Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
God, there she is. Here, home, back in Louisiana, with a big, round belly, looking more beautiful than ever. But pale. Too pale, I think, seconds before her eyes slide closed and her knees buckle.
By the time a man in a suit scoops her into his arms as she faints, I’m across the room, shoving my feet into my boots.
“Both women were transported to Ochsner Medical Center, where they are listed in stable condition,” the anchor continues, giving me some comfort. But not enough. Not nearly enough. “The other vehicle involved has been identified as a white Chevrolet Silverado pickup truck. You can see the image on your screen. Authorities are asking anyone who may recognize this vehicle or have information about the driver to contact Crime Stoppers of Greater New Orleans. Tips can be submitted anonymously. You’ll find the tip line number and additional details on our website at…”
Committing the truck to memory—and vowing to make sure the driver gets the justice he deserves—I head for the door, trailing sawdust in my wake. I briefly consider swapping out my shirt, but I don’t know how old that story is. Things could have changed since they recorded that segment, and stable condition means nothing.
Stable can turn critical in a heartbeat.
And it’s not just Beatrice at risk. It’s the baby.
Our baby.
The thought connects like another hit against the boards, the air leaving my lungs in a rush as I grab my keys and wallet and shove my phone into my pocket.
I should have been there for her. I should have been protecting her every step of the way.
Instead, I left her vulnerable. Exposed.
As I push through the side exit into humidity thick enough to chew, I remind myself that a drunk driver could have just as easily hit my vehicle as the car Beatrice was in this morning. I couldn’t have necessarily kept her safe. But I do drive a truck, one big enough to fit a man over six feet tall with an oversized frame, not an old Honda Civic.
Old Honda Civic…
Fuck, I know who drives a Civic, a shitty little Civic I’ve been after her to upgrade for months.
Clover…
The thought makes me stumble halfway down the driveway. I reach out, bracing myself against the rock wall behind the house. Of course, it’s Clover. She’s Bea’s roommate, Bea’s friend. She’s also the closest thing I have to a little sister.
Looks like I’ve let her down, too.
I have to get to her, get to them both, let them know I’m here to help in any way they need. Pushing off the wall, I sprint for my truck. Two minutes later, I pull out of the narrow driveway and onto the street, heading west.
Ochsner is the big hospital near the airport. I’m not exactly sure how to get there, but I know the general direction. I can pull up the map once I’m on the highway.
And in the meantime…
I punch buttons on my stupidly complicated digital console until my cell connects, then tap Clover’s contact, praying she’ll answer.
But I’m not really surprised when it rings.
And rings.
And rings, until her voicemail finally picks up.
“Hey, this is Clover. I’m either busy or forgot to charge my cell again. Oops.” A soft, self-conscious laugh and then, “But please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
At the beep, I say, “Clover. It’s Blue.” My voice is tight, and so rough I have to clear my throat before I add, “I just saw Bea and the car wreck on the news. I also saw someone on a stretcher that I really hope wasn’t you, but I…” I clear my throat again. “I’m worried. Please call or text as soon as you get this. I just want to know that you’re both okay. I’m on my way to Ochsner now to help in any way I can. So just…let me know what you need. Anything you need.”
I end the call and lay on the gas, racing down the highway at ten miles over the limit. Please let them both be okay. Please.
They’re both so special to me. Clover because she’s like the sister I lost, and Bea because she’s…
Because she’s Bea.
Because she’s magic and light and laughter and gentleness and strength and the only woman I can imagine wanting to hold in my arms for the rest of my life.
And she hasn’t responded to your messages in months.
She didn’t even let you know she was coming home.
The knowledge settles heavy in my gut as the hospital exit comes into view.
She came home. She’s been here, in my city, just a couple of dozen miles away, and I had no idea. I didn’t sense her return the way I thought I would. The energy didn’t shift; the world didn’t stop turning. That part of me that used to clock her presence like a compass clocking north didn’t sit up and take notice.