I hope you won’t forget me. Because you carved your name into my heart, and it will stay there forever.
Yours in perpetuity,
Ms. Sanders
After Scotty leaves, I call Chelsea’s cell. She picks up on the first ring.
“Hey. I haven’t heard from you lately. You okay?”
“I’m surviving. You?”
“Slightly better than that.”
We’re quiet for a moment, then she says, “Do you want to get together for drinks?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“Great, I’m off tomorrow. How’s six o’clock?”
“Perfect.”
“Where to?”
“I know where I want to go, but I’m afraid you’ll say no.”
She laughs. “When the hell have I ever said no to you?”
That makes me smile, the first time I’ve done that in a long time. When I tell her where I want to meet, she doesn’t miss a beat.
“Okay. See you then.”
“See you then. I love you, Chelsea.”
She pauses. When she speaks again, her voice is soft and has a slight wobble in it. “I love you too, you nonsensical twat.”
We hang up, and I’m trying not to cry.
The next night, we’re sitting at a table in the middle of the hotel bar in Beverly Hills where I first met Cole.
Because apparently the term “glutton for punishment” was invented for me.
We ordered straight from the bar instead of having the waitress bring us our drinks, a new paranoia I doubt either of us will ever rid ourselves of. I’ve got whiskey, she’s got a skinny margarita, and it feels like old times.
Or at least it mostly does. Except for the hole in my chest where my heart used to be.
“So catch me up,” she says, sipping her drink. “What’s the latest?”
I give her a shortened version of my phone call with Cole. It makes her eyes bug. The she frowns. “I heard his spinal injury was sacral.”
“If I spoke ER nurse, I’d know what you mean.”
“Him being who he is, everything was super hush-hush at the hospital, but a nurse from the critical care unit told one of the nurses in pediatrics I know that the patient they code named Mr. Big had a sacral injury. Every spine injury is serious to varying degrees, but of the different types, that one’s considered the least serious. Many patients are able to walk.”
I almost choke on my whiskey. “Walk?”
“It all depends on the person and the level of damage to the nerves, but…yeah.”
My heart is hammering so hard, I have to press my hand on my chest to try to slow it. “I don’t think that’s it, then. He made it sound like nothing below the waist was working.”
“I’d go in and look at his file for you, but everything’s tracked in the system. I’d be fired if I got caught. We’re not allowed to access information on patients we’re not directly caring for.”
“I’d never ask you to do that.”
She smiles. “You totally would, and you know it.”
“Yeah. I would. But don’t. If you got fired, it would just be the cherry on top of my clusterfuck sundae.” I sigh and take another sip of whiskey. “So if him being there was so hush-hush, how’d they know to call him Mr. Big?”
“Oh, he didn’t get that nickname because he’s a McCord. He got it because he’s so girthy. The nursing assistant who changed his bedding started calling him Mr. Big the first night he was admitted.”
I stare at her in horror.
After a moment, she says, “At least they didn’t call him Mr. Shrimpy. Or Boomawang if it was curved. I’ve heard those too.”
“Dear God. Remind me never to set foot in a hospital again.”
She raps her knuckles on the table. “Knock wood.”
We sit in silence for a while, nursing our drinks. Then she says, “So your mom. How’s that going?”
“We’re talking every Sunday now. She’s still not drinking. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, but so far, so good. I’m going to see her for Thanksgiving.”
Chelsea reaches out and squeezes my hand. “Okay. Silver linings, right? We take ’em where we can.”
I exhale and shrug. “Yep. Have you talked to Jen or Angel lately? I’ve been so wrapped up in my own little bubble, I haven’t reached out.”
Chelsea doesn’t answer. I glance up at her, and she’s staring over my shoulder with big, unblinking eyes.
“What’s wrong?”