides, given the way he’d pointedly avoided calling me by name this morning, I was pretty sure he didn’t recognize me with my new ’do. In a few weeks, poor Brianna might be getting herself a passive-aggressive evaluation from an attending who she’d never met.* I would have to warn her.
Mercifully, James wasn’t in a chatty mood either. We worked next to each other in robotic silence, speaking only to run the list* or call our consults. Despite getting a grand total of two hours of restless sleep the night before, I brimmed with nervous energy. It turned out righteous conviction was an even better motivator for me than heartbreak, because I finished my notes in record time.
“Is there anything else you’d like me to help with?” I asked James, dropping the universal line of medical students asking permission to peace out.
James smirked in recognition but didn’t let me off the hook.
“You talked to Rheumatology, put in the discharge instructions for Mr. Johnson, and finished your notes?”
I nodded, trying and failing to keep my leg from jostling impatiently under the table. “Sure did. You were on the call with me, remember?”
“Huh. Yeah, you’re right,” James said. “Well, good. Thanks for all of your hard work today. See you tomorrow!”
“Thanks, James,” I said. Hoisting my backpack over my shoulders, I took one step away from my chair, then another, and then bolted out of the workroom before James could change his mind.
My legs took me down the now-familiar path to the ICU, where I’d helped James escort many a crashing patient. When I first came to Harland, every hallway had looked like the next, and every step had felt uncertain. Now I could move on autopilot and trust that I would get to the right place. I could take a back seat in my mind and let myself focus on my objectives. First and foremost—I would have no expectations. There was no guarantee that after everything I’d put him through, Ricky would want to be with me. And, even though the thought of him turning me away made me feel sick to my stomach, I would bear it, because I wasn’t helping him to win his favor. I was helping him because I could, and because it was the right thing to do. Second, I needed to join ICU afternoon rounds so I could better understand the plan for Ricky’s dad. Afternoon rounds started in fifteen minutes, and so before then, I would need to introduce myself to the attending, whose name was either Dr. Miller or Milner; I looked it up last night but should’ve written it down, damn it—