“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” the man says apologetically. His eyes are flitting everywhere, desperate to escape. “I didn’t … shit, man, I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Angelo turns to me, eyebrow raised. It’s like he’s asking me what to do with him. I feel a savage, twisted thrill. But that’s dangerous, I warn myself. Because what if I told Angelo to kick his ass and ditch him in an alleyway? Would he do it? If I said to kill him?
I shake my head. Angelo nods somberly at the man. “Looks like it’s your lucky day. Let’s leave it here.”
When the man walks away, I snap back to my senses. I grab Angelo by the arm and lead him off to the side. “You don’t have to ride in like a knight in—”
“Shitty armor?” he finishes, a callback to one of our old jokes. God, that feels like lifetimes ago.
A smile touches my lips. I wipe it away quickly. “What are you even doing here? Are you following me?”
“No, Dani. But I did want to see you.”
“Why?”
As he tries to speak, I can see how much it’s hurting him. The pain is written across his face, glinting in his dark eyes even as he tries to mask it. I raise my hand as if to place it on his shoulder.
This just got doubly more complicated.
Because there’s something I haven’t mentioned yet, even to Zora and Quinny:
I’m pregnant with Angelo’s baby.
I took the test last night after being hunched over the toilet for ten minutes, puking with no explanation as to why. Two tests, actually, and then a third just to be on the safe side. All of them were positive. I wonder if now would be the perfect moment to break the news. Or the worst.
He finally whispers, “I’m sorry, Dani. About Wyatt. About everything.”
He leans over me. I feel myself trembling.
His lips are almost on mine—and I’m leaning in, too, captivated by him—when Zora appears beside us. “Wyatt is awake,” she interrupts urgently. “He’s asking for you.”
I jerk back. Mention of my brother breaks the spell right away.
“You should go to him,” Angelo says.
I nod. I don’t trust myself to speak. He looks into my eyes, unblinking, serious and stoic and so fucking enigmatic that I don’t know where or how to place him in my life. Without thinking, I reach up and return an out-of-place strand of hair to its place, then smooth my hand over his face, feeling the stubble of beard there. I let my hand fall and quickly turn, striding away.
I wanted to hate this man, but it’s getting difficult, if not impossible.
I push that all aside as I walk into my little brother’s room. He’s smiling weakly as the doctors go about their checks.
Once they’re done, I sit at his bedside and take his hand. “Hey, Einstein,” I say as cheerily as I can manage while blinking back tears. “How’re you doing?”
“Oh, groovy, sis,” he says, laughing. “Wouldn’t mind some water, though.”
I get him some and, when I make as if to help him sip, he sits up and takes it from me, hand shaking as he sips it himself. “They said I’m fine now,” he says. “Just need to keep me in for observation. No harm done.”
That sets me off. “No harm done. Are you fucking kidding me, Wyatt?” I yell. “You could’ve died. Then what would I do? Oh, I’m sure I’d have a whale of a time visiting a three-plot gravesite; you, Mom, and Dad all lined up, side by side. How fun that would be, huh?” I’m gripping the bedrail, trembling. “Jesus, Wyatt! You promised me!”
“I know,” he mumbles quietly. He looks down in his lap, twiddling his thumbs. “I’d say sorry, but what would it mean now, right?”
I walk over to the window, drawing a shape in the condensation on the glass with my finger, and then wiping it away. With all that’s happened recently, I’m scared that if I look at him, I’ll cry and I won’t ever be able to stop. “I can’t do this anymore,” I whisper. “I need to know that you’re going to quit this shit. I get it. You like to get high. But it’s—”
“It’s not that I like to get high,” he whispers.
I can hear that he’s crying, but I don’t turn. If I do, he might not say whatever he’s about to tell me.
“It’s that I don’t really like being in my own head. Because you know what I do? I just imagine Dad driving too fast on those icy roads. I imagine him grinning at Mom, you know, in that way he did. And you know Mom. She loved him more than life itself. So even if she knew it was stupid, she’d be indulging him, laughing or whatever. And then he took a corner and—shit—and he hit a bit of ice he never should’ve been speeding over. He killed our mom, Dani. That’s the truth and we both know it.”
“We can’t be sure of that,” I whisper, throat feeling like it’s closing. Tears are choking me.
“I just picture it again and again,” he groans. “I can’t stop. It’s a fucking cycle in my head. The only thing that stops it is getting high.”
I return to the bed, tears streaking down my face. Wyatt won’t look at me. He’s trying to hide his own tears. I touch his chin and make him look at me. “There are other ways to stop it,” I whisper. “We can get you help.”
“A shrink, you mean?”
“Why not? They can help you. It’s better than OD’ing and dying. I can’t do this, Wyatt. I can’t be here for you if you’re going to keep doing this to yourself.”
He swallows. “Fuck, Dan. Fuck.”
There’s a really long pause. He looks thin and pale and ill, and I wish I could just make everything better.
Finally, he takes my hand. “I’ll get help,” he whispers. “For real this time. You’re the only person I really care about, Dani.”
I let out a breath. “You mean it this time?”
He nods. “I swear on Mom and Dad.”
I flinch. He’s never said that before. “Jesus, Wyatt.”
He nods, face hardening. “I’m done with it. But I need to stop this messed-up movie in my head. I need … maybe I do need therapy.”
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” I tell him. “If you had a broken leg, you wouldn’t refuse medical care for that, would you? This is no different.”
“I know,” he acknowledges. “You’re right.”
I want to stay with Wyatt longer, but I have a shift in half an hour and I need to have a shower, get changed, and grab a quick coffee. I give him a big, sloppy, sisterly kiss on the forehead, both of us laughing our tears away, and then, after promising him I’ll see him after work, I head to the staff room.
I wonder if I should tell Wyatt about the pregnancy, but decide to leave it for now. I don’t even know how I feel about it myself yet, so I’m not going to make it official. After getting ready, I walk out to Betty, expecting to see Ricky leaning against her driver’s side. But instead, it’s a tall man with sunken cheeks I don’t recognize. He’s got a bad comb-over and, when he talks, it’s with a heavy accent. I can’t tell if it’s Russian or something else vaguely Eastern European.