I’m living so many story lines I didn’t plot when I began my day.
Man, I’m so beat. Dalma too. We’re squeezing together on this examination bed while Valentino talks to Scarlett and nurses make some insurance calls on behalf of Dr. Emeterio, who is busy trying to reach the board. Instead of passing out, I’m dreaming while awake. Not just about how my life is going to change but for Team Young too. Dalma won’t have to spend another night in a hospital because of me. Her family won’t have to cut another vacation short because of me. No one’s life will be interrupted again because of me. I can’t tell you how much lighter that makes me feel.
“I can’t believe this night,” I say while staring up at the bright ceiling lights like they’re stars.
“Me either,” Dalma says.
“Everything’s changing because of Valentino.”
“What do you give a guy who’s dying for you?”
“He’s not technically dying for me.”
“Obviously.”
“Why is that obvious? Maybe he would die for me.”
“Are you on your side or my side?”
“Neither and both.”
Dalma elbows me, and we laugh.
The door opens, and Valentino lets himself in. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are red.
“Hey,” he croaks, then clears his throat. “Hey.”
I hop off the bed, embarrassed that we’re in here laughing while he’s going through it. “You good?”
Valentino shakes his head, then nods, and it’s like he’s glitching. I’m no stranger to conflicting-ass emotions. I’ve been feeling them pretty hard ever since I found out that I’m going to live because someone else is about to die.
“Is Scarlett good?” I ask, nervous as hell that she’s not.
“She’s alive,” Valentino says.
It’s the best answer, I bet. His sister clearly wasn’t going to take that news well.
“She’s signing up for Death-Cast and then headed to the airport and should arrive around nine.”
That’s not bad. Just got to keep Valentino alive for the next seven to eight hours. That means lifting his spirits too. “Is there anything you want to do while you wait for Scarlett? Get something to eat? Maybe your favorite meal?”
“Makes me feel like I’m on death row,” Valentino says.
I want to swallow my whole fist. “That’s not what I meant.”
“No, I get it. Besides, I don’t know where we’d find linguini at two in the morning.”
“Oh, dude. There’s a million twenty-four-seven diners in New York.”
“We can order something, or pick it up for you,” Dalma adds.
Valentino drops down into a chair with zero grace for someone who’s a literal model. “I finally move somewhere where I can find food after midnight and . . .” He shrugs. “I probably can’t eat before the surgery anyway.”
I’m instantly spiraling.
His death shouldn’t be about me, but it’s feeling like that with every passing second. So what, Valentino isn’t supposed to eat whatever the fuck he wants on his End Day? All because of a surgery he wouldn’t even have on the brain if luck hadn’t thrown us together?
“That’s a devastating good point,” Dalma says.
“Nope, it’s not,” I say. “Valentino, if you want some motherfucking linguini, I’ll find you some motherfucking linguini.”